My garden party had gone sour. Some of my guests had turned on the cattiness switch, which is to be expected. Add to that the usual angst that walks in the door alongside my mother.

And now this body lying at my feet, a body that once belonged to a woman I could only pretend to have cared about in the first place, if I forced myself to be honest.

Later, Sedona would make jokes about how people were just dying for an invitation to one of my famous garden parties, but for now, thank the gods, my furry familiar was keeping her trap shut while in the company of my human guests.

 
It had all started so beautifully; everyone from my apartment building, and I do mean my apartment building, was there. My tenants were all there, all so grateful since I had lowered their rents, sealed their windows, and finally cleaned those pigeon-pooped windows they lived behind. My friends from the Village Merchant Association, well, some who weren’t exactly friends, were there, too. And Mother. Maybe I’ve mentioned her.

The Garden Witch, my plant store that snuggled into its corner on Perry Street in New York City’s beautiful Greenwich Village, had been scrubbed and buffed, the leaves of my plant inventory shined, even the light fixtures that I couldn’t reach without a step ladder had been dusted.

Since it was late summer, we could afford to have the party spread to the courtyard out back as well as onto the rooftop, where more of my plants were still enjoying the weather and the twinkly lights were casting a warm glow over my little corner of paradise.

The bar was in the courtyard. My friend Bonita Baker from the Beard-Lover’s Bar was in her element, mixing drinks and making small talk. If the right playlist was on, she would even burst into song. She’s not on Broadway yet, but she will be. I just know it.

Since we were celebrating my inheritance of this incredible building, I stayed close to the shop’s front door. Mother might have slipped up on the nurturing end of being a mom, but she taught me everything there is to know about human etiquette. It was only right to be the first to greet my guests. Play hostess.

I watched Mother swing through my front door that night and studied her face for signs of tension. I can almost always predict a Mother storm, but this time she looked like she had come in peace. Yes, the smile was plastic, but when she hugged me, it wasn’t in that false pat-pat-pat way she had sometimes. This night, she really leaned in, wrapped her arms around me, and squeezed.

“Maddie, Darling!” she breathed, and when she pulled away from me the beads in her long black braids clicked against each other, a happy little sound.“This is a big day for you! Congratulations.” She reached into her Kate Spade bag, a new one, I noticed, and pulled out an envelope. “Open it later,” she whispered. “Where’s the bar? Let’s go have a toast to you!”

Gosh, this woman’s teeth. I tend to notice teeth first on a person. Hers were, of course, the first teeth I ever saw, so they placed the teeth bar way the heck up there. And for the rest of my life, the teeth have mattered. On friends, on potential boyfriends, on customers. Always the first check.

“No, you go on ahead, Mother,” I said, hoping to sound gracious but already kind of grinding my own teeth. “Hannah is up on the roof. Get a nice glass of something and go up to say hi. She’s been looking for you.”

Hannah is my best friend. She owns the psychic shop, Seeing is Believing, around the corner on Bleeker Street. Hannah reads people’s palms and cards and auras. She’s been a practicing witch since she was a teenager, just like me. We’re natural soul mates.

Hannah is also a medium, and just this past spring she held a séance that ended up helping to solve a mysterious burglary right here in my building. Old Ms. Esther Sena, my landlady who lived just above The Garden Witch, had been robbed, and later, when she mysteriously died, she surprised everyone by leaving me this building in her will.

Crazy, I know. But then, most people think I’m a little bit on the crazy side, myself. Maybe that’s what drew Ms. Esther to me in the first place. She used to visit me every day, drink my tea, chat about her bingo habit, or hobby, and now that I look back at those memories, I think I get it. I think it takes very little to gain an old person’s affections and trust.

I didn’t make many friends among Ms. Esther’s family by inheriting this place, but boy, did my mother start treating me better or what?

I watched her swoosh through the shop and out the back door into the courtyard, all Chanel and Manolo Blahnik, waving to someone. Typical. I was pretty certain it was a fake wave, to no one in particular; she needed to look like she knew people.

Appearances, appearances.

“Paw-don me, but who was that purr-fectly coifed woman?” The voice came from behind me on the front tea counter.

“Sedona!” I said, turning to her and reaching out to scratch under her little gray chin. “I trust you’re staying away from the cheese boards like we talked about?” I leaned down and we did the nose-to-nose.

“Ah, yes, but I’m certain we also talked about the price for that unnatural expectation.” She closed her green eyes and allowed me to move my fingers to her ears. “Pretty sure we said sole, this time.”

I sighed. There’s always a price to pay for Sedona’s cooperation. “Yes, but it’s upstairs in the apartment, you know that. Once everyone is here, I’ll lock the front door and go get it for you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Now shhh.”

 
People were gathering in the courtyard, and some were starting to trickle up to the rooftop after stopping off at Bonita’s Bar. The music was good, one of my funkier playlists with lots of Laurent Chanal and Hernan Serrao, a clubby kind of hypnotic Techno.

I watched my friend Simone, who owns Something Sweet Sixteen up on 16th Street, doing a lazy kind of twirl at the hand of Jackson somebody, I can never remember his name. Were they dating? They looked like they’d been dancing together for years. Jackson dipped Simone dramatically, and people clapped, raised their glasses. I thought I even saw my pink hibiscus trees wave their pretty little petals.

“Gosh, that’s a picture right there,” I said to myself.

“Yep,” said Sedona, swishing through my legs. “You really should move just a whisker up the tech ladder and start posting to Instagram, you know. You own a shop, for gods’ sakes, Maddie. And now an apartment building. With vacancies, I might add. Social media might help the cause.”

I looked around to make sure no one was hearing my cat’s commentary.

“Yeah, well, my camera, or phone, whatever, is in the carpetbag, and who has time to dig through that thing? Anyway, I need to be completely present. Greet my guests. I hate it when people can’t put their phones away to just be. So no, no pictures, no posts. At least not now.”

“Wish I had me some opposable thumbs, I’d help you,” she said.

“Well, aren’t you a gracious co-hostess tonight,” I said, leaning down to scratch her little head. She closed her eyes, enjoying the luxury.

“There is food about,” she said. “And several of your friends, especially that Sweet Simone lady over there, have offered up wine fingers. Delish. The music’s a nice break, too. Muffles the traffic noise. So yes, all is well with my soul.” She purred as she pressed her chin to my fingers.

The food was indeed glorious, displayed like artwork on platters and multi-tiered stands. My friends from Olive the Food were catering tonight and had started early, loading the place up with charcuterie boards. There were shrimp towers and salmon fillets, cubes of filet mignon wrapped in bacon, cheese plates with fig and jam spreads from Murray’s Cheese, and mysterious wraps on tables out where Bonita was doing her cocktail magic.

Snackydoos, as Dad would have called them, were all over the place, bowls of chips and nuts and other Doohickeys. I smiled just thinking of my father. He would have loved this, the growing party noises and the slowly rising energy that drinks and good food bring.

As I watched Simone and Jackson dance, a very distinct memory came to me: my parents dancing, back when I was a kid, when Georgie and I were still working together to spy on them every chance we got. Mother and Dad had this cool jitterbug-gone-disco-gone-hip-hop kind of way of moving together, their mix of races and dance moves utterly sensual and hypnotic. When I see it in hindsight, it still just floors me, what became of us all. We had been such a team, before.

I watched over my shoulder as I stood at the front door, wishing for a moment when I could be a guest instead of the hostess, just eating and sipping and waiting for the magic that every party ultimately brings. I did love a party.

I bounced a few times on each foot and said a silent prayer to Bacchus.

My little jingly bells on my door hinge kept on jingling, and I did a pretty good job of playing the gracious host. At one point, Simone left Jackson long enough to refill my wine glass.

“Gosh, my heroine,” I said, taking a grateful sip.

“Not a problem, girlfriend,” said Simone. Her eyes followed my gaze out the open front door to the street. “What would happen if you just let people come in, follow the music, find the bar, then find you eventually? That is how most people run their parties, you know. You don’t have to be June Cleaver, here.” She wrinkled her nose and ran a graceful hand through the poker straight brown hair that I’ve always envied.

She turned and joined her little clutch of people in the courtyard again, and I took a deep sip of my wine and a deep yoga breath as I watched the city from my door.

The New York sidewalks were as alive as always, with people set out and determined to have a fun Saturday night. Finding a restaurant or a bar was easy in the Village, and one of my bucket list lines was to visit every one of them before I wrapped it up here on Earth.

For now, though, I was happy to have my friends and colleagues and even Mother under my very own roof, all to celebrate that roof itself.

 
A taxi blared his horn and I focused again on the street, where a woman, tall and blond and completely together, was approaching my shop.
Like she’d been trained at some etiquette school, her hips led the rest of her body, and her head turned slowly toward each shoulder as she strode. She held herself like a queen. I was reminded of that I Love Lucy episode where Lucy and Ethel go to charm school and learn how to hold themselves. Even the set of their facial features took on new positions, haughty and kind of condescending. Like the mean girls in high school.

Anyway, she kind of swooshed to my front steps and kept her distance from me, waiting for me to step aside.

“Madeline? My mother got to you about me coming, I’m assuming? It’s okay if I crash your little soiree? She said you’re always looking for new friends. I mean guests.” She gave her platinum hair a light touch and it didn’t even move. Stiff as a couple of books hanging off her head.

I stared into her eyes to see if I could feel her true aura. Surely this couldn’t be the whole package.

They weren’t just brown, her eyes. They were black. Like contact lenses fake black, if you asked me.

“Rudbeckia Jenson,” she said, a half-twist of her lips making an expression of disbelief.

“Oh!” I said, putting my hands out because that’s the way I shake hands, with both hands. “Of course, Rudbeckia! Sorry, I didn’t connect the dots. Carol Jenson’s daughter! I buy cut flowers from Carol’s Cuttings probably once a week! You’re always welcome here at The Garden Witch, of course!”

She didn’t take my hands, but looked down at them like they were strange animals she needed to avoid. I pulled them back in, picked up my wine glass, and gave her my friendly but non-plussed look.

“Hm,” she said, and who knows what that meant? She made no move to come in, so I stepped back and swung my door open a little more.

“The bar is bumping, the food is everywhere, and I’m happy to have you!” I kept peering at her mouth, hoping to catch a glance at her teeth. Teeth analysis does nothing for my aura readings, but it’s satisfying.

No luck, though. The lips, colored coral to match her silk blouse, never cracked open far enough to show the teeth.

Maybe if I could get her to talk more, I thought, watching her click click click her way up my steps and into the shop. Her heels, also coral, and probably dyed to match the blouse, were easily four inches high, making her tower over me once she was inside.

“Your parents aren’t here yet,” I said.

“That’s fine,” she said. “I wanted to beat her here, anyway.”

“Them. I think your mom and your dad are both coming, right?”

“I don’t really care one way or another. Just wanted to step out tonight, and this was the only party I’d heard of.”

“Oh!” How rude, I thought. “Well, make yourself comfortable anywhere,” I said. “People are up on my rooftop, or feel free to hang out in the courtyard if you want to stay close to the bar.” I gave her a toast with my glass and what I thought was a congenial enough grin.

“I don’t drink,” she said with another one of those condescending looks.

“Oh! Well, we have lots of soft drinks out there. And water! Never enough water, right?”

“Actually, it is very possible to have too much water,” she said, inspecting a fingernail, also coral. “It can absolutely wreak havoc on your kidneys. You can drown yourself.” She looked down at me and her eyelashes, very black, most definitely fake, did a slow burn down the length of my muumuu, rested for a millisecond on my carpetbag, then ran up my muumuu again.

“Oh! Well, hey, it’s still America, right? Just because you’re at a party doesn’t mean you need a drink in your hand! Come on in and have a bite to eat! Welcome!”

This was just getting old. Sour puss, I thought, and suddenly there was Sedona, as if she heard me think ‘puss.’

Sedona stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Rudbeckia, plopped her butt down, and stuck her hind leg up in the air to start licking herself down there.

And just like that, Rudbeckia’s aura did this flipflop from angry red and spiteful to a cool aquamarine chill. She bent down and made “psst psst” sounds until Sedona picked her head up and I almost heard her sigh.

Sedona typically doesn’t like people who like cats.

She took a few more half-hearted licks at her, well, the base of her tail, then waltzed a figure eight around Rude Becky’s ankles. I laughed inside, thinking of my new nickname for her.

Sedona was feeling no pain at that point in the evening, after tasting all those wine fingers, probably most of which came from Hannah up on the rooftop. She was lots nicer than usual but still grew tired of playing cat with Rude Becky and made short work of it. When all we could see was the tip of her tail flicking out into the courtyard, Becky stood back up, gave me a forced smile, and nodded.

“I’ll be up on the roof,” she said, sniffing. Maybe she had allergies. “I want to see the old bat from up there before we have to actually do the Mother dance, do you know what I’m talking about?” Her voice had a fingernail on chalkboard kind of drag, like there were little pebbles in her esophagus. Every sentence ended in this dragged-out gravel. I nodded real fast, hoping she would just disappear.

Which, thank the goddess, she did.

Chip off the old block, I thought.

Rude Becky’s mother, Carol Jenson, was plain mean. I had always thought that maybe it was me she hated, but now I wondered if it was just an extra mean girl chromosome. This monster Rudbeckia had studied at her feet, after all.

I wondered how it felt, to have your feelings and your words all match up, to go ahead and tell people how you felt without being afraid of them being mad at you. I kind of envied both of them, even while I knew there was a reason Carol had fewer friends than I did.

My thoughts were interrupted when my bells tinkled again, and in came my least favorite member of the Merchant Association herself, Carol Jenson. Older than me by a couple of decades, Carol still held herself with a haughty kind of pride, sniffing the air with giant nostrils as if she were a big cat on the hunt. Behind her, grinding his cigarette out on my new welcome mat, was a greying but handsome man. He tilted his head to blow out his smoke into the heavy late-summer air.

“Carol,” I said, nodding but not making any move to hug her or take her hand or anything. I might have my issues, but no one will ever accuse me of faking anything. “And you must be Carol’s husband?” I smiled at him, just to see what he had to offer. New teeth to apprise.

He showed a tight smile with grayish-yellow nubs. Too bad, but not a surprise, given the smokes.

“Ken. People on ‘The Street’ call me Kenny.” He leaned in as if telling me a secret, took my hand, and squeezed a little bit tighter than necessary.

Word had it that Ken Jenson was a big deal on Wall Street. “Well, welcome to The Garden Witch, Kenny. And to my home, while we’re at it!”

“Yes, well, isn’t that just the way,” Carol said, and I must have given her a puzzled look, because she shrugged. “I mean, congratulations, Maddie. I can’t even imagine owning a whole apartment building in New York City. Such…strange luck you have.”

Carol never liked me, and I think I know why. I’ve always thought she was jealous about how many friends I have, that I’m so active in our Merchants’ Association, that I volunteer in all our Greenwich Village community events. When she talked to me, it was always with a trace of disdain.

I know. I watch people.

“Strange, but true, Carol!” I said, trying to keep the cheer in my voice. “What have you done with your hair! It’s glorious!” It wasn’t, but people love a compliment, so why not. Her hair, newly dyed an obviously unnatural coppery orange, was short. A mom cut. She reminded me of some of the Scarsdale snooty moms I’d grown up around, just this much above everyone else, busier than you, more important than me.

But I was the hostess, and having been raised among wealthy white people, I knew how to play. She brightened a bit at my bait.

“You like it? I went to The Hairport for a change. Mitzie Hangar? You know her, probably. I was a little stunned at first with the color, but she convinced me that I needed a boost, going into fall.” She leaned in toward my ear. “You aren’t there yet, but once the gray starts coming in, you have to stay on top of it, never let it take control.”

She must have sensed Ken’s eye roll behind her because she changed the subject as she took him by the elbow. “Kenny and I took a limo here, don’t tell. People would marvel at my laziness! But I just couldn’t walk in these heels, so Kenny said, ‘Live it up!’ and called for a driver.” She made as if something was wrong with her hand, gave the gigantic diamonds on her fingers the open-mouthed exhale, then polished them on her shoulder.

I watched Sedona doing figure eights through Carol and Ken’s feet. Carol even reached down to rake her fingers down Sedona’s back.

“Hey, Sedona likes you!” I said. “Doesn’t happen often that she takes to people. Wow, consider yourself duly praised!”

Carol stood again and squinted at me. “I like cats. Hoping to come back as one in my next life so I can lie around some house and ignore people all day.” She gave a sniff, and Ken sniffed right after her, like they both had colds or something.

“Well, thanks for coming, you two. Wish me luck as a landlady. It’s something I never even dreamed of becoming, I’ll tell ya that,” I said, closing the door behind them. “For now, though, let’s have a drink and celebrate this beautiful weather! The bar’s in the courtyard. Help yourself. Enjoy!” I cast my glance back at the bar and bit my lip. Just go, I wanted to say. “Oh, and Rudbeckia is up on the roof waiting for you!”

Another yoga breath, and I sensed him before I saw him. The vibration of the shop, the party, inside my body, out on the street, just shimmered and changed like special effects in a movie.

I squinted out into the city street, and my gaze landed on him right away.

Miles Denton.