If Wishing Made It So Read online

  He was blissfully unaware of his idiosyncrasies. Nobody ever dared to point them out. He hitched his pants up when he walked, and he frequently talked to himself, muttering complaints and a steady stream of four-letter words. But since Atlantic City attracted a broad spectrum of oddballs and weirdos, nobody paid attention to the little man in the brilliant green sports coat.

  Today he traveled alone. He told his crew, which is what he called the bodyguards, fellow criminals, and sycophants who stayed close to him at all times, that he had an appointment with his proctologist.Nobody volunteered to go along, which was his plan. He didn’t trust anybody unless he cut the cards first. He had been betrayed before.

  Jimmy the Bug had chosen Caesar’s as the casino where he planned to spend a few relaxing hours at the slots, hoping it would settle his nerves. He needed to get his equilibrium back after a week of business disappointments, including a scam gone bad and the arrest of one of his lieutenants. As it turned out, Jimmy didn’t even come close to mellowing out. He had just settled himself at a Slingo machine when who did he see pulling the one-armed bandit maybe ten machines away? Mr. Adderly, his parole officer.

  Jimmy the Bug muttered two of his favorite four-letter words, slid off the seat, duckwalked around the end of the row of slot machines, and made a beeline for the nearest exit. He gave a deep sigh of relief when he made a clean getaway—until he realized what he left behind: the very important little bottle that he had put down next to his machine.

  ‘‘You scared me half to death, not showing up by now,’’ Corrine said when she walked up to the red Volkswagen Beetle in the parking garage where Hildy sat waiting. Then the slim woman with gray-streaked hair bent down and squinted through the open driver’s-side window. ‘‘You’re drenched. Were you swimming in the ocean or something?’’

  ‘‘You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes, Corrine,’’ Hildy said. ‘‘Come on, get in. We don’t have a lot of time before your bus leaves.’’

  ‘‘And whose fault is that?’’ Corrine huffed as she sat in the passenger seat and buckled her seat belt. She heard a funny little noise like a muffled sob coming from Hildy’s direction. She glanced over, alarmed. ‘‘What’s the matter? Did something happen? Are you crying?’’

  Hildy shook her head no. ‘‘I’m a little emotional, that’s all. A lot happened today.’’ Hildy refused to elaborate further. She put the car in gear, backed out of the parking space and drove toward the exit. She didn’t check her rearview mirror, or she would have seen Jimmy the Bug pull out a pen and write her license plate number on his hand.

  When Hildy reached the Garden State Parkway going north and traffic thinned out, she gave in to Corrine’s persistent inquiries and told her the whole story of meeting Michael Amante—or not quite the whole story; she left out the part about him caressing her earlobe between his fingers.

  ‘‘Naturally, I am not going to call him,’’ she said.

  ‘‘So you’ve told me three times.’’ Corrine had listened very carefully to her little sister’s every word. She twisted her mouth to one side and then to the other as she gave the situation some careful thought. ‘‘Let me see if I get the whole picture. Michael Amante, the same boy you dumped in high school for reasons you would never explain, shows up out of nowhere and saves your life. Then he acts all goo-goo eyes and asks you out—’’

  ‘‘Not exactly asks me out, but sort of.’’ Hildy felt the need to clarify the point.

  ‘‘Don’t split hairs. The man asked where you were staying and practically pleaded with you to call him. Then his fiancée, this Kiki, shows up. Now I find that very interesting.’’

  ‘‘Interesting? It was one of the worst things that ever happened to me,’’ Hildy said, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel until they turned white.

  ‘‘I don’t mean her showing up, I mean that she’s still his fiancée. When did they get engaged? Five or six years ago? It was on Entertainment Tonight, I think.’’

  ‘‘I guess so. It was a while back. What difference does it make? They’re probably living together. She let me know he’s definitely not a free man. It was humiliating. I get sick just thinking about it.’’

  ‘‘Get a grip, Hildy. Stop letting your emotions make you dumber than dirt.’’ Corrine never did see the point of wasting time being tactful. ‘‘When’s this wedding? I’m older than you’’—Corrine regularly reminded Hildy that she had been born a good seventeen years before her sister popped into the world, making her wiser about men, money, and life in general—‘‘and I’ve seen this situation before. If there was going to be a wedding, it would have happened by now. One of them doesn’t want to get married—that’s obvious. This relationship is in the toilet. It’s going nowhere except in two different directions. And a man in love does not get stars in his eyes when he meets an old girlfriend.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t say he had stars in his eyes. You’re jumping to conclusions. And you didn’t see her. She truly was beautiful.’’ Hildy let out a deep sigh.

  ‘‘And what are you, chopped liver?’’ Corrine snorted.

  ‘‘You’re blinded by sisterly love. I’m sort of cute, that’s all. I’m not in Kiki’s league, that’s for sure.’’

  ‘‘Look, Hildy, face facts. You’ve let yourself go, but you were once the cutest girl in Lake Lehman High School, and at that time Michael Amante was crazy for you. Plus, and this is of critical importance, don’t forget: You left him; he didn’t leave you. That makes it unfinished business on his part. You’re the girl who got away. You’re a challenge. You’re what he couldn’t get. Are you sure you want him back?’’

  Hildy nodded, totally miserable. ‘‘If I learned anything today it’s that I’m never going to be happy without Michael Amante in my life.’’

  ‘‘Well then, little sister, don’t put your wishbone where your backbone ought to be. You need to fight for your man.’’

  Chapter 6

  Corrine emerged with some difficulty from the passenger seat of the cramped VW Beetle. She wrinkled her nose with disapproval at the gray cottage with a plaque of three whales cut from plywood cavorting over the front door. ‘‘I suppose it’s quaint. You might stretch a point and say it’s charming. But I cannot believe you spent your entire savings renting this tiny place.’’

  ‘‘It is charming, and it’s big enough for Shelley, Keats, and me.’’ Hildy put her key in the lock and flung the front door open. A small enclosed porch furnished with white wicker furniture and chintz pillows was flooded with sunlight from windows that stretched along three sides of the shoebox-shaped building.

  The cats ran up meowing. Hildy picked up Percy Bysshe Shelley and stroked his white fur. The other cat, the coal black John Keats, wanted no part of cuddling. He preferred sniffing the intriguing smells on Corrine’s sandals.

  Followed closely by the cat, Corrine walked into the adjoining living room and appraised the white bead-board walls, the old watercolors of Barnegat Lighthouse that hung on them in dime-store frames, the faded orange futon on a blond wood frame which acted as a sleeping couch, the tiny TV set with rabbit ears on top, and the bleached conch shells on the coffee table. She glanced down to where Keats wound around her ankles. ‘‘What do you suppose the original color of this rug was—green?’’

  Impatience skittered across Hildy’s face. ‘‘It doesn’t matter. It just gets sand on it anyway. Forget that. Look at the way the windows are filled with light all day long.’’ She put Shelley down and shooed him away. She crossed over to the far end of the porch and began opening the sashes one by one. ‘‘Hmmm, there’s a cross breeze too. Isn’t that delightful? And just take a look out here.’’ Hildy moved to the front door and opened it again.

  Corrine was on the opposite side of the living room, peering through the door leading from this ten-by-ten foot space into the next room. It had probably been a little dining room, since it held an old red Formica and chrome table surrounded by four matching chairs. A bathroom sat off it to the left, n
ext to the door for the only closet in the entire house. A postage stamp-sized kitchen was an few steps away, occupying the rear of the building.

  ‘‘Corrine, you’re not listening! Come on, look out here. If I go out my front door and turn right, I’m two blocks from Barnegat Bay, right at the public docks. I can rent a kayak or even a Wave Runner, although I haven’t had the nerve to do either thing yet.

  ‘‘If I turn left instead, I just have to cross Long Beach Boulevard and walk one block and there I am, on the beach. Can you believe that three minutes after I leave the house, I’m staring at the whole Atlantic Ocean?’’

  Her eyes were dancing now. She turned back to the miniscule front yard where her red VW Bug took up exactly half of the brick-paved surface. Corrine ventured a few steps closer, and Hildy grabbed her arm to drag her outside onto the front stoop.

  ‘‘You see! It’s location, location, location! That’s what I have. I don’t have to drive anywhere if I don’t want to. Right over there, on the boulevard, I can get a Coca-Cola or a Red Bull from the vending machines. I mean if it’s two in the morning and I get thirsty, no problem! What are they, one hundred feet from my front door? And look, next to that little store, there’s a whole row of newspaper machines. Every morning I can buy the New York Times, USA Today, the Philadelphia Inquirer, or just about any Jersey paper.

  ‘‘If I walk a couple of blocks, I can eat at Stew-art’s Root Beer, the Voodoo Steakhouse, Woodies Drive-In, or the Greenhouse Café. Sometimes I go out early in the morning and take a run down the boulevard toward Surf City. I get a cappuccino at the How You Brewin’? Internet café before I turn around and run back. And do you know what’s five blocks in the other direction toward Brant Beach?’’

  ‘‘I couldn’t begin to guess.’’ Corrine freed her arm and went back inside. ‘‘Where do you sleep, on the couch?’’

  ‘‘Oh no, that’s for guests.’’ Then Hildy pointed to the ceiling. ‘‘Upstairs there’s the cutest sleeping loft. And you didn’t see the back deck, which is like having another room. I have my tea out there almost every afternoon—when it’s not raining, that is. But as I was saying’’—her voice was high and excited—‘‘five blocks away is this great place to eat called the Dark Star Café. It’s totally retro. The owner is a Deadhead and he’s got a Jerry Garcia doll next to the cash register and all. The pizza is the best I ever had. They make their own mozzarella. Do you believe that! And the people who run it are so nice. They just opened up this season, and I hope they do well—’’

  ‘‘Whoa! I get the picture.’’ Corrine held up her hand. ‘‘You like living in civilization and not at the end of a muddy lane in Lehman, Pennsylvania.’’

  Hildy’s eyes went wide. ‘‘I didn’t think about it that way. I love living in the country, I do. But this place is like being on a whole different planet. The air smells like salt and ocean, and it’s … it’s soft. That’s it, the air is soft.’’

  She stood still, caught up in a thought. ‘‘But you know, the light is hard. Overly bright on clear days, I’d say. Maybe it’s because there are no trees for shade and it bounces off the sand and water.’’ Suddenly Hildy spun around, nearly knocking over a floor lamp, and caught her sister in a spontaneous hug. ‘‘You know, Corrine, sometimes I feel happy here for no reason.’’

  Corrine proceeded to check out the kitchen, complaining that the refrigerator was an under-the-counter one and the stove had only two burners. It was also where Hildy kept her rental bicycle, next to the back door. Corrine noticed that she had tracked in a lot of sand on the tires and looked around for a broom. Meanwhile, Hildy returned to her car to bring in all the shopping bags. They had hit as many clothing stores as possible in the strip malls along Route 72.

  She made a second trip to bring in her prize purchase, which was tied on the VW’s roof: a brand-new trail bike, a red one, with all the bells and whistles, that was her own.

  At the first store they hit on the way back, Corrine, who had generously added another five hundred dollars to Hildy’s budget, had bought her pink-flowered Tommy Hilfiger pants and a matchingcami, and insisted she wear them. Then they made a quick stop at a hairdresser where Hildy got a haircut while Corrine pampered herself with a manicure.

  For the next two hours they had the best time picking out almost an entirely new wardrobe for Hildy. Some of the tops revealed more flesh than Hildy normally would consider exposing, but as Corrine pointed out, they were planning a battle campaign.

  ‘‘You really think I’m going to see Mike again? I hate to think I’m spending all this money for nothing,’’ Hildy dared to ask as she slipped on a crisp white eyelet skirt and lacy halter top to go with it.

  ‘‘That looks great on you,’’ Corrine said, ‘‘or it will once you get a tan. You’re awfully pale.’’

  ‘‘It has rained nearly every single day since I got here,’’ Hildy protested. ‘‘But you didn’t answer my question.’’

  ‘‘Yes, well, since I am a betting man—or more accurately a betting woman—I’d place odds that Michael Amante will show up within forty-eight hours. I have one of my feelings. Something big’s about to happen. I assume it has to do with you and him. As far as the clothes go, whether or not Michael appears, you needed them. You were looking … what’s the word I want … defeated. Like an old maid, really.’’

  ‘‘I’m only twenty-seven!’’ Hildy yelped.

  ‘‘You were dressing as if you were fifty. How many times a week did you wear that brown tweed suit? The one that just hangs on you?’’

  ‘‘My classic from Talbots? I never wore it more than once a week, but I have another one that looks very similar.’’

  ‘‘Yes, they’re both classic all right. Classic ‘I’m a single woman who lives with her cats.’ Put this on next.’’ Corrine handed over a silky turquoise designer dress for Hildy to try.

  Hildy stared into the mirror. The dress hugged her curves seductively. ‘‘I don’t think so. Look how low it’s cut in the back. It almost goes to my waist.’’

  ‘‘It looks gorgeous with your eyes. Stop being such a prude.’’

  ‘‘I’m not a prude.’’

  ‘‘Are too.’’

  ‘‘Am not.’’

  They both started laughing.

  ‘‘Okay, you’re right. I’m acting like a prude,’’ Hildy agreed. ‘‘I’ll buy the dress.’’

  She didn’t acknowledge what her sister suspected: Hildy was more than a prude; she was a virgin. She hadn’t intended to be as chaste as a nun by this time in her life. She possessed all the hot desires of the heroines she read about in paperback romances. But somehow, whenever a relationship got to the point where the next logical step was the consummation of a growing intimacy, Hildy began seeing her boyfriend’s faults in ever sharper focus.

  Two years ago she had nearly succumbed in the brawny arms of an A-league baseball player for the Scranton Yankees. The six-footer with sun-streaked blond hair was a hunk and a half, but she began to notice that he sweated a lot, and he didn’t shower enough. It’s so unpleasant, she thought. She grew distant, and stopped answering his calls.

  Last year, before she met the neat-freak engineer who demanded she give up her cats, she almost ended up in bed with a slim, green-eyed college professor. He was so sensitive to her needs that he willingly spent hours with her, sipping chai tea and browsing the shelves for bargains in the huge chain bookstore at the mall.

  After several weeks of exchanging e-mails and going to every movie showing at the Dietrich Theater’sFall Foreign Film Festival together, Hildy finally made up her mind that he would be ‘‘the one.’’ She didn’t get all goose bumps when he kissed her, but she enjoyed his company, and she believed he’d be a gentle lover.

  During a weekend in early December when the earth was frozen hard as steel, she accepted his invitation to spend a weekend at a brand-new ski lodge in the Poconos. It was a special package deal that included lift tickets. Neither of them skied. His intent was clear. />
  Snow was falling lightly when they arrived at the hotel. Hildy had been nervous, but she hid her anxiety well. He had ordered wine, a nice California Chardonnay. He spared no expense. They got cozy by the roaring fire in their suite. Hildy leaned back against the sofa cushions. The professor began unbuttoning her blouse, his lips trailing little love bites up her neck. Her breath was quickening.

  ‘‘I’ve written some lines of poetry just for you,’’ he murmured.

  ‘‘Oh, how romantic,’’ she sighed. ‘‘Say them for me.’’ She closed her eyes to listen and willed herself to relax.

  ‘‘ ‘Thine eyes blind me,’ ’’ he recited. Hildy’s eyes flew open. The professor smiled, and he went on. ‘‘ ‘Thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound—’ ’’

  Hildy sat up suddenly, and the professor’s face slipped down to her breasts. ‘‘You wrote that?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Well, yes. Just last night,’’ he murmured, having slipped his hands under her shirt and reached around to her back to unfasten her bra. He sounded self-satisfied; he thought she had been impressed.

  ‘‘You! You!’’ Hildy huffed, her face turning red with outrage. ‘‘Plagiarist!’’ He had committed the worst transgression that she, as an English teacher, could imagine. He had stolen those lines.

  Hildy pushed him away. She stood up, straightened her clothes, retrieved her suitcase, fortuitously never unpacked, and marched to the hotel’s front desk. The kind night clerk found a college student willing to drive Hildy home for forty bucks.

  Had she not loved nineteenth century English poetry, she might not have known that Algernon Charles Swinburne had written the professor’s lines, not last night, but over a hundred years ago. The poem was called ‘‘Anactoria,’’ and to add insult to injury, the professor didn’t seem to know that the lines were written by a woman, Anactoria—to her lover, another woman, the famous Sappho of Lesbos. The poem was long, obscure, and contained scandalous imagery of not just girl-girl love, but sadomasochism.