By Magic Alone (22 page)

Oh, geez. So. Not. A. Duck.

“Did you feel threatened? Like, if you didn’t go for coffee—”

“Nothing like that. He isn’t a creep. It was more like he
didn’t know how to behave on a date and was trying really hard. Like he had to call the shots, you know?” She sighed again. “I mean, the eating thing was unattractive, okay? But the rest of it . . . I felt like he was so focused on proving we were having a good date, he forgot to check with me.”

“Well, he
hasn’t
dated much. And I know he was nervous.” These two appeared to be such a great match. On paper, anyway. “Did he do anything right, Zita?”

She was silent for a few seconds, and then, “He brought me flowers. At first, on the way to the restaurant, he asked me about my job and my family. It wasn’t until we were sitting across from each other that the date started to go south.”

Yep, Darryl had let his nerves get the better of him. So, should I try to smooth things over or just move on? I made a snap decision. “Even with everything else, you think he’s nice?”

“He
is
nice. He needs to relax, though.”

Inappropriate humor bubbled up. Poor Darryl. Most doctors I knew suffered from too much confidence, not too little. “If I were to talk to him about your perceptions—in a nice way, of course—would you be willing to go out again?”

“Oh, gee, Julia. I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything here.”

“Your compatibility numbers are solid. Maybe he won’t be as nervous next time. Maybe it will be different.” Okay, I shouldn’t have pushed so hard. But something told me that Zita should give Darryl another chance. Recalling a discussion I’d had with Darryl early on, I said, “The first time you and I met, I asked you to name the one trait in a man that was most important to you. Do you remember what you told me?”

“Family. I said I wanted to date men who valued their family over and beyond anything else.”

“Right. Did Darryl mention he had a successful practice in
Atlanta, but returned to Chicago when his mother died? It was important to him to be here for his father.” Probably, I should have mentioned this to Zita from the very beginning, but I’d gotten too caught up in their compatibility numbers.

“Wow. No, he didn’t.” She was quiet for a minute. “People don’t always make the best first impressions, do they?”

“Nope.” Scot’s first impression of me winged into mind. “Definitely not. But this is completely up to you.”

“Yeah. I . . . I think I’d like to give this another chance. Do you think you can talk to him without hurting his feelings?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I’m willing to try.”

“My mom would love it if I brought a doctor home. And he
is
cute. Oh, all right. I suppose. What can one more date hurt?” Zita said. “But this time, I’m planning it. Make sure he knows that.”

I chuckled. Partly in humor, but also in relief. “You got it.”

One fifteen-minute phone call to Darryl later, and he—while horribly embarrassed about Zita’s assessment of his eating—agreed to hand over the reins for the next date. Maybe because that seemed easier than restarting the process with someone new.

I finished my phone calls. The second couple was equally unsure about each other, but for different reasons. He disliked her chattiness, and she—for whatever reason—disliked the color of his hands; they were too red and he had messy cuticles. The final couple hated each other from minute one. Not a surprise. Their compatibility score was in the fifties, but they’d found each other’s profiles, liked each other’s looks, and had pushed for a meeting.

With that work done, I went home and huddled by the phone. Surely Scot would call. He’d said a couple of days, right? Well, this was a couple of days. But the hours dragged by without the phone ringing. I checked the dial tone a few
times—oh, okay, six times—so Scot’s silence wasn’t because the phone was out of order. He just didn’t call.

I finished my Jell-O, drank more wine, and because I had the same sluggish, yucko symptoms from last night, swallowed several vitamin C tablets to ward off the cold I was sure I was catching. Then I slept with my covers pulled over my head. Oh, and with the bedside lamp turned on.

Tuesday was more of the same. No Scot. No new clients. I spent hours running the numbers, trying to find new ways to cut costs to hold Introductions steady until the wish came true, but I’d already cut everything that could be cut and still stay in business.

Verda returned my call late Tuesday afternoon. I was on my way home, and like an idiot had the radio turned up loud enough that it drowned out the ring. I didn’t notice her message until later. She said she’d try me again.

On the good-news front: I hadn’t smelled roses since Sunday night. Thank God.

By Wednesday, I was in a rotten frame of mind. I was almost back to my belief that coincidence was to blame for everything. I so wanted to believe. I was ready to believe. Hell, I think a part of me
needed to
believe. Why that was, I didn’t have a clue.

I left work early for once, determined to arrive at my parents’ place for dinner right on time. I stopped on my way to pick up a the-maid-only-lasted-three-weeks present for Mom, and on a hunch also grabbed a one-week-and-the-maid-is-gone gift. Normally, the simple act of shopping for these items was enough to make me smile. Today, I sort of just went through the motions.

When I arrived, I rang the doorbell like normal. Waited. Waited for longer than normal. Rang the bell again. I dragged
my key out to let myself in—something, by the way, my folks frowned upon. I didn’t live here, so I should be greeted at the door like any other guest. The only reason I still had a key was so I could stop in when they were traveling. Otherwise, I’m sure it would have been confiscated after I’d moved out.

I shoved the heavy door open and walked in. Went to turn off the security alarm, except it wasn’t on. Huh. It was
always
on. The lights in the foyer were set low, like they were at night when the house slept. Odd.

I checked the living room first, to find it empty. So was the parlor. Unexpected apprehension coiled inside, tight, sharp, and fast. My parents never, ever, weren’t here for a Wednesday dinner unless they were out of town or had another social engagement. Had I forgotten something? No. Nothing was said last week about canceling tonight, and they hadn’t called. My worry climbed higher, so I went to the kitchen in search of Rosalie.

Empty kitchen. Nothing in or on the stove.

Panic iced my gut and liquid quivers slid down my spine. I carefully and methodically walked through the entire house, even rooms that weren’t in use any longer, calling out as I did.

No dice. My mother didn’t use a cell phone, but Dad did, so I dialed him. Voice mail. I left a message and then stared at the phone in confusion. Where were they? My parents did not behave this way. Hell, they were about as spontaneous as glue. And they weren’t old, but they weren’t young either. What if my dad had a heart attack or a stroke? What if my mother was in a car accident? What if . . . what if . . .

I returned to the living room, poured myself a drink, and collapsed on the sofa. They were fine. Of course they were. Gregory and Susanna were indestructible. They’d probably just forgotten to mention they had other plans. Sure, forgetting
something wasn’t their normal behavior, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t possible.

My wish—the one about my parents relaxing and worrying less about their social standing—flitted into my mind. Yeah, I’d been excited to see if anything had changed. Hopeful, even. But their absence couldn’t be magic related. If it was, if my wish worked, then that meant they considered our dinners another one of their social functions. And that sucked.

I sipped my drink. Tears grew behind my eyes. I blinked and took another sip. No. Just no. Sure, these dinners drove me nuts, but I loved my parents. They loved me. No matter how stiff and uncomfortable Wednesdays were, we were family. I couldn’t stand the thought of something bad happening to either one of them, but the thought that they’d forgotten me was somehow just as awful. They had never forgotten me before.

One tear and then another crept down my cheek. I drained the rest of my drink and wiped my face. I should get up. My mother kept a social calendar in her office. I should check that. I should see if their cars were here. I should find Rosalie’s number and call her. But I couldn’t seem to find the energy to stand.

The irony didn’t escape me. If my wish had caused this, then whoa, how it had backfired. My goal was to lessen the gap between me and my folks, not increase it.
Get up,
I told myself.
Do something.
So I reached into my purse, found my cell phone, flipped through my saved numbers, found the two I’d entered the other day, and selected one.

It rang twice, and then, “Hello, Julia. Feeling better?”

“Stouffer’s,” I said in just above a whisper.

“‘Nothing comes closer to home,’” Scot said. “You okay?”

I wiped another tear off my cheek. “Reebok?”

“Julia? What’s going on?”

“Reebok,” I repeated, swallowing the stupid bubble of emotion in my throat.

“‘Because life is not a spectator sport.’” The thumb tapping started. “Where are you?”

More tears fell. I swiped those away, too. “Wind Song. Do you know that one?”

He was silent. His breaths were slow and deep, and I could almost see those sexy, dark eyes of his crinkled in thought. “I can’t”—he coughed—“I can’t seem . . . I can’t seem to think of it. You got me, Julia.”

“One question?” Now, I whispered. “I get one question?”

“That was the deal. One question.”

“Do you—” Fuck these tears! I wiped them away again. “Do you really think there isn’t a man alive who’s right for me?”

His intake of breath was swift and harsh. I huddled, pulling every ounce of strength I had together, and waited for the response that would surely do me in. Why’d I ask that? All the questions in the world, all the things I wanted to know, and I wasted it on something I already knew the freaking answer to? Stupid. So, so stupid.

“No, I don’t think that.” The tapping got louder. “I should never have said that. I was angry . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting your feelings.”

“You didn’t! I’m cold and heartless and have no feelings.” A sob burst out from a raw place deep within. I tried to cover it with a round of coughs. “Sorry! Guess I’m not better yet. You . . . ah . . . you really think there’s someone out there for me?”

You, Scot? Could it be you?
my heart asked. At the same time, my mind screamed,
Jameson. You belong with Jameson. Or someone like Jameson.

“Of course I do. You’re smart, beaut—pretty, easy to talk to. Of course there is.”

“Okay. Well.”
Tell me it’s you. Tell me it could be you.
“I should . . . um . . . probably go. I . . . Thanks for playing!” I said in an overly bright voice.

“Julia,” Scot said, his tone rough and perhaps concerned. Nah. No way. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Has something happened?”

The yearning to open up, to tell him where I was and how lost and unsure and afraid and stupidly lonely I was came over me. I wanted to lean on him. How dumb was that? I had
never
needed anyone to lean on, to kiss my boo-boos and make them all better. “A bad day. That’s all. I’m fine, Scot. I’m always fine.”

“Why was it a bad day? Talk to me. I’m right here.”

He sounded like he cared. Obviously, my one drink had been one too many. Even so, the calmness of his voice pushed me forward. I pressed the fingers of my free hand to my temples.

“My—”

“There you are, Julia! We’re so sorry we’re late, darling,” my mother said, dashing into the living room. “We got caught up at the dealership. Why everything always takes so long is beyond me. I swear they do it on purpose.”

My tears disappeared in a rush of relief. Shock came next. My jaw dropped open. Susanna Marie Kaiser-Collins was dressed in . . . jeans? And a T-shirt—one of my gag gifts—that depicted a fifties-era housewife holding a vacuum cleaner. Written in hot pink letters in a lipstick type slash across the front was the message
THIS REALLY SUCKS!

“Scot?” I sort of gasped into the phone. “I . . . ah . . . I need to go. Something’s come up.”

“Are you all right?” he demanded.

I tried to respond, but my mouth refused to work. What with my fixation on seeing my mother in jeans. Jeans! Sneakers,
too. When had she gotten those? Noticing my appraisal, she waggled her fingers at me and did a little hip swish.

“Julia?” Scot said, louder this time. “Are. You. All. Right? Do you need me to come get you? Just tell me where you are.”

“No. I’m . . . yeah, Scot, I’m okay. Just need to go.”

“Call me later.” Again, a demand. It should’ve ticked me off, but a warm glow suffused me. “And just so you know, you didn’t get me. The Wind Song slogan is ‘I can’t seem to forget you, your Wind Song stays on my mind.’”

With that bit of surprising information, delivered in more of a growl than anything else, he hung up. And I was left staring at the alien who’d taken over my mother’s body.

I replaced the phone in my purse and kept my focus on my mother. Her blue eyes shone with excitement and her cheeks were apple-blossom pink. “Hi, Mom,” I said carefully. “You seem . . . happy?”

“Oh, I am! Your father is bringing dinner in.” She saw the gifts I’d deposited on the coffee table. “Are these for me?”

“Yeah. Well, one is. The other . . .” I squinted my eyes. “Is Helen still employed here?”

“Yes! She’s working out marvelously!”

Wow. Kudos to Helen. I reached for the second gift I’d purchased. “This one is for a . . . friend. But the other is yours.”

“Wonderful! I love your gifts. They show what a great sense of humor you have.” Mom settled herself on the chair. “You weren’t waiting long, were you, darling?”

Darling.
Twice in the same conversation. And since when did my mother offer me a compliment? “Not too long. But I was worried.”

“Whatever for?” Surprise glimmered in her eyes. I couldn’t tell if she was honestly confused or if she was faking me out. Believe it or not, I kind of hoped for the latter.