If Wishing Made It So Read online

  And to think she had almost given her innocence to a man such as that!

  After Hildy had carried the bike and all the packages into the summer cottage, barely enough time remained for the sisters to have an early dinner. Hildy had to drive Corrine back to the bus in Atlantic City by six thirty. They went out on the rear deck to eat the spinach quiche and salad of baby greens that Hildy had bought at the Dark Star Café early that morning.

  Under a lapis lazuli sky now free of clouds, Corrine admitted that even if the next house was very close and kept the deck in shadow most of the afternoon, the location was ideal and the cottage livable. Then the sisters talked about other things, reminiscing about growing up and remembering their mother when she was healthy and young. They felt content to be in each other’s company, something their busy lives didn’t often allow since their mother’s death.

  It was only when Hildy cleared the table and brought the dishes back into the kitchen to rinse them off that she moved her tote bag off the counter. As she set it on the worn linoleum floor, she spotted something shiny inside. Oh, damn! I have to remember to bring that bottle into the casino when I drop Corrine off, she thought. She lifted it out of her bag and held it up, once again thinking how pretty it was.

  Just then Keats jumped up and began sniffing a piece of leftover quiche.

  Hildy squealed, set the bottle on the counter next to the sink, and quickly snatched the plate away from the potential pie thief. At that moment, Corrine walked in and said it was getting late, and that they needed to hurry. Hildy grabbed her tote bag and retrieved her car keys. The sisters hurried out the door.

  The bottle, its amber glass glowing as if it had caught a ray of late afternoon sunlight, remained on the kitchen counter. Hildy had forgotten it again.

  Chapter 7

  The spindly French Provincial-style chair creaked when Michael Amante shifted his weight. Unable to get comfortable, he stretched his legs out under the table and sank further into misery. He didn’t want to be at this boring luncheon for the lame-duck governor and the National Association of Realtors. He looked down at the slab of prime rib on his plate, the red juice congealing into little pools of fat. He picked up his fork and poked at it. He had no appetite.

  He felt chilled too. He signaled a roving server and asked her to bring him a cup of hot coffee. He hoped it would warm him up. The air-conditioning in this hotel meeting room must be set at freezing. When he exhaled, Mike swore he could see his breath.

  He had complained about the low thermostat to Kiki. She responded with an edge to her voice, acting as if he were incredibly stupid. She told him that the governor, a heavyset man with an oily face, must be kept cool so he didn’t sweat in the publicity photos she had been hired to take.

  Mike shivered, sure that the air-conditioning duct must be right above his seat. He didn’t feel well at all. It crossed his mind that he might be coming down with a virus. He had this heavy feeling in his chest; it almost hurt to breathe. But he knew that wasn’t what was wrong with him. His condition reflected the state of his life; it hung around his neck like an albatross—a dead thing, a burden, something he didn’t want anymore. For the past few years, he had drifted along, making lots of money, but finding his job increasingly meaningless and his mood ever more bleak.

  He knew he was bored with real estate. He had contemplated a career change for a long time now, but recently he had discovered a passion for an occupation that was worlds away from anything he had imagined he’d do.

  The seed of the idea sprouted when he became friends with Jake Truesdale, the head of the private security company he had hired on one of his building projects. He liked Jake. The middle-aged black man from Newark and the young white guy from Pennsylvania had a lot more in common than anyone looking at them could have guessed.

  But they were amazingly alike. They both ran to stay in shape, liked dogs and 1950s cars, and had the collecting gene. Jake poked through antique stores looking for railroadiana, a natural interest since his grandfather had been a Pullman porter under Eugene Debs. Mike searched for first editions of children’s books, especially those of Virginia Lee Burton who wrote Maybelle the Cable Car and his own favorite, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel.

  Since Mike was at the construction site a lot, they started eating dinner together most nights. Mike had became fascinated with Jake’s stories. He relished every detail about protection services, investigations, surveillance equipment, and crime detection.

  When a backhoe and a skid steer were stolen from the building site, Jake brought him along to try to find the missing machines. They never got the equipment back, but they nabbed the thief and even connected him to an organized crime family in South Jersey. Mike enjoyed every minute of it.

  Jake thought Mike had a knack for investigation, and late at night, while Jake watched the security monitors at the high-end condo project, they had talked about going into business together. They had similar outlooks and strong ethics. They were both adrenaline junkies; neither of them liked to sit in an office. For the past few weeks, Mike had started working with Jake every moment he could get away from his office. They were having a blast together. They had written up a business plan to become real partners.

  But Mike’s new venture wouldn’t go over well with Kiki, who believed he was about to become the next Donald Trump. He wondered if his job switch could become a deal breaker. He hated to admit it, but if she decided to end the relationship, it might be the best thing that could happen.

  To tell the truth, Mike had begun to feel panicky about Kiki. During the last month, she had begun hinting that they should actually set a date. Marriage to her made less and less sense to Mike. His feelings for her were complex and confused. She was a beautiful woman, and she came with a lot of perks, like comps at four-star hotels, easy entree to government officials, and introductions to movie stars. But she traveled all the time, and they spent more time apart than together. She didn’t want to start a family either. She made that perfectly clear. So what was the point of changing what they had and going ahead with a wedding?

  The server poured coffee from a steaming carafe into the cup in front of Mike. He drank it black. The first sip burned his mouth. It was bitter. It fit his mood perfectly.

  Then he thought back to what happened on the beach today. He smiled as he remembered. He couldn’t help himself. That Hildy had always been such a firecracker—one hundred twelve pounds of blue-eyed dynamite. She had been in everything in high school. Always on the move! Could not sit still for a minute!

  He had been so crazy about her, but he had screwed up their relationship—a royal screwup, the worst one ever for Mike Amante. He really would like to talk to her, apologize for what happened all those years ago, and try to make it right. Fat chance of that happening now. She probably would never speak to him again.

  He drained the last of the coffee. He felt better. Hildy was so doggone cute, even cuter than he remembered. And the spark was still there. The attraction he felt instantly had shocked him. It must have shown too. Kiki really had her claws out when he introduced her to Hildy.

  The leaden feeling started in Mike’s chest again. What should he do about Kiki? It would be a hell of a mess to break up with her. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. They even owned a Park Avenue apartment together.

  He stole a look at his watch. He wished he had Hildy’s phone number. He knew she’d never phone him tomorrow, not after Kiki showed up, and he had acted like such an idiot. Maybe he could sneak away and make some calls. He’d try his old football buddy George Ide back in Lehman, and he’d call his mom. Somebody up there must have Hildy’s cell phone number.

  Mike glanced toward the front of the room, at the raised dais where all the VIPs sat. The way the governor was flirting with Kiki, he’d be hot and sweaty no matter how cold the room was kept. Mike watched for a moment. Kiki was bending over to pick up some camera equipment and making sure the older man could see her cleavage. She was playing him like
a violin. She would never notice if Mike went outside for a while.

  When Hildy and Corrine got to the bus departure area at Caesar’s, the St. Vlad’s crowd wasn’t talking much. Nobody besides Hildy had hit a jackpot. Most of them had lost whatever they had. At six thirty sharp, the day-trippers shuffled slowly back into the Martz Trailways bus, heads hanging down. Father John, with his white dandelion-puff hair and apple cheeks, maintained an upbeat attitude as he stood by the bus door and helped the ladies with the step up.

  Hildy knew all about St.Vladimir’s need for money. The roof of the great old brick church with its gold onion dome needed replacing. The dome itself needed regilding at an astronomical cost. The carpets were old and worn. The appliances in the church kitchen had been new in the early 1960s. Worse, the church was going to be in violation of the fire code if the wiring wasn’t entirely replaced by November first. With membership down to one hundred and sixty elderly parishioners, the doors of the century-old structure would probably close for good before Christmas.

  ‘‘It will take a miracle to save the church,’’ eighty-two-year-old Annie said, her eyes sad behind her glasses as she took Father John’s hand.

  ‘‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’’ Father John assured her. ‘‘Keep the faith. Somebody may hit the jackpot on our next trip.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, when pigs have wings,’’ Corrine whispered to Hildy as they dawdled at the end of the line, waiting until the very last moment to part.

  ‘‘Can’t they attract new members?’’ Hildy asked.

  ‘‘Fat chance. The old Slavic neighborhood in Edwardsville is just about gone. Zerby Avenue isn’t safe after dark anymore.’’

  This subject bothered Corrine deeply. She and her husband had built a house in the more upscale community of Harveys Lake, but she still loved the old church and its parish, even though she didn’t attend it anymore. She started talking rapidly, fire in her eyes. ‘‘Drugs and crime are making the old people prisoners in their own houses. It’s the outsiders, coming in from Philadelphia and Allentown. They end up in public-assisted housing. No sense of community. And they aren’t what you call religious. The town’s not like it used to be when a bingo game happened every night of the week, and you could stroll down to Main Street for a pizza at ten without fear of being mugged.

  ‘‘Now the police sirens wail all night. Edwardsville has become a place without hope. It’s a shame about the church, but honestly—short of Father John’s miracle—I don’t think it can be saved.’’

  Corrine stopped her tirade only when it was her turn to board the bus. Hildy hugged her sister hard, sad to see her go. The two of them were all that were left of their family, grown-up women, but orphans nonetheless.

  Every bone in Hildy’s body ached with fatigue when she finally got back to her cottage at twilight. She had stopped at the supermarket on the boulevard to pick up some cat food, a carton of two-percent milk, a half pound of honey ham, Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, and Skinny Cow caramel-swirl vanilla cones. When she opened the front door of her cozy summer place on Twenty-fifth Street, she smiled, anticipating some quiet relaxation on the deck while she gazed at the stars and enjoyed the ice cream.

  But immediately she felt puzzled. A glow radiated from the kitchen. Her first thought was I don’t remember leaving a light on. The second was The house is on fire! Adrenaline poured through her veins. She dropped her grocery bag and ran toward the brightness, crying out, ‘‘Kitties! Shelley! Shelley! Keats!’’

  She flew through the kitchen door and stopped short. The golden light she had seen from the sunporch came from the bottle she had found in the casino. No longer sitting on the counter, it was on its side and open on the linoleum floor. Its stopper had rolled a few feet away. And inexplicably from inside it, a powerful beam of light pulsed and glowed.

  Hildy felt perplexed. Why is the bottle shining? Does it run on batteries? But the questions vanished from her mind when she realized that a very large man sat on the step stool she used to reach the upper shelves of the cabinets. The cats, peering up at her with sleepy eyes, lay contentedly at his sandal-clad feet. The sandals, definitely not Birkenstocks, were held on by straps that laced up the man’s muscular calves right to the hem—of his toga.

  Hildy’s anger exploded like an M-80 going off. The words flew from her mouth. ‘‘How dare you come into my house!’’

  The man smiled in a lopsided way. He was remarkably handsome even though his nose had been smashed, no doubt in a fight, and one cheekbone looked slightly flatter than the other. His hair, so dark a brown it appeared black, was a cap of short curls. Oddly enough, he was wearing what appeared to be a wreath of real laurel leaves atop it.

  The man pointed to the bottle lying on the floor. ‘‘You brought that here, no?’’ His accent was Italian; his voice seemed raspy, perhaps from lack of use, but not guttural. In fact, he sounded like an Italian count in movies like The Garden of the Finzi-Continis.

  A wave of guilt washed over Hildy. This man must work for Caesar’s. ‘‘Well, yes, yes, I did. I was going to leave it at your Lost and Found department, but I forgot. I didn’t know it was so valuable the casino would send somebody to get it—’’ She stopped herself. She sounded apologetic when she should be outraged.

  Her hands went to her hips. ‘‘But that’s not the point. You had no right to just walk in here. How did you get in, anyway?’’

  The man shrugged and pointed to the bottle again. ‘‘You brought the bottle in here yourself. You just said so. You left it on the counter. The white cat knocked it on the floor. The black one batted it around until the stopper came off.’’

  Hildy felt completely confused. ‘‘How do you know that?’’ A new wave of anger washed over her, making her so mad her voice shook. ‘‘What! Were you watching through the window? What are you, anyway, a Peeping Tom?’’

  The man shook his head no and stood up. He was well over six feet tall. His toga hung in graceful folds from one shoulder where it was pinned by a gaudy medallion with a Roman emperor’s face on it. Hildy recognized Caesar Augustus at once. After all, she had just seen his statue in the casino. A sword hung at the man’s left side, and in his right hand he held a gnarled wooden staff.

  How ridiculous that the casino makes its employees dress in costume, she thought, remembering the young cocktail waitresses in very short togas who wandered through the casino asking if anyone wanted a drink—at eleven in the morning, for heaven’s sake. But Hildy hadn’t seen any men dressed up. These brawny guys must be security for the high rollers in the evening crowd. Some VIP must have lost the bottle and complained to the management, she concluded.

  The stranger took one step closer. A man as solid as a tree trunk, he loomed over her. She could see that long scars crisscrossed his chest, which was bare beneath his toga. And she could smell him, a strong but not unpleasant odor that might be patchouli, she guessed. But although he was nearly invading her personal space, Hildy, her anger still hot, stood her ground despite his bellicose appearance.

  Unexpectedly, right at that moment, the man saluted her, thumping above his heart with his right fist. He bowed his head. ‘‘My name is Antonius Eugenius. I once was a centurion commanding a cohort in the Roman army. In the reign of Caesar Augustus I was stationed in Britannia before I was sent to Judea to subdue the Jews. But you asked what I am now.’’

  Sadness flickered across his face. ‘‘I am what was in the bottle.’’ He pointed to the amber glass container which remained eerily illuminated where it lay on the floor. Then he looked directly at Hildy with eyes which were a deeper blue and much older than her own. When he began to speak again, the glow of the bottle seemed to come into them, lighting him up from within. ‘‘What I am is a genie.’’

  With those words he levitated off the floor and melted away into a plume of smoke which curled upward toward the ceiling and sparkled with a thousand tiny lights like a spray of golden glitter. Then the smoke whooshed downward and turned back into a human f
orm. Once again the Roman centurion stood in front of Hildy, his flesh solid, his sandaled feet back on the floor.

  Hildy’s mouth fell open. Her head felt light and strange. The room began to spin around in a dizzying whirl. She cried out ‘‘Oh!’’ and tried to fight the darkness of oblivion that overtook her, but consciousness slipped away. She slid in a faint to the floor.

  Chapter 8

  Sometimes a transformation does not happen over time. It occurs in an instant, at the moment when fate delivers its lightning strike. A lottery win, a car crash, a rifle shot, a bomb blast, a heart-stopping medical diagnosis, a phone call in the night bringing bad news—these events happen in a blink of an eye. They divide a life instantly into two parts. And afterward, a person is never again the same.

  So it was for Hildy.

  When her eyes fluttered open, Antonius Eugenius was bending over her, fanning her face with a paper plate. She attempted to sit up too quickly, and faintness overcame her again.

  ‘‘You passed out,’’ he said, stating the obvious. ‘‘Keep your head down.’’

  Hildy, staying prone as requested, stared up at the ceiling, which she noted had water stains in one corner. But quickly getting impatient with her vulnerable position and the strange situation, she complained, ‘‘I can’t keep lying on the floor. How long do I have to stay like this?’’

  ‘‘A few minutes.’’ His voice held the timbre of command. ‘‘You should practice some self-restraint. You appear to be an impulsive person; your anger overrides your caution. If you had been in my legion,you’d have been run through with a sword by now.’’

  ‘‘If I had been in your legion, during the reign of Caesar Augustus or so you claim, I would have been dead two millennia ago. Tell me this isn’t happening,’’ Hildy said and squeezed her eyes shut.