― H.P. Lovecraft
Angelica
I'm not usually introspective or melancholic―my default mood is usually calm and placid, but I couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom, even while getting ready for Art's cocktail party at the castle―our euphemism for The Harbourfront Hotel.
I was toying with the possibility of wearing a tux but finally settled on my dark suit instead.
I admit I was nervous about meeting a clairvoyant―I don't know why, but put it down to my subliminal mind finally gaining ascendance over my more practical tendencies.
Mind you, I didn't put much stock in precognition or presentiments and was more allied with Ben Church in that regard seeing it as sophisticated sleight of hand.
But at least I didn't go as far as to consider Angelica a gypsy. No, from the photos I saw of her I might be inclined to see her in a different light, as a mystic.
So, I was a reluctant guest not simply because of my aversion to psychics, but also because my idea of an intimate get together didn't mesh with Art's version―he was more cliched in his vision of a vintage cocktail party with women in strapless gowns and men in tuxedos.
I think he was stuck in the Mad Men era and was subconsciously reprising Hugh Hefner―albeit with Nancy mildly steering him clear of the rocks and shoals attendant with that vision. She was a remarkable woman really and Art was lucky to have found her.
I suppose I indulged his predilections too, but only insofar as they didn't impinge too much on my inclinations.
My inclinations were totally unlike his and Brooke Henderson's, with whom both he and Nance were eager to couple me. But I couldn't endure this faux culture―it seemed plastic to me like the starlets who seemed incessantly posing for pictures.
Kill me now, I mused, if I had to prostitute myself like that just to earn a living.
"Zach Shepherd! Is this an early mid-life crisis? I never thought I'd see you at one of these affairs."
I groaned inwardly at the familiar, silky voice of the divine Miss Henderson.
"Good to see you again, Brooke," I smiled, "Art invited and I ran out of excuses."
"And a dark suit," she teased with a mischievous glint in her eye, "it's strange to see you so..." she searched for the exact word, "so appropriate."
"I have my moments," I parried.
"Yes, you certainly do when you're not on assignment."
It was a back-handed poke at the last time we dated. She felt I abandoned her when I had to leave in the middle of the opera when Ben Church texted me to pursue a story.
I knew Brooke from college and I suppose being the wife of a newspaper man was not the style of life she envisioned. And who could blame her? Obviously, it was the major reason why at thirty-five I was still single.
Well, she was too, but I suspected that was because she was holding out to find Mr. Perfect.
I was about to zing her with theperfect comeback when Art interrupted, "Sorry guys, hate to break up this cozy tete-a-tete, but Zach, there's someone I'd like you to meet."
He gestured in the direction of the beautiful Angelica who was surrounded by admirers.
"Oh, don't let me keep you from your work," Brooke smiled cynically, "I'm sure she'd like to be interviewed by a man of your stature."
It was a gut punch and I wasn't expecting it. My face fell as she turned on her heel and melted back into the party.
Art saw it too and his pained expression made me instantly defensive. "Guess the girl still loves me," I deadpanned.
"Wouldn't be surprised if she did," he sighed, "judging by her reaction."
"You're mistaking loathing for loving, my friend―it's obvious Brooke can't stand me."
He arched an eyebrow. "Either that or she's jealous and I'm inclined to lean toward the latter."
I felt Art was being overly generous and judging by my own track record of late with women, the prospect of meeting Angelica didn't exactly fill me with confidence.
As a matter of fact I felt a mounting sense of dread beginning to build inside of me.