Magic Sometimes Happens Part 16

Up to the last moment, I wondered if there'd be a change of plan. But no Lex dumped her children and went to spend the holiday with Mr Wonderful. She left the hotel brochure lying on the kitchen counter. I noted down the contact details then I dropped the brochure in the trash.

We made a batch of brownies for our hosts and then we headed out.

Poll and Joe knew Ben, of course, had known him all their lives. But they hadn't met the current Mrs Fairfax, so they were a little apprehensive. 'She's a real nice lady,' I a.s.sured them as we rode the elevator up to Ben's apartment. 'She's a good cook, too.'

Okay, I lied.

'Does she have great t.i.ts?' demanded Joe.

'What the h.e.l.l?' I stared at him, astonished. 'Whatever made you think of asking that?'

'Stephen said that Mommy has great t.i.ts.'

Stephen's right, she does G.o.d rot the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

'Joe, don't ever use that word again,' I snapped. 'Or there will be consequences.'

'Daddy, are you mad at me?' Joe looked up at me all anxious and there was a worried little wobble in his voice.

'No, little buddy, I'm not mad.' I hunkered down beside him. 'You don't understand what you just said. But you don't use words like t.i.ts in front of Ben and Tess, you got me? You say hi, how are you, and that's all. You keep the conversation clean, okay?'

'Okay, Dad,' Joe agreed.

Then the elevator filled up with the most disgusting smell. 'I think Polly's doing a Polly needs the bathroom, Dad,' said Joe.

I glanced at Polly and saw that she was purple in the face. Lexie had announced that Polly was now out of diapers in the daytime, so I didn't diaper her before we left mistake.

'Hey, you guys!' said Ben, opening the door to us and beaming like a chain store Santa Claus. I guess he must have heard the elevator come clanking up the shaft. 'Happy-'

'Hi,' I muttered, scooping Polly up and blasting past him. 'Sorry, this is an emergency.'

We made it to the bathroom just in time.

Tess was a big hit.

She made a special international European American Thanksgiving. There was turkey, British roast potatoes, little savoury pancake m.u.f.fin hybrid things which she called Yorkshire puddings, British stuffing it was good.

If she would quit trying to make meatloaf, I decided, and mixing up those soya-sugar-artificial-colouring-and-flavouring-based desserts, I would be tempted to come by more often. Joe especially liked the Yorkshire puddings, which were light and melting, crisp and golden. He ate his three then stole one from my plate.

Dessert was not so wonderful a store-bought pumpkin pie and Cool Whip but you can't have everything, and the brownies were a big success.

'Patrick, these are ace,' said Tess. 'They're chocolatey and chewy, just like brownies ought to be. Mine come out more like m.u.f.fins. Did you use chopped hazelnuts or walnuts?'

'We used pecans, but they're much the same.'

'You must let me have your recipe.'

'I'll send it over. You could maybe send me one for what did you call them, Yorkshire puddings?'

'I'll write it down for you. It's dead simple, even Joe or Polly could make a batch of Yorkshires. Just make sure you don't use flour with raising agent in it never works.'

'What is this, The Happy Homemaker's Half Hour or something?' muttered Ben and glowered at me. 'You hitting on my wife, Professor Riley?'

I ignored him.

'I helped Dad make the brownies,' chipped in Joe, who was on his fourth. 'I measured out the flour and cocoa powder, cracked the eggs and stirred the b.u.t.ter in the pan.'

'You sure did,' I said. I suddenly felt a great wave of affection for my son, the Brownie Maestro. I wasn't going to give these children up to Lex and Mr Wonderful, not without one h.e.l.l of a big fight.

'Do you guys make cupcakes, too?' asked Tess.

'Yeah, we do,' said Joe. 'Dad and I, we bake them up and then we frost them, cover them with jelly diamonds, candy dinosaurs or sugar sprinkles.'

'Sprinkles,' echoed Polly.

'The baby shakes the sprinkles on,' said Joe. 'It's all she's old enough to do.'

'Patrick, is your children's conversation always this high-powered, this dynamic?' Ben got out the bourbon now, poured himself three fingers, slumped down in his chair again and yawned.

'Oh, shut up, you miserybag,' said Tess, who was busy drawing fairies for my daughter on a paper napkin. 'Pat, he's only jealous. Joe and Polly are adorable.'

I glanced at Ben. I saw the novelty of having kids around on Thanksgiving had definitely worn off.

Of course, I couldn't speak for Tess. But it was very plain to me that Ben could not be nesting, after all.

December.

ROSIE.

Cupcakes, cupcakes, cupcakes everyone wants cupcakes, don't they?

Yes, it seems they do and just as well, because I now had seven clients trying to sell fantastic cupcakes, hoping I'd be able to get them deals in supermarkets, catering for private functions and upmarket weddings.

One was exporting monthly shipments to Uzbekistan. No, I didn't make that last bit up. She had connections in the diplomatic service. But sending twenty cupcakes to Tashkent twelve times a year would hardly make her rich or even keep her cat in kibble.

While I was encouraging my clients to build their businesses and trying to show them how to do it because quite honestly most of these people didn't have a clue I was also having to tell them to calm down, explain that supermarkets took you over, told you what you had to do and when you had to do it. Then, if you didn't sell in zillions, they dumped you anyway.

You'd do better staying small, supplying local shops and restaurants while I use my contacts to get you advertorial s.p.a.ce in women's magazines that's what I told them. If you're making something super-special, and if you have charisma (or you're downright weird, but in a non-alarming sort of way), I might be able to get you spots on regional TV.

You'll also need to learn and change, that's if you're going to keep the punters hooked.

Just like fashion, music, fiction, anything that's man-or-woman-made in fact, cupcakes must continually evolve be born again repeatedly otherwise they'd be eclipsed by bran-rich, home-baked dog treats, these were trending.

Yes, it kept me occupied.

'How is it going, sweetheart?'

f.a.n.n.y phoned me almost every day to ask how I was getting on and give me leads. This was very kind and would destroy her reputation as a gorgon with a tail and horns and cloven hooves as well as snakes for hair if anyone found out. 'I might have a tiny little job for lovely you,' she said one chilly afternoon.

'What job is that?' I asked. 'I don't think I can take another dog treat maker, Fan.'

'You won't have to, angel. Christmas is upon us, darling girl, and as has been the case each single year since Mary laid her baby in the manger it's taken everybody by surprise ...'

'f.a.n.n.y, I'm quite busy. So, although it's always great to hear from you, shall we get to the point?'

'Sweetheart, could you help out with an insy-winsy-tinsy Christmas book tour, shepherding an author around the Waterstones of the Home Counties? This fellow needs a conscientious minder, basically. But his publicist is very busy looking after some extremely boring telly person who is now an author, but who didn't write the actual book and cannot be trusted not to say so to the punters. Gemma phoned me up in desperation.'

'Why does he need a minder?'

'Well, his publicist was very cagey, but from what she hinted I suspect he's banned from driving and she's not convinced he's bright enough to sort the trains. Darling heart, the money's very good.'

'How much is very good?'

She told me.

'I would get expenses, too?'

'Of course.'

'You mean I'd just be driving him around?'

'You'd pick him up each morning, see he ends up where he needs to be, then take him home again each night. Gemma says you mustn't let him near a pub. My love, it's just three days.'

'Who is he?'

'Oh, you won't have heard of him, you're far too young.' f.a.n.n.y named a famous writer who was eighty if he was a day and whose early books had all been serialised on television when I was a little girl, but the tide of fashion had flowed past him long ago.

'Okay,' I said. 'I'll do it.'

'Thank you, darling heart. You're worth your weight in Prada's loveliest accessories.'

I'd get my Granny Ca.s.sie a signed copy of the book.

Malcolm Tyndale Crawley, crime writer and former spy apparently turned out to be self-opinionated and demanding but extremely charming.

I thought this must be the legacy of having been a very handsome man who must have pulled the ladies with the twinkle in his eye.

I enjoyed his company because he told me some fantastic stories and was in a good mood all the time. This was probably because although he didn't sell a million books, a lot of lady fans turned up and flirted with him, and he also had a silver hipflask from which he snuck a drink quite frequently.

He didn't criticise my driving, as well he might have done. These days, it was terrible. I was too distracted, too preoccupied with Pat, with talking to him and with doing other stuff with him, to concentrate on roundabouts and traffic lights, on joining motorways.

'It's not generally considered wise to cut up tankers,' Mr Crawley told me calmly as a BP lorry nearly did for my Fiesta and the driver blared his horn at me.

'Sorry,' I said meekly, clicking off the video of that hot afternoon when Pat and I had hiked the trail on the Sugar Loaf. When he had scooped me up and carried me like in a film, and which was always playing on a loop inside my head.

'There's no need to apologise, Miss Denham. I have had a very long and interesting life. I do not wish to end it as a dribbling, incontinent old ruin in some ghastly nursing home in Dawlish. So the awful prospect of going up in flames in a great conflagration on a motorway holds little fear for me. But I would like to think you have a few more years of health and happiness ahead of you.'

'You're right, I need to concentrate,' I said.

'May I give you some advice, Miss Denham?' I was about to drop him off at home for the last time. 'You have been an excellent nursemaid to a very tiresome old man and I feel I owe you.'

'Mr Crawley, you don't owe me anything. Your publisher has paid me.'

'I shall bore you, anyway. Miss Denham, it's quite obvious to me you're either fretting about something in your past and/or you're rather worried about your future. You want something or someone very badly. But you're afraid to reach for what you want. Where's the reckless courage you displayed when we were on the motorway and you put that tanker in its place?'

'Mr Crawley, when did you become a mind-reader and psychoa.n.a.lyst?'

'I've been both of those for very many years, Miss Denham. I'm currently a novelist and I used to be a spy.' He handed me a hardback copy of his latest novel in which he had written: Thank you for your company, Miss Denham.

Now be brave and go for it whatever it is you want and don't hold back.

Or you'll regret it.

All good wishes for your future Malcolm Tyndale Crawley As I drove home to my flat in Paddington, I thought about what Malcolm Crawley, novelist and spy and amateur psychologist, had said.

You work, you eat, you sleep or try to sleep. You tell yourself that you're not hurting any more and that you should be grateful, count your blessings that's what's going to get you through this life. You don't harm anybody, and you hope n.o.body will harm you.

But if you play that game, is life worth living?

So I wrote an email. Then, before I could delete it or think any more about it, I clicked send and off it went.

I knew I'd handed Pat a loaded gun.

PATRICK.

The first week of December, we had a foot of snow in the Twin Cities. So everybody knew the winter had arrived in earnest and there would be no respite from snow and ice and bitter, freezing cold until the spring.

Although I usually hated it, this year I welcomed winter. It seemed like it was fitting because it was always winter in my heart.

I got on with my work and plotted my next moves, career-wise, Lex-wise, Rosie-wise and Joe-and-Polly-wise, hardly knowing if there was any point, or if it was a waste of time and energy, but plotting on regardless.

Then, as Christmas raced toward me, Rosie's email came.

It seemed that suddenly it was spring.

FROM: Rosie Denham SUBJECT: Merry Christmas!

TO: Patrick M Riley SENT: 20 December 22.25 Dear Pat How are you?

I hope everything is going well in Minnesota?

I also hope you have a lovely Christmas and next year will be very good to you.