Mad About You

hours ago she'd been contemplating spending a lifetime with him.
    She finished packing in record time. After lugging her bags to the front hall, she performed a quick walk-through to check appliances and thermostats, then settled in an armchair in her living room to wait for the car Trey was sending. Her gaze kept roving to the copper lamp, one of the few bits of color in the otherwise stark room, made more vivid by a single red-winged butterfly that seemed determined to roost on the spout. With her limited knowledge of insects, she presumed the luster of the polished metal provided the attraction. Finally, unable to resist the pull herself, she rose and walked over to pick up the lamp.
    The butterfly seemed content to remain, as long as she handled the piece carefully. Once again, she studied the Arabic symbols, surprised when more of the symbols clicked in her memory. Squinting at the etchings, she tried to translate the words. "Something, something, dwell, no, house... or home. Something, something, home. Maj... majesty. Majesty home?" Jasmine frowned. "Majesty's home? Not majesty... magic? Magician!" she squealed, causing the insect to take flight. "Magician's home!" Then she frowned again. "Magician's home?"
    Ladden's words came back to her in a rush. This homeless guy says he lived in the copper lamp you bought and is going to grant me three wishes for releasing him from bondage.
    The air suddenly felt cold. She shuddered, hurriedly returning the lamp to the mantel. A magic lamp? Rubbing her bare arms briskly, she laughed. More likely the words of a clever souvenir salesman, she decided, then shrugged into her suit jacket and checked her watch. The driver was late. At this rate, she'd be sprinting through the terminal, if she made it at all.
    Purposely turning her back on the copper lamp, Jasmine refused to let the nagging thoughts of Ladden Sanderson materialize. All his talk about genies and wishes and migratory rugs had seemed enchanting last night, but today it sounded just plain... well...
    "Enchanting," she ruefully admitted, then massaged her temples with a groan.
    Her phone rang, startling her. She connected the call, again checking her watch. "Hello?"
    "Ms. Crowne?" asked a man's voice.
    "Yes."
    "My name is Jorrie—I'm supposed to deliver you to the airport." His tone was agitated.
    "Is everything all right?"
    "My limo stopped on the bypass."
    She would miss the flight, but she could catch up with Trey later this evening or tomorrow. "I hope it isn't a serious repair," she offered, feeling sorry for the man who was probably worried about what the governor would say.
    "I've been around cars all my life," Jorrie said, his voice shaking, "but this is the strangest thing I ever did see."
    "What's wrong?" she asked, a finger of premonition tickling her spine.
    "Butterflies... hundreds of 'em—maybe thousands—all over the engine, coming out from under the hood like colored smoke."
    In her stunned silence, the driver apologized over and over. Jasmine mumbled something about putting in a good word for him with Governor McDonald, then hung up slowly. Had a strange butterfly pestilence descended on the city? In a daze, she called Trey's cell phone to explain, but to her surprise, Joseph Elam answered.
    "Joseph, this is Jasmine Crowne."
    "Yes?" His voice sounded pinched.
    "May I speak to the governor?"
    "He's indisposed," he said without elaboration.
    "The car broke down on its way to pick me up. Tell Trey I'll have to catch a later flight."
    After several seconds' pause, Elam asked, "Do you really think that would be wise, Ms. Crowne?"
    "Excuse me?"
    He sighed dramatically. "When the governor told me he had invited you along, I had my doubts about your presence on the tour."
    A seed of anger took root in her stomach. "Could you be more specific?"
    "The governor's political career hinges on the events of the next few days. He needs to be focused on the campaign, with no distractions."
    "I want what's best for Governor McDonald, too," she reminded him.
    "Then may I suggest that you stay in Sacramento, and stay out of trouble."
    She pressed her lips together, then asked, "Anything else?"
    "Actually, yes. You can give reporters a personal tour of the refurbished mansion, including the governor's personal quarters. I'll make the necessary phone calls to the media." He paused, as if in thought, but she prepared herself for a final dig. "Showing what you do for a living might help the public swallow the story about