But I wasn’t ready to go back into the house and face the latest crisis. So I tried something different. I held the wand over the herb beds with my left hand, leaving my dominant right to pinch off a leaf of this, a branch of that.
Nothing.
I switched hands. The wand began to vibrate on its own, moving from plant to plant. I obeyed. This spurtle, oatmeal stirrer, knew what I wanted better than I did. Mostly, it wanted peppers. Cayenne and chili. A little horseradish and some lemongrass.
What was I building?
When the spurtle settled down and let me look at my gathered treasures, I gasped.
Dried and ground together, I had the makings of a caustic powder. If it touched a person’s eyes, it would . . . burn like hellfire and temporarily blind.
I might be only a kitchen witch, but I had my own weapons. Time to dig out the old cast iron cookware. Heavy and unwieldy, but magnificent bludgeons.
I patted the wand to thank it. It quivered and shrank a bit, as if learning to look unobtrusive when not in use. I think Granny’s love helped it bond to me. Raising my face toward the sky, I whispered “Thank you,” to her as well.
A comfortable warmth settled around my shoulders. Maybe she’d joined the ghosts of G’s grandparents in the house. Or maybe just the greenhouse.
With new confidence I returned to the house and my girls. If I wanted club teachers to attend the new meetings at my house, I presumed I had to convince them they were only coming over for coffee and coffee cake. That I could do in my sleep.
Opening night, and you’d think Jason had the lead role instead of understudy to the second lead. He also had all those character roles with the corps de ballet. Still, it was his first year as a full member of the company and not just a group dance with other students. He had to get a haircut that day. He spent an hour trimming, filing, and buffing his fingernails. When he wasn’t doing anything else that Friday afternoon, he climbed the stairs to the attic and practiced.
I was afraid he’d wear himself out and not be able to perform up to snuff. By the time G ushered him into the car to go to the theater, I was more than ready to have him out of the house. G was getting around more easily, having ditched the crutches in favor of a cane and the knee brace. But he shouldn’t drive yet and couldn’t climb stairs.
As he adjusted his blue-and-silver tie, my heart flipped over for a moment. I had to admit that he was a most handsome man. A man whom many women would go out of their way to attract his attention.
A niggle of jealousy set my stomach to fluttering.
I squashed it fiercely. He’d tarnished his handsomeness with lies, manipulation, and cheating. The minute he could manage stairs, he was outta here.
Gayla came over to escort the girls to the ballet. They had to be there for their brother. Besides, G wasn’t about to leave them alone without at least one magician in attendance while D’Accore and Mooney still hovered about town. And Gayla insisted I needed to go on my big date with Ted alone. No adolescent girls in attendance.
“He is one of the most eligible bachelors in town,” she insisted.
“I don’t know that much about him,” I said shyly. I did know that he made me laugh and we had a lot in common, both of us having children in the ballet. He liked to garden and admired my greenhouse. He was handy with minor repairs. And he was nice. Not sizzling hot like G. Just easy on the eyes and nice. Comfortable.
I could trust that any feelings between us were natural, not magic manipulation.
“He hasn’t dated much since he lost his wife ten years ago,” Gayla said. “I guess he’s been so wrapped up in taking care of Tiffany that he hasn’t made the time to meet single women. Until you came along.”
Yeah, there was that.
“Now is the time for the little black dress, Sweet Pea,” Gayla said emphatically, grabbing a pair of black dressy slacks out of my hand.
“You’re wearing slacks with a sequined top and look very nice,” I protested.
“But my date is two little girls who are easily impressed. Yours is one hot man. You’ve got competition you need to beat aside.”
“But . . . I’ve worn that dress before.” Like on my wedding anniversary when I kicked G out of my house and my life. But he was still there. “And my glittery top is new.”
“Never mind that. Lacking a shopping trip to Nordstrom’s in the mall, that’s the only dress you have that is appropriate,” she insisted, replacing the slacks in the closet. She came back out with the LBD. “And that ruby pendant your grandmother left you.”
“You’re right, of course.” The few jewels G had given me over the years were his family heirlooms. Now that the divorce was final, I felt like I should give them back or put them in the safety deposit box for the girls when they grew up.
“The black, slingback heels, if you please,” Gayla insisted when I reached for some plain black flats.
“You want me to trip and fall on my nose in front of my date?” I wasn’t up to calling him a boyfriend yet.
“A great excuse to cling to his arm for support. But you are not going to take that ugly wooden spurtle with you! It may be your magic wand, but it destroys the look of that dress.”
I wondered where I’d stash it. It had learned to shrink a little bit, not enough. The LBD didn’t have pockets and my evening purse was about six inches long on a slender golden chain. I wouldn’t go without my wand. One day without a wand had taught me how incomplete, how vulnerable, I felt without it.
“Garter!” Gayla proclaimed.
“Huh?”
She dashed down the stairs and came back with a swath of elastic and ribbons and wide insertion lace. Heaven only knows why I bought that spool of lace. I’d never used it. But it came in a grab bag with a bunch of other, more useful, brocade trims that were now on Jason’s costume tunic.
In about five minutes we’d cobbled together a decorative garter of white lace, red ribbon, and elastic loose enough to let my blood circulate, but tight enough to keep the spurtle on my thigh. The flared skirt of the dress floated over it nicely, obscuring it from notice.
Wardrobe complete, I descended by the back stairs into the kitchen. A few words sent Gayla to help the girls collect coats, tidy their hair, and give their party dresses one last fluff. I used those two minutes of solitude to place a vial of pepper powder in my purse. Just a little one. Not enough to do any real damage. But it would slow down anyone who approached me with menace.
Cinderella was going to the ball prepared for the wicked witch. And all the ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night.
Ted cleaned up very nicely. His dark charcoal suit looked off the rack. G would never succumb to such a thing. He went custom made all the way. But Ted looked good, if a little uncomfortable in a dress shirt and an orange-and-black tie with jack-o’-lanterns and ghosts decorating it. He could pull off the hint of seasonal costuming. G couldn’t. And wouldn’t.
A smile lit Ted’s face when he caught sight of me. I preened, just a little, and let him help me into my good wool coat. I felt like I was back in high school going to the prom.
“Tiffany got a call this afternoon from the ballet company in St. Louis,” he said as he drove Tiffany’s little sedan toward the old theater just west of campus. Excitement tinged his voice. But there was also a hesitation.
I wondered if this was his way of telling me that our relationship had no future because he was moving out of town.
“Is that phone call from St. Louis a good thing?”
“Could be. Based on her résumé and outstanding audition last August, they offered her a position as a demi-soloist.”
“That’s kind of a step down from prima in her hometown,” I replied, thinking through the layers of seniority in a company.
“Yeah, but she’s only eligible to dance with this company while she’s still in school. Halfway thro
ugh her junior year, time is limited in Eugene. She’s had offers from some really big companies in New York, Atlanta, and Houston. All they can offer is a one-year slot as an apprentice. She’d have to fight and claw for every role along with dozens of other equally competent and experienced dancers. Then, at the end of the year, they have the option of not renewing the contract. No guarantees. St. Louis is offering a three-year contract two steps above apprentice, and the option for promotion to full soloist after only one year.”
“Sounds like a decent offer. Will . . . will you go with her?” I felt like I needed to hear the “yeah, but” right off rather than get my hopes up with him.
“No. My business is here. My home is here.”
He looked over at me, implying but not saying that I was here. I warmed all over.
“But I will probably be racking up a big bunch of frequent flyer miles. Letting her go off on her own is hard. We’ve been very close for ten years.”
“If she accepts, when would she leave?”
“First of the year, but we’ll probably fly out for a week or so next month to line up living space, check out public transportation, that sort of thing.”
“I’ve never been to St. Louis, so I can’t offer any helpful hints. I wish you both luck.”
“Her in her career and me adjusting to life alone.” He sounded sad. “I guess this is something every parent has to endure, wanting our children to grow up as responsible adults, and make lives of their own. And yet dreading the moment when they find their wings and don’t need us anymore. Realizing we can’t always protect them.”
Shock knotted in my belly for a moment. That’s what my parents had gone through. They fought for tight control of my life not to hurt me, but to protect me from a big bad world they neither understood nor trusted.
Then the tension eased. Maybe I’d actually call them this year and not just send them a holiday card and commercial shortbread—which they loved but wasn’t up to my standard. It shipped better, too.
“So when will Jason start auditioning for New York?” Ted’s voice sounded lighter.
“He’s only fifteen, and just breaking into the company.”
“The perfect time for him to start getting his face and form recognized by the big companies. Now is the time for him to transition. By the time he graduates high school, he’ll have worked through the apprentice and corps stages and be ready to launch into soloist positions. He’ll be two years ahead of Tiffany rather than five years behind.”
“I’m not sure he’s ready for that. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
There was also the whole magic thing. He needed a lot more training at home from G before we let him out in the world.
“Tell Tiffany for me that I’ll pack up several pounds of ointment and soaking salts for her to take with her.”
“She’ll appreciate that. Did you know that most of the jars of the salts you packaged for the bake sale went to other dancers? You could market that worldwide to dance companies just to keep expensive dancers on their feet.”
“But . . . every package is unique. I have to talk to the dancer and see their feet to know what to put in each batch.”
“You could be a very rich woman if you moved to New York,” he replied hesitantly.
“Not likely. My home and business and family are here.” I left unsaid, but implied, that he was here, too.
He hadn’t mentioned refinishing the attic floor and the pentagram all night.
Thirty-Two
FORTY-FIVE MINUTES BEFORE CURTAIN, the parking lot at the theater was full and street parking limited. Ted and I decided to walk two blocks, holding hands with shoulders brushing. We fell into a comfortable matching stride without thought.
“Back when Tiffany was about eight, very early in her years of ballet classes, the teacher brought in a live pianist for the first time. Up until then she’d used CDs designed for a classical lesson plan. The young man was a music major at the college and probably needed the pittance the teacher paid him.”
“Tall, skinny guy with bad skin and glasses that slid down his nose? Spoke with a stutter? Maybe seventeen?” Ted nodded at my description. “I think Jason had him for classes when he first started. He was amazingly talented and showed signs of growing out of his acne and into his glasses.”
“That’s him. Anyway, he was a prodigy and hadn’t quite grasped the concept of maintaining a steady rhythm throughout the entire exercise. He wanted to ‘point’ the music with odd emphasis. I’m sure it sounded wonderful. But Tiffany knew better. She still knows better and reminds me anytime I use a juice glass for my toothbrush.”
“Of course. She’s right,” I commented with a smile. I’d heard this story before. It had become legend among ballet students. But I needed to let him tell it.
“Tiffany was executing piqué turns, perfectly of course, when he changed something in the music. She marched over to the upright piano and rapped his knuckles with the teacher’s baton. He turned on her, expecting the tall and statuesque teacher, ready to rip her up one side and down the other. Instead he confronted a four-foot-tall blonde demon. She told him that if he disrupted her performance again, she’d fire him. Then she marched back to her starting position and waited for him to recover enough to play the music on a strict 4/4 tempo, so she could turn fifteen times in a row, ending with a perfect double and a curtsy.”
“I can just picture her. Nothing comes between Tiffany and her performance.” We laughed together.
A high-pitched cackling laugh joined us. I stopped in place, hand reaching for my wand as chills invaded my entire body.
“That does not sound normal,” Ted whispered, also alert. Then he pointed toward the theater back door, across a full square block of parking lot.
“Hurry,” a woman said, not caring about quiet. “We have to do this while all the dancers are still backstage. I will send smoke from our fire to trigger the alarms. The dancers will evacuate through this door. In the confusion you will grab the boy. But do not damage him, especially around his eyes. I need his eyes intact.”
A whiff of sour smoke followed her words.
D’Accore. And she was after my boy.
Jason! I needed to warn him.
I needed to stop this wicked witch.
Sparks rose into the night sky a few feet away from the building. By their flickering illumination I caught the outline of one figure standing and three more crouched close to the building. A woman and three males.
No sign of John Mooney who still had his ankle encased in an air cast.
I fished for my phone in my tiny evening purse.
Ted’s hand on my arm stilled my action. “No time. Got your wand?” he whispered. “G’s in no shape to tackle her. And Mooney may be in the far shadows, directing by remote control.”
I nodded, as alarmed by his blurted words as the figures and the smell of smoke. I froze in place, then inched forward, my hands held away from my body, forcing myself not to twitch with any indication of where on my body I’d hidden the wand.
My left hand clutched the vial of caustic powder. I thumbed it open.
“Please, Daffy. I’m one of the good guys. G is my boss.”
I raised my eyebrows in question, still not indicating where my wand was or that I trusted him.
“What is your talent and why haven’t you revealed yourself before?”
“I’m impervious to magic. It bounces off me or passes through me without effect. I have no talent to cast outward. But my neutrality is now a recognized talent of sorts. So I’m the one G calls when he needs a crime scene cleaned. Any residual magic has no effect on me and I’m good at fixing and rebuilding quickly. I’m his janitor! And I know what you did to G. You’re a transformer.”
My wand began vibrating against my thigh. It telegraphed a sense of trust. And urgency.
Smoke thickened ar
ound me. If D’Accore did indeed use her smoke in place of her eyes, then she had spotted us. The malodorous haze did not move on. Instead, it concentrated on us, twisting and twirling in two separate spirals, moving closer. Choking the breath out of me.
“Quickly, use your wand. Transform it into something else!” Ted exclaimed.
Without thinking, I pulled up my skirt, exposing a lot more leg than necessary, and retrieved my wooden spurtle. Ted glanced appreciatively but didn’t allow the sight of my stockinged flesh and my garter to distract him for long. He moved between me and the source of the smoke.
Sure enough the cloud hit his chest and returned to its originator.
What could I do? Give me flour and sugar, butter and eggs, and I’d give you cookies.
Give me the chaos of emotions after the Chamberses invaded Shara’s birthday, and I came up with party plans. I took the chaos of vandalized costumes and props and I threw a successful bake sale.
Smoke was dirty air. I twisted the spoon in a counterclockwise circle around the edges of the cloud trying to invade me. Like the flour and sugar that had sparkled in the air of my kitchen when my talent first manifested, I gathered the particulates into a solid clump. Then I closed my fist symbolically and hurled the metaphoric lump of ash like a softball, westward, toward the river.
Distantly, I heard a splash.
The woman in the back-door tableau screamed and clapped her hands over her eyes.
The three crouched figures fell back on their butts, staring at the teepee of kindling and split log campfire.
Sparks were transforming the pile into flames and ash. Not good.
Ted moved forward. I followed, keeping him in front of me like a fire-resistant wall. “I’m making this up as I go along,” I whispered to him.
“Most magicians do,” he chuckled. “You’ve blinded her. If you can neutralize the fire, I’ll . . . I don’t know. Do something to make the boys run.”
He sounded as bewildered as I was. I handed him the vial of caustic powder. One sniff and he knew what it was.
A Spoonful of Magic Page 24
