Free Witch Water by Edward Lee Page B

They jogged out into blazing sunlight and
were gone. Fanshawe’s hangover pulsed at his temple. For an instant
he thought of inconspicuously following them, to see if they
repeated yesterday’s topless coddling at the hidden nook, but then
rebuked himself for even considering it. He grabbed some
complimentary candies off the check-in desk, then milled around the
displays. It was not his own volition that guided him toward the
display with the looking-glass, but when he found it—
    Hmm…
    The Witch-Water Looking-Glass lay in a
different position from when he’d first seen it. He couldn’t
imagine why he would take note of such a thing, yet he was certain.
The instrument was inverted; the eyepiece end faced toward the
front desk earlier, whereas now it faced toward the Squire’s
Pub.
    Mr. Baxter must’ve taken it out of the
case to show someone, he reasoned, a perfectly sound
explanation.
    So why would he even stop to consider
it?
    A cove away, one of the professors could be
heard talking heatedly on his cell phone—an argument no doubt with
his wife. “Oh, so that’s why you want a divorce. Great. Work my ass
off thirty-five years, now you decide you don’t want to be married
anymore, decide you’d rather just take half of everything I worked
for, for us! ” Fanshawe slipped away, feeling for the man. Welcome to the Divorce Club, buddy… But the situation caused
him to think of one of Dr. Tilton’s insinuations several months
ago. “You’re lucky your wife didn’t take you for half of your net
worth, Mr. Fanshawe—that’s what usually happens.” “She got twenty
million and a house in the Hamptons,” he detailed, but then she
asked a question he would never have expected: “Are you…still fond
of her?” “I love her!” he blurted. “I miss my wife, but I
don’t expect you to believe that, considering what I did.” Her cool
eyes thinned on him from behind the shining desk. “Did you try to
get back with her?”
    “Yes. I begged her. I told her I was
in therapy, told her that it was working. I-I told her I
hadn’t…gone on…a peep, in over six months.”
    “And what did she say in response?”
    Fanshawe had felt dizzy with nausea. “She
didn’t say anything, but…well, her response made it clear
that she’d never give me another chance.”
    Dr. Tilton touched her chin with the tip of
her finger. “I don’t understand, Mr. Fanshawe. If she didn’t say
anything, on what do you base her negative response?”
    Fanshawe had gazed back at the
sterile-voiced psychiatrist, his mouth open. “I…just hung up. Her
response was the sound of vomiting. Just hearing my voice made her
physically ill.”
    It had been the only time he’d witnessed the
following expression from Tilton: pity.
    Fanshawe groaned at the recollection, then
quickened his pace out of the hotel.
    More than a sparse number of tourists
strolled the town’s streets. A slim woman in a furniture shop
leaned over to inspect the panel-work of an armoire. Fanshawe’s
eyes locked on her body, imagining it nude, but when some inkling
of being looked at caused her to glance up at him, the fantasy
collided with his shame. Shit! What am I doing? He quickly
pretended to be looking at an umbrella stand right next to her. I’m eyeballing women in broad daylight! He walked off, hands
behind his back, as if he hadn’t noticed her returning stare. But
no sooner had he crossed the block he caught himself staring up at
rowhouse windows.
    His self-disgust raged. What the hell’s
wrong with me? I just got a date with a really nice girl but I’m
out here…doing this.
    “Top’a the day to ya, sir,” the easily
recognized voice cut into him. Mrs. Anstruther smiled at him from
her kiosk. “Out for a stroll, are you?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Anstruther. It’s quite a day for
it.” But was there something sly about her smile? It lifted
wrinkles on her face to something mask-like, which made him feel as
though a cunning assessment were being taken of