Born of Deception

Twelve

A plush silver fur is draped over her arm and she’s wearing a black brimless cloche. A rhinestone and ivory Bakelite ornament is pinned to its side, matching her ivory brocade dress and multistrand necklace of graduated pearls. Her creamy complexion contrasts with her dark eyes and the hair curling softly around her delicate jawline.

Mother has always dressed well, and during the lean years became an expert at creating expensive looks out of secondhand clothes. Jacques’s money has added a chic sophisticated sheen.

“Where have you been, darling?” she demands, her hands on her hips. “I’ve been waiting forever. Jacques is going to start to worry about me. He’s waiting at our hotel because I wanted to have a little chat with you alone. Now don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open. It’s not at all attractive. Come and give me a kiss.”

She offers me a cheek, and on legs numb with shock, I walk over and kiss her. She wraps her arms around me for a brief hug. Then she offers a cheek to Cole, who reddens and follows my example. As always, he is struck dumb by her polished, superior presence. His grandmother, for all her snobbery and pretensions, has nothing on my mother when it comes to making someone feel uncomfortable.

I finally find my voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see you, of course. As soon as I heard you were going to be playing in proper cities, I told Jacques we needed to close up the New York flat and move to Paris early.”

Now that my mother is rich, she’s decided she must have homes in both New York and Paris, where Jacques comes from.

“What? Prague and Warsaw aren’t real cities? Surely you want to visit Budapest again.” I say this with tongue in cheek, knowing how much she hates admitting that she is Hungarian. Because she’s linguistically gifted, learning English was no problem for her and her accent is very slight. Nonexistent when she puts her mind to it.

She reaches up and pulls a lock of my hair just hard enough to ouch. “Don’t be saucy, darling. Now, are you going to show me your room?”

She stares at Cole, her meaning clear. His presence is no longer needed.

He clears his throat. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

I nod decisively. “Of course.”

“Why don’t you join us for lunch?” My mother gives him a gracious smile and I want to groan. She’s taking charge, as usual.

“That sounds nice,” Cole says, and makes a hasty retreat.

Lucky.

Mother and I head upstairs and I scan the room quickly to make sure nothing is amiss before moving aside to let her in.

She looks over the room and sniffs. “You would think that the management would spring for a better room, considering your experience.”

“Mother,” I warn.

She says nothing, staring out my window. It’s too dark to see anything, but I can tell she wishes I had a view. I know she just wants the best for me. Well, maybe the second best. She wants the very best for herself.

She sits and pats the bed.

I gingerly sit next to her as if she might explode at any moment. Given my experience with my mother, that isn’t out of the realm of possibility.

“So, tell me darling, just how close have you and Cole become? Why was he going up to your room with you? I’m sure that isn’t allowed on tour.”

Her voice is leading and I sigh. “He just wanted to check the room to make sure it was safe, Mama. We aren’t lovers.”

“I should hope not—you’re far too young for that sort of thing.”

I don’t remind her that she was exactly my age when she became pregnant with me. My mother is a master of selective memory, and this, like Hungarian, is something she chooses to forget.

Then she frowns. “Why does he have to check your room to make sure it’s safe?”

Pressing my lips together, I stifle a groan. I must be out of practice. I’m usually much more careful when speaking to my mother. “He’s just overprotective. Like you, he doesn’t consider this a respectable place for a young woman.” I mentally apologize to Cole for lying about him.

“Well, at least we agree on something,” she says.

I frown. “I thought you liked Cole.”

“I do, darling. I just don’t want you to get too involved too quickly. I want you to have fun first. He’s far too serious. You’re serious enough all on your own. I’m not saying you don’t want someone serious enough to take care of you, but that can come later. Really, how much fun do you have with Mr. Frowny Face?”

“Mother!”

She shrugs an elegant shoulder.

But her surprising insight makes me squirm. Cole and I haven’t had very much fun lately. Of course, there are reasons for that—reasons I won’t be sharing with my mother.

Sweeping one hand around my room she asks, “Is this what you really want, darling? Bad hotels, bad food, and constant work? I know you love magic, but is it really worth it?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Right now, it’s what I want to do.”

All drama and performance, she heaves an exaggerated sigh. “I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s all you’ve ever known and God knows you’ve wanted your own show long enough. Well, go ahead and try it. Right now every city you travel to will be a revelation but that’s only because you’re in Europe. Remember, while it may seem exciting to travel from city to city, you really won’t see that much because you’re working. And once you go back to the States it will become mundane very fast. Nothing in the States can rival the grandeur of Europe’s cities. You should know, you’ve already seen most of it.”

She has a point, but I don’t tell her that. “It is going to be fine,” I tell her firmly.

“I won’t bring it up again, but remember that Jacques and I are getting a lovely little flat in Paris and you will always have a room there. Just think, darling, you could go to school in Paris, learn to paint, or write, or just soak up the atmosphere for as long as you like. We’ll only be there for part of the year, so the rest of the time it would be like your very own apartment.”

I start to speak, but she puts a finger to my lips. “No, no reason to say yes or no right now. The offer is always open.”

She reaches over and kisses my cheek before standing. “Now I suppose you should get some sleep. Do you have an early call?”

I nod. “Eight in the morning.”

“I’ll be there,” she says, and is gone before I can protest.

I don’t sleep well. Every time I set my book down and try to sleep, my mind spins. Walter. The poppet. Pratik. Witchcraft. Jonathon. Cole. Billy. Mr. Casperson. Mr. Price. And finally, to add to the kaleidoscope of craziness, my mother.

Sleeping with the light on doesn’t help and, even though I hate to admit it, I’m just too spooked to sleep in the dark.

So after tossing and turning and barely dozing, I finally give it up at six and get dressed. I head out in search of coffee and sustenance, a dull throbbing in my temples. It’s pouring outside, sheets of water cascading down off the hotel awning.

I stare out at the world with distaste. The small café most of the troupe frequents is only a block or so down the street. Hunger wars with my dislike of monsoons and I twirl my open umbrella in my hand, considering. The door behind me opens and I turn to find Billy looking at the rain with equal aversion.

“Are you going?” he asks.

“I think so.”

“I’m wondering just how hungry you would have to be to brave drowning.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m pretty hungry.”

“Me too. We should just do it.”

I nod and before I can react he snatches up my hand and pulls me out into the storm. Gasping as the cold water drenches me, I quickly position my umbrella over my head. We run wildly, the wind and rain forcing me to keep my umbrella low. My visibility is limited to my T-strap shoes as they splash through puddles.

“This is crazy!” I yell.

He laughs in response and we duck under the awning covering the entrance to the café. I shake my umbrella at him, but it can’t make him any wetter than he already is. Water drips down off the brim of his bowler and he grins at me like a loon.

“You’re crazy,” I insist and then realize he’s still holding my hand. My face reddens and he must realize it too because he drops it before opening the door to the café.

“Morning, Mary!” he says as the red-haired waitress sets two cups on a table and pours us coffee from a tin pot. She knows us as those crazy American stage people and has the coffeepot percolating for us in the morning. I smile my thanks as I shrug out of my wool coat. Billy takes off his trench coat and Mary snaps her fingers.

“Give those to me, both of you, before you make puddles on the floor.”

Meekly, we obey. She has been serving breakfast to most of us in the troupe ever since we came to London. I’m not sure she approves of us and she nags us in a motherly sort of way.

The café is rather a hole in the wall. It’s small, with nicked-up tables and chairs that don’t match and an uneven wooden floor. On the upside, everything is kept scrupulously clean and the food is always good, hot, and plentiful. And cheap, which is important as most of us are living off the skimpy wages we get from the company each month.

After ordering scrambled eggs and toast, I sip my coffee, hoping the hot liquid will melt the icy coldness that has taken residence in center of me since the séance. Billy usually has me laughing straightaway with his positive outlook on life, but this morning he regards me gravely over the rim of his coffee cup.

“What?” I finally ask.

“You look tired. And tense.”

I shrug, developing a curious lump in my throat.

“You’re supposed to only look that way after days on the road, not when we’ve had time off. Is everything all right?”

Mary brings our plates and I smile up at her, grateful for the interruption. What am I supposed to say? Nothing I could tell him would possibly make sense to this open, self-made cowboy from Philadelphia. Sometimes I feel as if I am leading two different lives—my life as a magician and my life as a Sensitive.

And I used to think being a girl magician was odd.

We eat in silence for a few minutes before he finally asks, “Well?”

I sigh and put down my toast. For some reason I am curiously loath to lie to him, so I tell him the partial truth. “My mother showed up unexpectedly last night. We stayed up late talking.”

He smiles, causing Mary, who is refilling our coffee cups, to stare unashamedly. “Thanks, Mary,” he says easily.

She startles and stomps off, muttering under her breath about life being unfair to allow a man to look like that.

I understand the sentiment.

His focus returns to me. “So your mother makes you tense and tired?”

I laugh. “You have no idea.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question me further, and I don’t offer more information. The relationship I have with my mother is fraught with pits of quicksand—just when you think you’re on solid ground, everything shifts and you’re sinking again.

Wisely he changes the subject. “What time do you have to head to the theater this morning?”

I glance at the silver and enamel wristwatch Jacques and Mother bought me as a going-away gift. “In about thirty minutes.”

“We had best get going, then. I’ll walk you over.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to worry about it, but that seems impossibly rude. Hopefully, we’ll beat my mother there. The last thing I need is for Mother to meet Bronco Billy and get ideas.

I resist his urgings to run back to the hotel to change. I’m already wet and there’s no reason to change just to get wet again.

Mother isn’t backstage when we arrive. Perhaps the trip tired her more than she realized and I’ll be spared her critique of my rehearsal.

Before I can go to the dressing room, Billy catches my arm. “I know you weren’t sure if you would have time for touring, and that things are more up in the air because of your mother, but I’d love it if you could do a little sightseeing with me tomorrow.”

His voice is casual, and looking into his handsome friendly face, I weaken at the thought of doing something just for fun. Billy is so easy to be with. “That sounds wonderful,” I tell him.

His smile lights up the dull hallway. “That’s just fine, then! See you around lunchtime?”

I nod, thinking this would make the perfect excuse to get out of doing anything with my mother.

After saying a hurried good-bye to Billy, I race to where Mollie is positioning my props onstage. Mother is talking to Louie, while Jeanne glowers next to him. As lovely as Jeanne is, she’s no match for the polished flirtations of my mother.

Marguerite Estella Van Housen has inspired romantic fantasies in almost every man who has ever met her. She’s wearing fur today and her delicate heart-shaped face rises out of the softness like an exotic flower. Her lustrous dark eyes are lined with kohl, giving her the look of a glamorous Cleopatra. Even up close it’s hard to tell she’s the mother of a grown daughter except that she exudes a ripe quality no ingenue could possess. Louie is enchanted. His wife is less so.

I wave from the stage to get my boss’s attention. He doesn’t see me. “Good morning!” I call.

Louie jumps, but Mother merely smiles. “Good morning, darling. Do you always come to work looking like a drowned rat?”

I put my hand on my hip, unwilling to let her intimidate me. “I love you too, Mother.”

Her brows arch as she acknowledges my cheekiness.

Louie clears his throat. “Go ahead and get started, Anna. Your mother would like to take you shopping this afternoon, so let’s just run through the iron maiden trick.”

I nod, though inside I’m burning. How dare she come in and sweet-talk the manager into giving me a day off. This is my job, not hers. She can’t just manipulate things to get what she wants. Then I watch Louie, who’s completely under her spell.

Well, maybe she can.

I run through the sequence twice, and even though Louie isn’t watching, I know my mother is and will give me feedback on my performance later.

When I finish, I thank my assistant and hurry backstage to get my coat. By the time I return, Jacques has joined the group and Louie is looking far less starstruck. Jeanne, on the other hand, is relieved.

Jacques and I embrace awkwardly. We’ve spent most of our relationship suspicious of one another. Now I’m suspicious that he may be too good for my mother. Neither state of affairs is conducive to me being very comfortable around him.

“It’s too early for lunch,” I tell them.

“We’re going shopping,” Mother says climbing into the car that Jacques has procured for their stay in London. “Jacques promised we would go to Harrods, as well as the shops on Bond Street, no matter what the weather is like. Should we let Cole know where to meet us at Harrods?”

I nod. “That’s a good idea. If we stop at my hotel, I can write a note and have it sent over to his house.”

While at the hotel I change into dry clothes, careful to look fashionable enough for my mother. I hesitate over my hats, wondering if I should go conservative and opt for my black cloche or go fancy with my colorful knockabout. Grinning, I snatch up the knockabout and settle it on my head. If mother doesn’t like my color choices, she can live with it. Back in the car, my lips curl as I watch my mother leaning forward in her seat, her entire being absorbed in the enjoyment to come. Shopping has never held as much appeal for me as it does for her. Food and housing insecurities made me frugal and now I have a hard time buying anything other than necessities. Once in a while I’ll splurge, like I did for my hat, but seldom.

Thinking about my hat reminds me of Calypso. Why hadn’t I felt anything when I touched her hand at the séance? Usually she’s crackling with emotions, but the other night I got nothing. Perhaps like me, gaining control over her abilities also means gaining more control over her emotions and thoughts? I puzzle over that until we arrive at our first destination and I get to see Mother-with-money in action.

I think Harrods completely shatters her preconceived notions, and she claps when she realizes just how immense it is. “We won’t be able to go anywhere else today,” she tells Jacques. “Bond Street can wait. I bet I can completely furnish our pied-à-terre without ever going anyplace else.”

Jacques smiles at her indulgently. “Don’t go overboard, chérie. We have to ship everything over to France and you will find plenty of shops in Paris. And keep in mind that we haven’t even signed for the apartment yet.”

She looks crestfallen for a moment, then brightens. “We’ll be signing for the apartment as soon as we get to France and at any rate, I can make a good start. There are things the English just do better than the French. No offense, darling.”

“None taken, my love.” They put their heads together in a nuzzling fashion as if I weren’t there.

I avert my eyes and give a small cough.

Just as if it were a hotel instead of a department store, someone rushes out in the rain to open the car door and escorts us under an umbrella through the front door.

For the next two hours I watch as my mother shops as excitedly as a child. Observing her makes me appreciate just how hard she must have trained herself to prepare for this kind of life. It couldn’t have been easy to keep faith, shuffling from city to city, a young daughter in tow, going from bad manager to bad lover. She had to have wondered at times if she hadn’t squandered all her chances.

Gently autocratic, she carefully judges the merits of one kind of china over another, compares linens, and considers different types of furniture. Her knowledge of the finer things in life far surpasses anything I could have ever imagined. I know she couldn’t have learned this in the small Hungarian town where she was raised, nor as a magician’s assistant. Where had she gleaned this kind of knowledge?

It’s one of those mysterious things about my mother that I will probably never know because she hates answering questions about herself. By the time we enter the elegant restaurant on the fourth floor, she has reached a point of contented satisfaction.

Like everything else in England, the interior of the Georgian Restaurant, with its towering pillars, stiff linens, and ornate plasterwork, makes me feel just slightly inferior. My mother, on the other hand, sails through the room as if she were born to it. Other patrons watch her progress with a combination of envy and approval. Mother always has known how to make an entrance.

I’m surprised Cole isn’t here yet and inform the waiter that we are expecting a fourth.

“Who is the handsome man who escorted you to the theater this morning?”

I freeze and glance at my mother, who’s wearing a smug smile. I decide the best defense is nonchalance. “A friend. He’s actually in the troupe.” I smile at the waiter pouring our tea before continuing. “He’s a cowboy who does rope tricks. He shoots as well, but of course, not in this show. Imagine shooting inside some of those fancy theaters!”

“How close of friends are you?” she asks, her voice carefully casual.

I ignore the innuendo. “Quite. He actually worked for the same circus we did—he knows Swineguard!”

This stops the subject cold as she never, ever talks about our time in the circus. Especially not in front of her new husband. The conversation quickly moves on to Mother and Jacques’s business and stage gossip. Surreptitiously, I keep checking my watch, wondering where Cole is.

“Should we go ahead and order?” Mother asks, her voice petulant.

I nod reluctantly, worry tightening my stomach. Cole is usually so punctual. It’s not like him to miss an appointment.

Excusing myself, I make my way to the foyer. “Pardon me. Do you have a message for Anna Van Housen?”

The maître d’ looks down his nose at me. “If we had received a message, we would have done our best to deliver it. We’re not in the habit of sitting on messages to our patrons.”

“Of course,” I assure him, feeling small.

I make my way back to our table and sit, my mind racing. Cole has been so worried about me that it never occurred to me to worry about him. I swallow. Surely Leandra or Harrison would contact me if something were wrong, wouldn’t they?

Or maybe he just couldn’t face the thought of a meal with my mother. But then, I suffered through a meal with his grandmother. Surely, he owes me one.

The waiter brings our lunch and I wish I could tell Mother and Jacques to hurry. All I want to do is get back to the hotel. Maybe he left me a message there.

“Is your lunch not to your liking? Or is something else worrying you? Your young man perhaps?”

I catch a wicked glint in my mother’s eyes before she lowers them. I thought she liked Cole. She certainly seemed to in New York. Perhaps it really is because she doesn’t want me to get serious about anyone yet, or maybe it’s because he’s immune to her charm. She doesn’t know of his natural reticence or his shyness around women. I smile back at her. “I was just thinking of how well my performance went over in Budapest. You missed out.”

Her smile becomes fixed. So she does miss performing.

“Well, I’ll get to see it when you perform in Paris. What theater did you say you were going to be at?”

I stare at my plate. “Le Petit Théâtre.”

“Pardon?”

“Le Petit Théâtre!”

“That’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?” Jacques asks, clueless that that was exactly my mother’s point.

I shrug, wondering how long I have to sit here before I can politely make an excuse to go back to the hotel. I’m pushing my food around on my plate when I sense Cole’s presence. I glance up, my heart leaping when I see him standing in the arched doorway. But moments later my stomach clenches as I feel his discomfort. Something is wrong.

Then I see a small figure standing next to him. She comes up to his shoulder and is wearing a knockabout so similar to the one I bought that I almost reach up to make sure mine is still there.

Jealous pain ricochets around my chest like a bullet when I recognize who it is.

Calypso.