Magic Spark

by Sara Dobie Bauer

  “Shit.” This wasn’t Café Adelaide and that wasn’t a woman who worked at the newsroom. I didn’t know if this was better or worse than what I’d hoped to find.

  Without thinking, I threw open the car door and stepped out. The light turned green, but I didn’t hurry, and car horns blared as I stood in traffic and stared at the canoodling couple.

  “Oh hell no!” I screamed, feeling every inch of my trailer park roots—roots that I’d worked so hard to bury—come to the surface. An anger burned in me so hot—so engulfing—that I thought I may combust right in the middle of downtown New Orleans traffic. I threw my hands into the air, middle fingers tall and proud, and spun in a slow circle shaking my arms. Leaving the door opened and the engine running, I walked to the table where the couple sat, their heads together and so deep in conversation that they hadn’t noticed my ruckus.

  I sidled up to the table. “Hey Brett!” I smiled so large that the corner of my lips twitched. “Who is your,” I paused and eyeballed the woman setting next to Brett—my Brett—from head to toe. “Who is your friend?”

  Brett jerked away from the table, like he’d leaned too close to a hot stove. “Cheyanne?”

  “Yes, honey. It’s me. I saw you and thought I’d stop to chat.”

  The woman—Brett’s lunch date—sat in silence, her eyes wide, brown saucers.

  “Lord, Cheyanne. Isn’t that your car over there? What is going on?”

  I hated the stiff, disapproving tone of Brett’s voice almost as much as I hated the way he was looking me—like I had lost my mind. His eyes, once upon a time kind and so deep that I could lose myself in them, were now cold and piercing. Shame was nowhere on his face.

  “Oh, that.” I waved a hand at the idling coup. “It’s fine.” I splayed my long, perfectly manicured fingers across the metal table and leaned down and peered into the face of the Brett’s date. The woman’s lipstick matched perfectly the color of her plunging v-neck dress.

  Her plunging, v-neck, burgundy dress.

  The woman leaned away. “I’m Sandra. With an “a,” not an “o.” I work with Brett at the realty office. I’ve heard so much about you.” The woman—Brett’s whore—had the nerve to offer me her hand.

  I stared down at the short fingers and tiny palm of the woman’s hand and snorted. “Really? Because I haven’t heard a thing about you.”

  I stood and turned back to Brett. “Really, Brett?” I’d secretly hoped the woman—Sandra—would be a troll, but no. With silky, chin length hair that was two shades darker than her bronzy, clear skin, she was a petite knock out.

  Brett frowned. “Cheyanne, I don’t know what is going on with you, but me and Sandra have work to do.” He gestured to the woman.

  “Uh-huh. I bet you do.”

  A cell phone rang from the woman—Sandra with an “a’s”—purse. “I’m going to take this and let you two, uh, do whatever this is you are doing.” She waved her index finger between Brett and me like she couldn’t fathom what was happening, then scooted from the table and took her phone into the restaurant.

  “Jesus, Cheyanne. What has gotten into you? Sandra is thinking of bringing me into her Prytania deal. That is a six million dollar listing.”

  “I bet she is thinking of ‘bringing you into her’ alright.”

  “What are you talking about? What has gotten into you?”

  “I think you know what has gotten into me. Why are you sleeping with this… this real estate whore?”

  “What? Cheyanne… I don’t have time for this. Just go. We will talk later.” Brett’s voice was tight, and his left eyebrow flinched.

  That twitchy eyebrow was Brett’s tell. It was the way I knew when he was planning surprises, or in this case, feeding me a load of bull.

  My heart fell from my chest and landed in my stomach with a queasy smack. “Brett… Brett I just… I love you so much, you know?” My voice felt tight, and my legs threatened to give way. “I just want you to stay with me. That’s all. Don’t leave me for some other woman.”

  “Cheyanne, you sound insane. Just go home. We will talk about everything later. I’m trying to work.”

  “But Brett, I—”

  “Go, Cheyanne.”

  “Fine,” I croaked. I turned and walked across the traffic, not bothering to wait for the signal. Cars screeched and a pedi-cab swerved to miss me. I turned back to the table where Brett sat just in time to see Sandra reclaim her seat. They both glanced in my direction and Sandra laughed as Brett ducked his head. I whispered, “Fine.”

  I hopped into my car, slammed the door and sped away, peeling my tires and running more than one red light.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Chapter Nine

  Maybe it was the scowl on my face. Maybe it was the pace of my steps. Or maybe the house could read my heart. Whatever the reason, the gate opened on my first attempt and I made it down the walk and into the house without incident.

  I walked to the kitchen and pulled open the door.

  “Oh hell. I do not have time for this!” On the other side of the doorway, where the kitchen should have been, was Granny’s bedroom. I slammed the door and reopened it to find the spare bathroom.

  “I swear to the Mother, when I open this door again it’d better be the kitchen or I am going to tear you apart board by board and use you for kindling!”

  I slammed the door so hard a nearby mirror rattled against the wall.

  The door creaked loudly as I yanked it open to reveal the kitchen. Relieved, I stomped through the kitchen to the back door, and onto the porch.

  The spikes of my heels dug into the earth of the backyard. I reached down, pulled them free and then chunked them toward the house.

  I crossed the yard to the spot where we’d implored the Mother and dropped to my knees at the exact moment thunder rolled overhead. I hunched forward and pushed the cold ashes to the side. The soot should still be warm… The thought was fleeting.

  As the first fat rain droplets made damp circles against the charred ground, I sank my fingers into the soil. Ashes collected under my fingernails and smeared black streaks over my hands.

  “Cheyanne! Cheyanne stop! It hasn’t sealed! It is dangerous. Cheyanne, no!” Bradley ran barefoot across the backyard.

  For a moment I wondered why she wasn’t in school, then dismissed the question—it wasn’t important.

  The only thing that was important was saving Brett—saving what we had.

  I dug until I found the jar and lifted if from its grave. With sure hands, I brushed the soil from the glass container and peered through the side.

  It was red. The shock of color almost made me drop the vessel. When we’d mixed the magic, the liquid had been dark brown with lumps of candle wax floating like tiny ships. Candle smoke, sealed into the container, had settled like fog over a sea, with the tiny amphibian heart buried beneath the waves like a sunken treasure chest.

  Now it was red and smooth. Like wine. No. Like blood.

  “Cheyanne please don’t do this.” Bradley’s voice wavered.

  I held the jar closer to my face. The thick red mixture rippled.

  I tucked the jar close. “Look Bradley. I couldn’t have cast the spell without you—but there is no time to wait. I saw him with her. He is going to leave me, Brad. This has to happen tonight.” Part of me worried that it was too late. That he wouldn’t come back to the house. But he’d said we would talk later—he’d said it like a threat. And even if he was planning on calling it quits, we shared the house. He’d have to return to divvy up his stuff.

  I’d make sure he never left. That he never wanted to. It was time to see if I had what it took to bare my family’s name. To see if the spell I cast carried the weight of true magic.

  “But the curse! It’s going to be worse if you don’t let the magic seal.”

  I stumbled to my feet, not bothering to wipe the ashes from my knees. “I don’t have a choice. He isn’t giving me a choice. It has to be tonight, don’t you see? I know
you and March are risking so much to help me—and that risk is for something good. It is for love. And love… love is pure, right? Isn’t that what Granny always said? There must always be balance? Blood for blood. A life for a life. Love for love? We ain’t killing anyone—it’s only for love, Brad!” I knew I was twisting Granny’s words. I knew it and didn’t care. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could have stopped me from taking the jar so I stood and walked past my sister. “The curse was sealed when we cast the magic. This changes nothing.” I spewed lies, knowing they dragged across my sister’s skin, cutting like talons. That she could feel every single untruth in every single word. That I wasn’t fooling her any more than I was fooling myself.

  But what choice did I have?

  What choice had Brett given me?

  I left Bradley standing in the yard as I crossed through the house.

  This time the house pulled no tricks. Every door lead exactly where it was supposed to, and the floor held my weight without so much as a squeak. The fence opened as I approached, but as I passed through the gate, a low whine filled the air. I stormed to my Audie just as March’s vintage beetle pulled to a stop next to me.

  “Cheyanne, what are you doing? What is in your hand? Is that the jar… Cheyanne, you can’t. You musn’t.”

  I took a deep breath and opened my car door. I looked into March’s round face. “I have to, March. If I don’t, then I am going to lose him.”

  “Please no.” March’s words were whispered, barely audible over the breeze that had picked up, whipping the branches of the oleander that grew down the sidewalk in neat rows, as it blew in fat clouds that I knew carried freezing rain, despite the hot, humid day.

  I looked away first and got in my car. I balanced the jar between my knees as I pulled away. I looked in my rearview mirror just as Bradley came through the gate and stood next to Marchland.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice,” I said.

  And it was the truth.

  Chapter Ten

  The glass jar clinked against the dark granite as I sat it on the kitchen counter. The red liquid sloshed inside, its consistency thicker than water, but not as heavy as corn syrup.

  I leaned over and again peered at the mixture. Why is it so red?

  Ripples vibrated through the potion making small waves that reminded me of skipping stones across Big Lake as a child when Granny would take me and my sisters to City Park.

  I picked the jar up and peered closer. The glass was cool in my hands—almost cold. I gave it a little shake and set it back down.

  The vibrations continued.

  Something was definitely moving in there.

  Marchland had said yesterday that the next step was making tea but how do you make tea with a liquid?

  I opened the cabinet and pulled out the diffuser and pitcher Brett’s aunt had given us as a house warming gift. I ran it under the tap water to wash away the dust, and set it next to the jar, then reached into another cabinet, this one under the stove, and pulled out a white kettle.

  And how in the hell am I going to get Brett to drink this? The thought made me gag.

  I wrapped my palms around the jar, and gripping the lid firmly, I twisted it open with a pop.

  I pulled a mixing bowl from another cabinet and dumped the contents of the jar into it.

  The herbs were gone. As was the wax. The thick, red liquid was completely smooth, save for a grape-sized lump that wriggled and shook the water.

  No way. I plucked up the lump and held it in my palm as it pulsed with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. I dropped the quivering organ back into the red soup, and grimaced as I wiped my hands on a dish towel, smearing it’s yellow fabric with red and black.

  The clock on the wall said I had plenty of time before Brett came home. If he came home.

  Now that I’d had time to think, stopping traffic and confronting him probably wasn’t the best move. But I was in the right! His eyebrow twitched. I didn’t imagine it—and that meant he was hiding something.

  I sighed and debated pouring a glass of wine. I squeezed my eyes shut. What has my life turned into? I am Cheyanne Murphey—the face of New Orleans weather. I don’t chase after a man. I don’t use spells to make someone love me.

  Except, I thought, apparently that is exactly what I do.

  I propped against the counter, the bowl sitting in front of me, and thought over the events of the past two days. Maybe I’d been looking at it all wrong—going in blind, led by emotion.

  Just like Mom. I sneered.

  No. I’m nothing like her.

  If I was going to convince Brett to stay, if I was going to get him to drink the spell, I needed a plan.

  I smiled wickedly as swirling ideas began to shape into something cohesive. Something doable. Burgundy Bitch may have been exciting because she was new—but there is something to be said for familiar. I knew exactly what he liked. How he liked it.

  I opened a drawer and pulled out a roll of aluminum foil. I covered the bowl, beating heart and all, and stuck it in the fridge.

  Then, with another glance at the clock, I walked to the bathroom to draw a bath.

  Rain was pelting the roof like bullets when I heard Brett come through the carport door.

  The lights were dim as I hid in the bedroom, wearing my favorite black lace bra and thong. It was the set that always drove Brett wild. He loved the way the outline of my nipples teased through the fabric. I’d scrubbed and plucked and waxed and moisturized, and I looked damn good for it, if I did say so myself. Everything was perfect—I’d made sure. Music played softly in the background, and I’d baked sugar cookies because I knew Brett loved the way they smelled. I’d even changed the sheets and ordered in his favorite meal from our Italian place in the city.

  There was no way he was going to be able to resist me. “Cheyanne? You here?” He called from the living room.

  That was my cue. I pasted on my biggest smile and strutted from the bedroom in my tallest set of screw-me-stilettos, holding a stemmed wine glass in each hand. “Hey sweetie.”

  Brett’s eyes opened wide, and then drew into wolfish slits. He stared at my chest and I knew I’d chosen the right bra. “Well, this is a nice surprise,” he said. His lips parted into a hungry smile.

  I teetered to the table and sat the glasses down, then walked back to stand in front of my fiancé. In my heels, I was almost at eye level and I pressed my body into his without saying a word. He shivered as I ran the sharp points of my nails up his stomach and then over his chest.

  Pressing my lips to his, I coaxed his mouth open with my tongue, drawing him into deep kiss, the kind that made time stand still. He wrapped his hands around my waist and dipped his fingers into the tiny dimples of my lower back, rubbing his thumbs over the indentions in slow circles. The sensation drew me closer to him, and I moved my lips from his mouth to his neck, to the space behind his ear that had always driven him mad. How long had it been since he’d touched me like this? A low moan built in the back of my throat, but I forced it down.

  Not yet. I couldn’t get swept away. I had a future to secure.

  I pulled away gently, and laced my fingers through his. Brett looked at me with a confused look.

  “Sit,” I instructed.

  Without question Brett fell into the plush leather couch and I straddled his hips. I draped my arms over him and buried my face in the crook of his neck and inhaled. Only him. I smelled only him. Relieved, I kissed his lips. Then his jaw. Then his ear.

  Brett rubbed my thighs, slowly working his way up until he hooked his thumbs through the top of my panties, and tugged playfully.

  I moved my kisses back to his neck, then whispered, my lips brushing against his ear lobes. “I’m going to make you forget all about that bitch from lunch.”

  Brett froze, dropping his hands to his sides. The heat that had been building in the room turned chilly. “Cheyanne, just stop.”

  “What? You’re mine. I wanted to remind you.” I tried to keep
the wound I felt from reaching my face. It was all I could do to keep it from my voice.

  “I appreciate what you are doing. I do, Cheyanne. But it’s too late.” His voice changed from hungry to as cold as it had been when I’d bombarded his lunch. He appreciates what I’m doing? I’ve given him years of my life and he appreciates what I’m doing?

  I bristled, but reminded myself that I had a plan to work. That he wasn’t himself—that someone, Sandra, had gotten to him. Before her we’d had plans to put down roots and grow a life together. We were going to be together.

  If I could keep my cool.

  “It’s not! Brett, It’s not too late!” I leaned down and planted hurried kisses down his neck—but without any heat they felt only wet, a smear of spit and lip gloss. Sticky—not sexy.

  Brett placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me away gently. “It is. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry, baby. I do care for you Cheyanne. I do.”

  He freaking cares for me? My resolve burst. My head swam. Anger and sadness and desperation mixed together to make something new and terrible. Something I’d never felt before.

  I used my index fingers to flick away the beginning of the tears that were determined to run down my cheeks.

  I stared into his face. “There is someone else. Tell me I’m not crazy. Tell me that this isn’t about me. Tell me that you know that lipstick wasn’t mine.”

  Brett looked away. “There isn’t one person in particular. You know things haven’t been right in a long time... I know you’ve felt it.”

  I scooted from Brett’s lap and hopped to my feet, stepping out of my ridiculously high heels. “I know no such thing!” Tears again blurred my eyes, mixing with mascara. This time I didn’t bother to try and stop them, and they ran like black rivers down my cheeks. “I know I love you. I don’t know why you can’t just love me too. Why you can’t stay with me, Brett. We can fix us! I know we can. If you stay, everything will go back to how it was in the beginning. You will see!”

  Brett pushed to his feet. “We are way past that. You don’t trust me. And honestly, you shouldn’t. I thought I could do this—but baby I can’t. This,” he gestured to the room. “This isn’t me. Seeing you today at lunch, it gave me a glimpse of what our future will be like if we stay together. I’ll only make you more miserable.”