A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest by Marianne Mancusi

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A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest

Dorchester Publishing

Chapter One

Kat Jones is so dead!

Seriously, when I find that Park Avenue princess I'm going to wring her Burberry-clad neck. The girl has been nothing but a pain in the ass since we arrived at King Arthur's Renaissance Faire a few hours ago. Nonstop whining and complaining-worse than Scarlett O'Hara and Heather Locklear's character on Melrose Place put together. I mean, she even bitched out a poor old gypsy who was just trying to eke out a living by reading palms. And now I turn my back for one second and she's disappeared.

I'm Chrissie Hayward, by the way, a simple fashion magazine photographer not normally given to violent tendencies. In fact, I've even been called a hippie by some. But hey, just because I prefer tofu to tuna and peaceful politics to unjust occupation of third-world countries that pose absolutely no threat to the United States, that doesn't mean I'm some unwashed, patchouli-drenched flower child, does it?

But enough about me. Right now I need to find my slacker coworker. Last I saw her, she was watching the jousting match. I offered to get her some water since she said she had a headache. Now I realize that was most likely her ruse to get rid of me so she could take off early.

I push past the throngs of people, many dressed in authentic-looking medieval garb. Imyself am wearing a capped-sleeved, royal blue velvet gown I made from a pattern I got off eBay. I know it's a little silly, but when in Rome, right? I certainly fit in here a lot better than Kat does, what with her couture clothing and stiletto heels. Who the hell wears stilettos to traipse through upstate New York mud?

When my La Style magazine editor boss first e-mailed me today's assignment, I was over the moon. After all, how many times does one have the opportunity to get paid to hang out at a medieval faire all day, taking photos? Then I read the P.S.-I'd be working with her: La Style's resident fashionista and all-around shallow bitch. Sure enough, the second we got here, Kat started complaining. You'd have thought our editor asked her to go to the front lines of Fallujah the way she's been moaning and groaning. I've tried to make the best of it, to ignore her and enjoy the faire, but let me tell you, that girl could put a damper on Pollyanna's day.

"Excuse me," I say, tapping a random knight in shining armor on the shoulder. He turns around and gives me a dazzling smile. Delicious. "I'm looking for a girl. Blonde. About this tall." I hold up a hand to illustrate approximate Kat hight. "Dressed in Armani-"

"Me too." He grins. "All my life, in fact. Be sure to introduce us when you find her."

I roll my eyes. "I'm serious."

He laughs, then shakes his head, black curls tossing from side to side. "Sorry. Haven't seen her." I try to ignore his thick Brooklyn accent, which seriously detracts from the medieval authenticity level of his costume, and concentrate on his tempting backside as he turns to walk away. Not that I should be looking at a knight in shining armor's backside; I am still technically married, though those 'til-death-do-us-part vows don't really mean anything to me anymore. After all, they certainly meant diddlysquat to Danny when he was off screwing that coffee house waitress after the poetry slam in the West Village last month.

I'll never forget the moment I caught the bastard, naked and writhing and spouting bad verse in the women's bathroom stall. It was like a cheesy Lifetime movie, except for the fact that in made-for-TV land, the husband's usually a successful businessman in corporate America. Someone with assets the jilted wife can acquire to get her revenge. Danny's assets consist of a beat-up Harley from the '60s and a signed, first-edition copy of his hero Jack Kerouac's On the Road. You don't end up a rich divorcée on the Riviera from that.

Shaking unpleasant thoughts from my head, I squint and scan the crowd some more. Where could Kat be? Maybe she went back to the car. I make my way to the front gates of the faire and into the parking lot, finding my old-school yellow Volkswagen Bug still parked where I left her.

"Have you seen the bitch, Flower?" I ask the car, patting her hood. Unfortunately, for all her cuteness, Flower is more the strong silent type, and if she's seen Kat she's not telling.

Suddenly, as if on cue, my camera bag bursts into song. After listening to a few polyphonic bars of the Jefferson Airplane ringtone, I reach in and pull out my phone.

"Hello?" I say, putting the receiver to my ear.

There's static on the other end of the line. Typical upstate New York reception. At least the residents' babies won't die of cancer from living in close proximity to countless cell phone towers like the rest of us probably will. I'm totally anti-cell phone and wouldn't even own one if work didn't require it.

"Hello?" I repeat, walking a few steps away from the car, seeking a better signal. "Can you hear me now?" I ask, unintentionally mimicking the Verizon commercial.

"Chrissie?" A tinny voice registers from deep within the static.

"Kat?" I pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. Full bars. That's weird. Must be on her end. I raise the antenna on the phone, just in case. "Is that you, Kat? Where are you?"

"I need your help." The crackling grows louder. Her voice sounds like it's a million miles away, even though I know she's probably somewhere within a block radius. The faire's just not that big.

"Um, okay," I say, though I'm more than a bit wary of what she's going to ask me to do. Knowing her, she's probably having a broken heel crisis and wants me to swing by the nearest Neiman Marcus to grab her a replacement Manolo. "I can barely hear you."

"I know. Sorry. Evidently they're still working out the kinks in this time-cell continuum thing. Actually, it's pretty amazing they can do it at all. I mean, think of the practical applications! You could call your dead grandmother, for example. Though, of course, that might freak her out a little. I guess it'd only work if you had a dead grandmother that didn't have a weak heart-"

I pull the phone away from my ear again, staring at it in confusion. Is the static distorting her words so much that I'm mishearing them?

"-but I suppose you could always call your dead grandmother and not tell her it's you, or pretend that it's the you that existed when she was still alive-What?" I hear muffled voices on the other end. "Oh, okay. Sorry. Chrissie, I've got to go in a sec. Sorry. Evidently these time-cell calls cost like a million dollars a minute. Literally. Stupid twenty-second century inflation. And there's no nights and weekends plan, either."

"Kat, what the hell are you talking about?" I ask, trying to gain some semblance of control over the conversation. "And where are you? I've been looking everywhere."

"Well, that's sort of why I'm calling. You're never going to believe this, but I'm in the future. Like, a thousand years in the future."

I let out a frustrated breath. "Kat, stop screwing around. We need to get going soon if we're going to beat traffic back into the city."

"I'm not joking, Chris. Believe me, I wish I were. I'm really stuck in the future. Well, first I went to the past. To the days of King Arthur if you can believe that. The land of knights, damsels and no flush toilets. That was a little rough, let me tell you. Then Lancelot and Guenevere and I went through this time portal at Stonehenge to get back to the twenty-first century, but Mordred and his army showed up and Guenevere must have messed up the spell in her rush to cast it. 'Cause now we're stuck in the twenty-second century. And I need your help."

I can't believe I'm actually listening to this BS. "Kat, I'm hanging up the phone now. I'm tired and ready to go home. Go prank call someone else."

"No, wait! You have to believe me."

I pause, the desperation in her voice making me reconsider hitting the End button.

"What, Kat?" I ask, tight-lipped.

"Please, Chrissie, I need your help! I know it sounds bizarre. I didn't believe it myself at first. But I'm desperate! I have to get word to Nimue and you're the only one I know in close proximity to her. I can't call the medieval Nimue 'cause they didn't have cell phones then and the time-cell continuum thing only works through cell phones."

"Nimue? As in, the Lady of the Lake from the King Arthur legend?" I shake my head in disbelief. Kat has lost it. Seriously and utterly lost it.

"Yeah, her. She's disguised as that gypsy we went to visit. The one who cast the spell on me to send me back in time to begin with. Just go and tell her that Lancelot, Guenevere and I are stuck in the twenty-second century and we need to know how to get back. She'll know what to do."

I roll my eyes. "Let me get this straight. You want me to go ask the Renn Faire gypsy how you can travel back in time?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"No way. Kat, just stop screwing around and meet me at the car."

"I can't, Chris!" Even through the static I can hear my coworker's anguish. "You have no idea how much I wish I could." However deranged she sounds, I can tell she seriously believes everything she's saying. Which means she's not joking. She's simply snapped.

"Maybe you've had too much sun," I suggest in my gentlest voice. The one I used as a child to talk my mom down from her bad acid trips. "Tell me where you are and I'll send the medic. I'm sure there's a first-aid tent somewhere around here."

"I don't need first aid. I need Nimue. Find her, Chris. Please. I'll do anything. I'll ... I'll give you all the shoes in my closet!" Even through the static I can hear her hard swallow on the other end of the line. "Even the limited-edition gold Louboutins I got at that sample sale last year."

I raise an eyebrow. Even an insane Kat Jones wouldn't give away those shoes.

"Fine," I mutter. "But you owe me. Big-time. And when the gypsy laughs me out of her tent, you'd better give up this act and meet me at the car." I pause then add, "And I'm holding you to that shoe promise." Not that I'd ever wear such uncomfortable shoes, but surely there's a market on eBay for them.

"She won't laugh. Seriously. Just tell her."

"Okay, okay. Call me back in ten." I click the End button on the phone and trudge back to the faire. I reveal my wristband to the ticket taker, halfway hoping she'll tell me there's no readmission. But she simply waves me through. I push past the turnstile and take a left toward the gypsy tent.

Insane. Kat is truly insane. Either that or she's playing some kind of mean trick on me. I should report her to our boss when we get back. In fact, I'm going to demand that I never have to work with her again. I'll even volunteer to work with Talking Tabitha, the gossip editor. No one wants to work with Talking Tabitha. But I'll do it. As long as I never have to cross paths with Kat again, it'll be worth the risk of permanent Tabitha-induced hearing loss.

I duck into the gypsy's tent, blinking a few times as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

"May I read thy palm, milady?"

The gypsy is sitting at her little crystal ball table, right where we left her. A tiny gnarled woman dressed in gaudy mauve robes and dripping with heavy gold jewelry, she's hunched over, perhaps suffering from some serious rheumatoid arthritis. Poor soul. Hopefully she doesn't have a heart condition or anything, because what I'm going to say next could send an elephant into cardiac arrest.

"Um, hi." I plop down on the stool across from her, trying to act casual. "I'm Chrissie. Remember me from before? I was with that other girl. The blonde, annoying one?"

The gypsy nods slowly. "Aye. Katherine Jones."

"Uh, yeah. Right. Her." Wait a sec. How does she know Kat's name? I don't remember Kat introducing herself when we were here before; she was too busy insulting the woman. Curiouser and curiouser. "Well, this is going to sound really crazy, but ... um, she called me and wanted me to give you a message ... and ... um ..." I glance around the tent, sure I'll locate hidden cameras. I'm being Punk'd, I know it. There's no other explanation. At least this means I might get to meet Ashton Kutcher....

I glance up at the gypsy, searching for the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The smile that would give away the game. But I see no hidden amusement on her face. Instead, she's peering back at me with great concern.

"What is the message?" she asks.

"She says ..." Ah, what the hell. The sooner I get it out, the sooner I can meet Ashton. "She says that she and Lancelot and Guenevere are stuck in the future and they need your help to get back." I can feel my face flush with embarrassment as I await her response. That's one thing I hate about being a pale-faced, freckled redhead: major blush-age at the drop of a hat. Well, that and all those Little Orphan Annie jokes I endured as a kid.

So I blush and I wait, expecting anything-laughter, disbelief, anger for wasting her time even. Maybe all of the above. What I don't expect is the sheer horror that washes over her wrinkled face.

"Thou art serious?" she demands, her voice losing its serene tone. "But that cannot be!" She stares at me, her eyes wide with apparent fright.

Feeling a little uncomfortable under that intense gaze, I shrug. "Look, don't kill the messenger. I have no idea. Kat just told me to tell you. That's all I know."

The gypsy seems to regain control, rising from her seat and making her way over to a small bookcase at the far end of the tent. For someone so hobbled and old, I'm surprised at how fast she moves. From my seated position at the table I can just make out her mutterings.

"I know I gave Queen Guenevere the correct spell. I am sure of it," she's saying to herself.

I glance around the tent, looking for those candid cameras again. I feel like I'm on a lost episode of The Twilight Zone. Or X-Files maybe. But unfortunately without sexy Agent Mulder.

The gypsy returns to the table with a dusty tome that looks a thousand years older than the Bible. Kind of reminds me of that Book of Shadows they have on Charmed. I watch, unsure what I'm supposed to do, as she flips through the book pages at a desperate pace. I contemplate leaving the tent, but it seems rude to simply walk, especially since I'm the one who's apparently caused her this upset. Though, technically it's Kat's fault.

After a moment of page-flipping, she looks up from the book. "I fear something has gone dreadfully wrong for thy friend and her companions," she informs me in a strained voice.

"Technically, she's my coworker, not my friend," I say, not quite sure why I feel the urge to remind her of this.

"I can get them back," the gypsy continues, ignoring my correction, "but I will need thy help."

Why does everyone suddenly seem to need my help? I mean, when did I draw the short straw in the Helper Girl lottery?

"Sorry," I say, feeling kind of guilty for turning her down when she looks so upset. But really, I did my good deed for the day; I delivered Kat's stupid message. And now, since it doesn't appear Ashton's going to be popping out with a camera anytime soon, I'm done with all the weirdness. "I can't help. I need to get home. There's a new Twenty-four on tonight." I rise from the table, preparing to leave. "So, if you see Kat, tell her I'll catch her at work on Monday morning, okay?"

I don't know why, but something makes me pause, almost like I'm expecting the gypsy to object. To force me to stay. Instead, her face softens.

"Thou art in pain," she says simply.

"What?"

She reaches out and takes my hand in her gnarled one, tracing the lines of my palm with a bony finger. For some reason, I find I can't pull away.

"Yes. I see. The man thou thought a lamb has been revealed to be a wolf," she murmurs almost under her breath as she studies my palm.

I stare at her in disbelief. Is she talking about Danny? How the hell does she know about Danny? I haven't told anyone about the waitress incident. I've been too embarrassed. I mean, getting cheated on by the only man you've ever slept with? Your childhood sweetheart who you were supposed to live happily ever after with? Let me tell you, it doesn't get more humiliating than that. My mother doesn't even know.

The gypsy looks up, meeting my eyes with a piercing gaze so intense it's as if she's seeing into my soul. She knows, I realize with an odd certainty. I have no idea how, but she knows.

"I haven't told anyone," I whisper, feeling tears prick the corners of my eyes. I brush them away with my free hand. The last thing I need is to start crying in front of a stranger. Especially since I'm still not quite convinced this isn't some bizarre reality TV show. I can just imagine my misery being broadcast to twenty million people. Danny and his waitress slut, on the couch, having a good laugh over my torment before jumping each other's bones again. No thanks.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest by Marianne Mancusi Copyright © 2007 by Marianne Mancusi. Excerpted by permission.
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