The Wizard

by Karen Ranney

  If Breanna hadn’t changed her will he was now an extraordinarily wealthy man. He would trade every penny of it for his wife.

  He’d imagined thirty, forty, fifty years with Breanna. He’d never considered that they’d only have two.

  “Someone in the kitchen can make you up a plate, Derek. You haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  Since when had his father started monitoring his movements well enough to know what he’d eaten? When he said as much, Paul only shook his head.

  “They’ve got some great salami and those little wieners in barbecue sauce. Lots of cheese, too, including that stinky kind you like.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said, hoping his father would drop the subject.

  He was going to go upstairs to Breanna’s sunroom. There he would wait until it was time to go to bed so he could pretend to sleep.

  “I’m going upstairs. Have a good night, Dad. Let Mary know if you need anything.”

  “Nice lady, that Mary. You should hire her full time now that…” His words ground to a halt.

  Now that he was alone in this monstrosity of a house. Now that Breanna was dead.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “She’d be good for you,” his father said.

  Mary came to the Crow’s Next three times a week to act as housekeeper, purveyor, and superintendent of the maid service. They hadn’t needed her for more than that. They hadn’t wanted anyone else in their home.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said again, moving past his father and up the stairs.

  The staircase was one of the house’s main architectural features, curving up from the first floor and around the third in a sweeping display of wood and brass. The stairs were wide enough to allow a woman in full hoop regalia, according to Breanna. Their daughter wouldn’t be descending the steps on the way to her wedding held on the back lawn. There wouldn’t be any of the milestones he had thought about during the past two years. They hadn’t had children. They hadn’t wanted anyone but each other for now.

  Breanna’s sunroom was located at the end of the second floor, its position giving it a wall of windows facing west plus one facing south. Since the room was hot in the afternoons it had its own air conditioning system. Consequently, it was always a pleasant place to sit and view the line of trees beyond the side lawn and down to the lake. The house sat on fifteen acres, all of which was managed by a service that came once a week, even in the winter. They pruned, mowed, trimmed, and generally kept the property looking like something out of Architectural Horror Digest.

  Maybe he should sell the place. The idea would probably have merit in the future, but not right now. Not when he could see Breanna in each room, and could almost feel her presence as he walked down the hall.

  If he stopped and listened intently he could almost hear the echo of her words.

  “Honey, can you bring me my purse? It’s in the kitchen.”

  “Are you coming to bed, Derek? I promise, my feet aren’t cold.”

  “I brought you breakfast in bed, honey. I’ve decided that it should be Derek Appreciation Day.”

  The pain nearly felled him.

  He opened the door and stepped inside the room, closing the door behind him. The chair he chose was his usual place in this room. He stared at the spot where Breanna like to sit most days. She always had her tablet with her, scanning news articles, emails from friends, her to do list that she added to and checked off during the day.

  Sometimes, when he entered, she didn’t look up, but she wiggled her fingers at him, a sign that she was engrossed in something. As soon as she finished reading she would give him her undivided attention.

  He was guilty of doing the same thing when she walked into his study. They both had demanding careers which they equally loved, but not as much as they loved each other.

  How the hell was he going to make it from day-to-day? Breanna had changed his life. She’d fascinated, amused, enchanted, and impressed him. He’d loved her more than he thought himself capable of loving anyone.

  He could almost see her there, sprawled at one end of the comfortable slip covered couch. The green apple colored velvet was worn, but she didn’t want it replaced, claiming that she’d just broken it in. Her hair was loose over her shoulders. On the weekdays she couldn’t wait to remove her work clothing, always trading her suit for jeans and a loose top.

  At the funeral the casket had been closed, but he’d seen Breanna at the hospital, had touched her, and felt the cold stiffness of her skin. He stood there with his hand on her arm for the longest time before reaching out and touching her cheek, cupping his palm against it as if to warm her flesh.

  They’d covered her chest, where the worst of the injuries were. He hadn’t wanted to view the damage to her body, had only needed to see her to believe that she was dead. According to one of the doctors, she’d never stood a chance and had been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

  Today, however, his imagination pictured her in the red suit she’d been buried in, with the small platinum and diamond earrings she liked so much. She was smiling just as she’d smiled ten thousand times before only this time she wasn’t really there. She was a figment of his imagination, a translucent rendition of the original, conjured up from a grieving mind.

  His sleep deprivation plus his grief furnished a remarkably lifelike hallucination. She was almost real enough to touch.

  For long minutes he sat motionless. She folded her arms and tilted her head slightly in that way she had when they were discussing something serious. Like her insistence that he have not only the PSA but the physical exam for prostate problems.

  "You're over forty," she’d said. "I have no intention of losing you, especially when it's something they can discover early."

  What about car accidents? They’d never discussed car accidents.

  He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her perfume. He’d even imagined that. When he opened his eyes she was gone. Just gone. For a few seconds she’d seemed so real, but that was his mind wanting the impossible.

  How was he supposed to make it for the rest of his life without her? These past ten days he’d managed only because he was following a script, something given to him by culture, his father, and other people’s expectations. He’d arranged for the funeral, attended it without breaking down, had greeted her friends and co-workers with some equanimity. What was the blueprint for the rest of his life? How did he act from this point on? As if he wasn’t affected? Did he break down and sob when speaking of her? Right at the moment he didn’t think himself capable of even saying her name. It was too damn difficult.

  He was a widower, but even that label seemed insane. Only a few weeks ago they had been talking about going to the Bahamas for their vacation. Or traveling to India. Breanna had never visited the country and had always been curious about it. What did he do with the plans they’d made? What about the dental appointments, the doctor checkups, all the follow-up stuff Breanna had put on his phone?

  If he wished her back could he imagine her again? Could he fool himself enough? He’d never read of selective hallucinations or one that would come when called like a pet.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come to the sunroom. It had been one of Breanna’s favorite places in the house. The closest, she’d said, to an upstairs conservatory. He should stay away from her favorite places for a while. Maybe even check into the hotel he used in Austin when the legislature was in session. Anything to make this easier for him.

  Easier? Hell would have been easier.

  “He seems like he’s doing okay, but you can never tell with Derek. He never lets you know what he’s feeling.”

  Paul kept his eyes on the stairs. He didn’t want to be caught on the phone.

  “There’s nothing we need to do?” the voice asked.

  “No,” Paul said. “Not now. I’ll keep an eye on him for a few days, just to make sure everything’s okay.”

  “It would’ve been easier if she w
ould have just gone along with the plan.”

  Paul decided that it was wiser to keep silent about Breanna.

  “Just make sure we know if anything changes. Don’t let your affection for him blind you.”

  “I haven’t all these years, have I?”

  He hung up without saying anything else. If he got dinged for his rudeness, so be it. He was tired of having to report to youngsters who didn’t appreciate his loyalty. Nearly fifty years and he’d never put a foot wrong. He wasn’t about to start now.

  3

  His phone rang. Derek didn’t recognize the number although it was the San Antonio area code. For a second he was tempted to ignore it, but it might be Susan or the police in charge of Breanna’s accident.

  It wasn’t either of them.

  Instead, the voice on the phone was warm and feminine, sounding young yet with a depth of experience.

  “Derek?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Grace. Grace Colson.”

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Colson?”

  He wanted to hang up, but rudeness had been baked out of him by Angie’s life lessons.

  “I’m your mother, Derek.”

  He should have hung up immediately.

  "My mother died almost three years ago."

  "Angie McPherson didn’t give birth to you, Derek. I did."

  He stared straight ahead at the view of the man-made lake Lionel Adams had dug right after building the house. A small rowboat sat at the dock, bobbing with the waves created by the wind.

  "I'm sorry they didn't tell you you were adopted, Derek. I honestly thought they had."

  "They told me."

  She didn’t speak and the silence between them was awkward.

  "I never felt the need to look you up," he finally said.

  "Nor did I expect you to."

  "Then why are you calling me now, Ms. Colson?"

  Had she heard of Breanna’s fortune? The Herald hadn’t mentioned it, but the rival San Antonio paper had publicized Breanna’s wealth. Maybe his birth mother wanted a piece of the action.

  "Because I think you’re in danger, Derek,” she said, startling him.

  He debated for a millisecond about continuing the conversation, then realized that his birth mother was probably charitably labeled a nut. Tragedy brought out all kinds of people and evidently she’d emerged from under whatever rock had hidden her until now.

  "How did you get my number?"

  "That doesn't matter. What does matter is that you take precautions to protect yourself. Please."

  He hung up before she could say another word.

  Grace tucked the phone into her apron pocket and took the hallway to the back of the house, hesitating in front of an iron studded door. The ancient oak was four inches thick and had been transported to Texas from a castle in Scotland. Each time she opened the door she placed her hand flat against the wood, feeling the warmth of it. There was still life there and it pulsated against her palm.

  She bowed her head slightly, murmuring the words she always said each time she crossed this threshold. "Thank you for your gift to me."

  Half of the Great Room was devoted to relaxation. The other half was outfitted with a wide six foot long table at the back, and six sets of shelves filled with what she needed for her experiments. Her throne-like chair sat at the table. In front of it was a shallow hammered brass bowl. An apprentice had told her once that it reminded him of a paella pan and she’d never forgotten the description. The water, blessed by a priest with an expansive worldview, shimmered as she approached, almost as friendly as her dog and cat. Neither liked to be in this room when she was scrying, giving credence to her thought that animals, especially companion animals, had an ability to sense magic. They remained in other parts of the house until she was finished, then joined her on the far side of the room.

  There, two couches faced each other in front of the arched white brick fireplace. A large mahogany coffee table holding a collection of books and three cactus plants in terra cotta containers sat between them. Above the fireplace was a sixty inch television that had been mounted by Tom of Tom’s TV. Tom believed himself thoroughly adept in technology, electronics, politics, popular culture, and history. He’d even claimed to be a relative of Houdini, a topic that led him to discuss magic, of all things.

  "I don't believe in it myself," he said. "A bunch of foolishness, if you ask me. Whatever happened to church? Praying to God, not Satan."

  He had no idea who she was. She’d banished her tools until he was out of the house. Yet she simply couldn't let that comment stand.

  "A great many practitioners of magic attend church on a weekly basis. They also believe in God. They don’t pray to the devil."

  He'd had the effrontery to wink at her. "You and I don't know the same witches, then, honey."

  She’d given up after that. There were a great many fallacious ideas about witchcraft and magic out in the world. Magic wasn't a parlor trick. No one she knew sawed anyone in half or coaxed a bunny from a hat.

  Magic was a state of mind, a philosophy, a way of being. Yet some people, even those in NASACA, would never fully internalize the wonder that magic could bring. They would think of it only as a skill and not a mindset. Those were the saddest individuals she knew. Although they had been born to magic and therefore instantly accepted into NASACA, they would never truly and wholly embrace who and what they were.

  As she sat and placed her hands on the arms of the chair, staring down into the bowl of water she thought about her son. Her beloved Derek.

  The future wasn’t revealing itself to her as it always had. Instead, there was a veil across her vision, almost as if someone had spelled her. What she couldn’t see, however, disturbed her because she could feel it well enough. There were forces being arrayed against Derek, challenges that were about to face him and he was ill-equipped for them.

  What had she thought he would say?

  She hadn’t made an attempt to contact Derek for forty-one years. Even though she had followed his life closely, attending most of the important events that marked milestones in his life in person, she’d never stepped forward and introduced herself.

  Doing so today was probably a mistake, but she simply couldn’t sit by without making an effort to protect him.

  Things were happening. Events were being put into motion that she could not control. Derek was a threat to powerful people and yet he didn’t know it. He didn’t know who he was. Paul and Angie might’ve told him he was adopted, but the secret of his heritage was always to remain hidden. That rule would still have been enforced if Breanna hadn’t fallen in love with him.

  She shouldn’t have called him. It had been a foolish, impulsive, idiotic gesture. He’d hung up on her. No doubt he was angry. Or maybe he just thought she was some kind of fool.

  She might well be, but she was going to save her son.

  4

  Derek stood in front of Breanna’s medicine cabinet. He didn’t take drugs, even for sleep, but he knew that Breanna had from time to time, an over the counter pill or maybe even melatonin.

  Breanna’s mother had insisted, when Lionel built this house, on two bathrooms, his and hers. Here Breanna had been as neat as she was with the rest of her personal possessions. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find everything neatly categorized by purpose and then alphabetically. There wasn’t anything in the cabinet other than her toothbrush and toothpaste, a few topical ointments for muscle soreness, and some long term conditioner for her hair.

  He opened the drawers of the built-in vanity one by one. When he came to the last one he pulled out the stool and sat staring at the unopened pregnancy test.

  Don’t make this worse, God.

  Had Breanna been pregnant? Had she wondered if she was? They’d discussed children, but in the future. A not so distant future, a year or two away. He hadn’t used condoms, but she’d told him not to worry. She had it covered. Evidently not, if she’d bought a pregnancy test.
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  It was too late to worry about it now.

  He gave up his search for a sleeping pill and walked back into the master bedroom. In the sitting area, above the brick fireplace, was a portrait of the two of them, painted by a well-known artist from Dallas. He stared at it, remembering those sessions. It hadn’t seemed a hardship to sit there holding Breanna’s hand, encased in silence except for a quick smile from time to time. They could talk for hours, but they’d never feared silence.

  Instead of readying himself for bed he left the room, heading for the study and the leather couch that had served as his bed for the past week. He’d already moved his pillow in there and used the afghan as a blanket.

  The room was dark so he turned on the light, then went to the window to close the curtains, looking out at the twinkling skyline of San Antonio in the distance.

  The knock on the door frame startled him. He turned to find his father standing there, a small tray in his hand.

  “I made you a plate anyway,” Paul said. “Nothing worse than being hungry in the middle of the night.”

  Derek wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Besides, Paul was right. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and he couldn’t remember when he had yesterday, either. It seemed strange to care about eating when Breanna would never have another meal. She’d never talk about another ice cream flavor that she’d imagined. Ice cream was Breanna’s one weakness. She didn’t have a problem avoiding cookies or cakes, or anything sweet, but she could never pass up a pint of ice cream, especially rum raisin.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Paul entered the room and placed the tray on the edge of the desk facing the windows. Breanna had given him the desk, a smaller sized replica of the Resolute desk in the Oval Office, on their last anniversary.

  Derek made his way to the sideboard along the wall and opened the inlaid top, exposing the hidden bar.