"There was a time when you believed in Magic," Lenore said quietly, all the while staring at me with those weird, gold cat's eyes of hers. "Believed in the land of the Summer people."
I hated it when she sprang that old soul shit on me. Not only was it creepy as hell, but the last thing I needed was to have to worry about past lives. I was having a bitch of a time just dealing with the one I was in, thank you very much. But I knew better than to argue with her.
"Okay whatever, there was a time when I believed in Santa Claus, too, and that passed."
Lenore shook her finely braided head, setting off a soft musical swish of bells and beads. "You would be so much happier if you'd just try this. Really, a couple of good healing spells and some herbs and you'll feel a whole lot better."
"I still think a good curse or two would satisfy me a lot more," I groused. "And if you aren't willing to help me there, than what good are you?"
She sighed. She was talking to a stone wall and she knew it. "Arthur, how many times do I have to tell you, The Law of Three would turn that into a disaster for you."
I knew she was serious about this. Lenore Pell is nothing if not serious. She's my roommate and probably my best friend, but her one fault is that she's totally lacking in a sense of humor. Especially when it comes to paganism, which she practices diligently.
"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled. "What ever you do to someone else, good or evil, will return to you thrice fold." I rolled my eyes. "You Wiccans certainly take the fun out of witchcraft. You know, it's just my luck that I end up being friends with the only black chick from New Orleans who doesn't believe in Voodoo."
She snorted regally. "That is not the path to spiritual harmony."
"Fuck spiritual harmony; I just want a little human revenge!"
So started my rant. Lenore sat back and listened calmly, not even showing by so much as a curl of her lip that that she'd already heard my sad tale practically every day for the last year or so. But then I told you she was my best friend. When I'd found myself homeless she was the first person I'd called, and ten minutes later she had me sitting in her kitchen drinking some god-awful weed tea while I cried on her shoulder.
It wasn't a very original story. Just the same old sordid number where the poor schmuck, me, Arthur, comes home and finds his one true love, Quinn by name and queen by game, in bed with a set of twins who's combined ages wouldn't have gotten them into an AARP meeting. At 34, I wasn't ready myself, but still I was aware enough of the onset of my maturity that I was a little touchy when the subject of age came up. So it's not much of stretch to figure out that finding two kids barely out of puberty rolling around on my Egyptian linen sheets pissed me off. A lot.
Quinn, of course was nothing if not contrite. He swore he'd been drunk. He swore he didn't know what came over him. He swore he'd never do it again. I let him grovel for a couple of days before I forgave him.
Then I looked up a private investigating agency and had him tailed.
It didn't take long for them to report back that the twins were only the last in a long line of guys willing to sink to their knees or spread their legs for an aging pretty boy who still looked a lot like Brad Pitt albeit after a heavy night on the town. Pretty soon I realized that it wasn't so much a question of who'd slept with my boyfriend, but who hadn't.
I'm one of those butch types, and I was very manly about it. I threw a hissy fit that would have made a diva blush. Quinn just shrugged his shoulders and gave me his best sad puppy look. He could make his eyes glisten with tears on cue. "Think about it... I mean, we've had four good years. How many people can even say that?" Since we'd been together for seven, this didn't make me any calmer. I pointed to the door and asked him to leave. He went to the safe and pulled out the deed to the old Victorian I'd bought and showed me his name.
I'd forgotten about that. It'd been on our fifth anniversary, and I thought we were still a couple so... I'd added his name to the deed. My work had me traveling a lot around that time, and to a lot of places that weren't all that safe. So being the kind of guy I am (or was, — I'm a lot more cynical now, post Quinn) I'd put him on the deed so if anything did happen to me, he'd be all set.
He was all set, all right. He celebrated with an 18 year old in the hot tub we'd installed that summer. Yup, Quinn Vere was all set.
But even after I realized my mistake, I still didn't really think I'd lose the house. After all, I'd bought it, paid for it and dumped enough money into the renovations to fund a small country or two. For his part, Quinn hadn't done anything so mundane as contribute financially. Even if he'd had a dime of his own, it would never have occurred to him. Instead, he'd wandered around with ba-gua charts and talked a lot about space and light and feng shui. He said we needed a welcoming house. Silly me. I didn't realize he wanted to welcome every guy in the tri state area.
Unknowingly I'd given him every opportunity. Like I said, I was gone a lot, traveling for my job as an expansion analyst for a multinational conglomerate that was particularly fond of Central and South American locations that featured peasants who'd work for almost nothing and no pesky environmental regulations. Quinn didn't have that kind of job. Or any job, for that matter. Quinn was an artiste, a painter; though what the hell he painted was a mystery to me. Every time I got near the studio I'd added on (cedar and southern exposure, and a couch that folded out to a bed) he'd scream and tell me he wasn't ready to show anyone his work.
This sounds like I was the biggest dope in the world, but I had seen some of his stuff, that's how we met. Quinn drew caricatures, really witty little sketches that he'd do at parties and give them out to friends – or enemies – of his victims. And even though they could be cruel, they were so funny. And he was so charming. Of course, everyone wanted him to do one of them.
But that's all he ever did. The paintings he talked about, the sculptures he planned, never materialized and after a while I realized they probably never would. I was disappointed, but I figured what the hell. I made a very good living, and if he wanted to stay home and be a househusband it didn't matter to me.
Then came the twins.
I took him to court. I had all the legal papers, the bills, the check stubs with my signature. All Quinn had was that damned deed and photographs of an empty studio that he said was the only way he could now support himself. He also claimed that I'd insisted that he stay home. That my job and my hours had made me worry about the amount of time the house would be empty if he found other (any) employment. He cried when he told the judge that it hurt his pride to have to live off me, but he'd done it because I'd begged him too. It was laughable. My attorney told me it was going to be piece of cake.
