I couldn’t leave yet. I was due to meet with Paul Sarmiento in ten minutes. I had asked Mrs. Rogan to set the meeting up for me, so Paul wouldn’t have any excuses to duck me.
“That was impressive,” a man said.
I glanced up. Paul was leaning against a tree.
“Are you planning to do that to me?” he asked.
I faced Paul. He had caught me using my magic. He knew my secret. Normally I would’ve tried to escape the confrontation. But something happened in the past few days, somewhere between the poisoned cake and Xavier calling me a mouse. It seared the shyness out of me.
One time our parents took us for a winter vacation in Colorado. We skied and rode sleighs all day and I had the most fun my eight-year-old self could remember. On the evening before we were supposed to go home, I snuck out of our cabin at dusk and rode my sleigh down the hill into the woods. It was so pretty, snow was falling softly, and for a while I wandered around. Then the sun had set, the wind picked up, and it went from magical to being scary. The snow had covered my tracks and I didn’t know where to go. I tried calling but nobody came. The cold was biting at my face, and I realized I had to save myself. I picked a direction and I walked. After a while, I couldn’t feel my feet or my fingertips. It was so cold, and it hurt so much, that eventually I got used to it. I accepted it and got numb. I just kept walking through the pain, until my dad found me and carried me back to the cabin.
That’s what it was like now. Bad, uncomfortable things kept happening, one after the other. Any one of them would have made me panic on its own, but all of them together made me numb. I had to get out of this forest. I had accepted that it wouldn’t be easy or pleasant.
I looked at Paul and asked, “Are you going to force me to do that to you or would you prefer to sit down and talk?”
He walked over and took a seat at the table. “How can I help you?”
“I have a problem. According to every background check we’ve run, you don’t exist. You have no driver’s license, your fingerprints are not in any of the databases, and the documents that follow most people through life, like birth certificates, diplomas, and résumés, simply can’t be found. So, I have two questions: Who are you and why are you here?”
“And if I refuse to answer?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to compel you to. We’ve had some complications and the safety of the wedding guests is at stake.”
“I don’t think you are afraid at all.”
Paul reached into his pocket, took out a wallet, and pulled a business card out. He slid it across the table to me. It was a pale blue card with two words embossed on it in dark blue—Wishing Well. Under the words was an address located in Seattle, with a phone number.
“My name is Lance Gibson. I’m an employee of the Wishing Well. Our corporate headquarters are in Japan, but I work out of the Seattle office. Ane is one of my clients.”
There was no tactful way to ask the next question. “Are you an escort?”
“I’m not a prostitute, but, in a manner of speaking, I am Ane’s escort. Our company specializes in wish fulfillment of a very specific nature. Have you ever felt that you are missing an important person in your life?”
I missed my dad every day. “I don’t understand. Is it like the boyfriend experience?”
“It can be but typically it isn’t.” Lance steepled his fingers. “People come to us because there is a hole in their lives. For example, suppose a father abandons his wife and their young child. The wife divorces him. The child needs a father, yet she can’t bring herself to enter another relationship. She might come to us and for a fee, one of us will become her divorced spouse for her child.”
“So, you impersonate people? Like an actor?”
“Exactly like that. However, an actor assumes a different persona only for a short time, while we may do it for years. A couple hired me, because they have a daughter who is suffering from lupus. At the time, she was eight years old. She adored her older brother, who was fifteen years her senior. He was a remarkable individual, gifted, compassionate, and adventurous. Due to the nature of his charitable work, he traveled and always made time to call or email his little sister. One day the emails stopped. He died in a conflict in Belize. Her parents were terrified that the news would kill her. So, little by little, they replaced his photographs with mine. We started with emails, then phone calls, and then one day, her brother walked through the door. I’m there for every birthday. I’m the person she calls when she has problems at school or with her parents. This summer I’m taking her on a college tour.”
“But you’re not her brother.”
Lance smiled. “No. But I’m fulfilling his role.”
I wasn’t sure what to think about that. “Will you ever tell her?”
“No. That is forbidden. Her parents can tell her, if and when they choose. Perhaps, when she no longer needs a brother, I will make a graceful exit. A plane crash, a skydiving accident. But for now, I’m there to provide a shoulder to lean on and the unconditional love and kindness one would expect from an older sibling.”
“So, what are you to Ane?”
“Ane is single by choice. She enjoys being single. She was pressured into her marriage, and after her husband died, she was pressured again to remarry. Instead she hired me. Our relationship is not sexual. I escort her to family events and to vacations, I take care of her during these outings in a way a loving partner would be expected to take care of her, and on occasion, I act as her bodyguard. My services come with a guarantee a real relationship can’t provide. I will never embarrass her. I will never get drunk, cause a scene, cheat on her, attempt to steal from her or coerce her into a course of action beneficial to myself, all of the things she had experienced in her prior relationships. Ane is in complete control. She engages my services as she wishes and can terminate our business relationship at any time.”
“Does it bother you that people think you’re a gigolo?”
Lance smiled again. “Why would I care what anybody but Ane thinks of me? The needs of my client are the only thing that matters. I’m paid to anticipate complications and smooth them over, which is why I’m talking to you now. I have emailed my credentials to Mr. Rivera, whom I understand to be in charge of security. You will find all of the necessary documents enclosed. Am I free to go, Ms. Baylor?”
Nobody had ever asked me that before. “Yes.”
Lance rose and walked away.
“Did you get all that?” I asked Bern.
“Yeah, I got it.”
“I am coming home,” I told him. “I think I’ve had enough for today.”
I texted Troy, one of Rogan’s guys. Bern and I had decided that we should keep Leon as far away from Xavier as was humanly possible, so Troy was my battle buddy for the day. He would get the car.
I started down the path that brought me to the courtyard. In the center, by the fountain, Xavier and Raul, one of Rogan’s cousins from East Wing, sparred with rapiers. Mrs. Rogan and other adults were watching from the shade of the porch. The gaggle of teenagers surrounding them alternated between shouting encouragement and pretending to be bored.
Great. I would have to walk past them to my car. I started moving, hoping nobody would notice me.
“Catalina!” Xavier jogged toward me. The circle of kids parted to let him pass. People were catcalling.
I did my absolute best to ignore him. It was that or punch him in the throat. Usually people aimed for the face, because that’s what you saw in movies and tv, but I grew up in a family of veterans. A punch to the throat didn’t hurt your hand and it disabled your opponent.
Xavier ran ahead of me and blocked my way. He was holding two rapiers and offered me one. “Let’s spar. It will be fun.”
Oh, you moron. You colossal moron. If only you knew.
“Xavier!” Raul called. “Are we doing this or what?”
“Come on,” Xavier said. “I’ll show you.”
“I don’t know how, and I have things to do.” Everybody was looking at me. It was like some kind of nightmare, but it was real and it was happening right now.