Daddy Warlock

by Jacqueline Diamond

  For now, he had to let her go. Bringing her back would test every ounce of his self-restraint, but he was going to do it fair and square.

  Chapter Nine

  Tara circled a classified ad on the paper spread across Denise’s kitchen table. It didn’t give a company name, just a post office box.

  “I’m getting to the point where I don’t trust anyone”, she admitted to her friend, who was stirring a pot of spaghetti. “How do I know Chance didn’t place this ad just to lure me back?”

  “It’s only been two days. He wouldn’t have had time to get it in the paper,” Denise pointed out, shoving a strand of red hair behind her ear.

  Tara glanced across the tiny kitchen to the living room, where Harry lay on the couch studying his favorite picture book. Had it really only been two days since she’d stalked out of Ma Maison, or Mi Casa, or whatever name the house had decided on?

  It seemed much longer. With Harry suspended from school, it was difficult to seek work. Her problem would be compounded by the fact that she had left her most recent job abruptly.

  Thank goodness for Denise. Otherwise, Tara didn’t know where she would have gone. But she couldn’t presume on her friend’s hospitality for too long.

  “If I haven’t found a job by the time Harry’s back in school, I’m going to apply to a temporary agency”, she said.

  “I’ve got a better idea.” Denise emptied a jar of spaghetti sauce into a microwave casserole. “Chance is rich, isn’t he? Sue him for child support.”

  Tara shuddered. “He said he wouldn’t seek custody, but if I sue him, he might change his mind.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t even want Harry to find out who his father is.”

  “If he had any honor, he’d send you money without being asked,” asserted her friend.

  “He did.” A check for several hundred dollars in severance pay had arrived by messenger that morning, with a note indicating that Chance’s lawyer would be drawing up a trust fund for Harry. “I don’t want to take it, though. It means maintaining a link with him.”

  Tara hadn’t even intended to reveal where she was going, but Vareena had insisted on getting the address in case any possessions were left behind. Knowing how children managed to lose toys under cushions and behind furniture, Tara had reluctantly agreed.

  She knew, of course, that sooner or later she would have to tell her son the truth. But the older he got, the firmer a grip he would have on reality, and the better able he would be to reject this nonsense about magic.

  From the refrigerator, Denise fetched a bag of salad mix and poured it into a bowl. “I’m not sure you can avoid contact. The way this guy believes in hocus-pocus, he’s probably trying to work a Vulcan mind-meld over the telephone lines. You really found yourself a doozy, kid.”

  In the living room, Harry let his book fall to the floor and sprawled across the sofa, his little face a picture of misery. “When are we going back to Chance’s house?” he whined. “I miss him, Mommy.”

  “’How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/ To have a thankless child!” Tara was surprised she recalled the line so clearly; she must have memorized it in high school. “Isn’t that Shakespeare?”

  “Beats me.” Denise poured the spaghetti into a strainer. Tara got up to set the table. “Hey, you did everything last night. It’s my turn!”

  “There’s two of us and one of you,” Tara pointed out. “The least I can do is set out the plates.” A sharp buzz at the door startled her. “Were you expecting anyone?”

  Setting the colander on the counter, Denise pointed her forefingers at her temples and made a high-pitched. “woo-woo” noise. “I’m getting a picture now. Someone is in the hall. It is either a man or a woman. He is short or she is fat. How am I doing?”

  Before Tara could answer, Harry flung the door open. After a brief, disappointed pause, she heard her son say, “Who’re you?”

  Please don’t let it be a lawyer, thought Tara as she hurried into the living room.

  To her astonishment, the woman standing there was Lois Powers, sleek and dressed for success in a navy linen suit and pin-striped blouse. “Hi! I’m not intruding, am I?”

  Tara’s first notion was that Chance had enlisted his cousin to try to win her back, but she dismissed that idea almost at once. He would have chosen Rajeev or Vareena, not someone allied with his father. “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

  The young woman stepped inside, her dark eyes flicking across the worn furniture and outdated carpet. The decor was a painful contrast to her own penthouse, Tara supposed, and wondered why she felt so defensive.

  “I dropped by Chance’s house, and Rajeev told me you’d left.” Lois flashed a smile that seemed a trifle forced. “When I told Raymond, he was curious to know what had happened. Although they don’t spend much time together, he’s always concerned about his son.”

  Warning alarms sounded in Tara’s brain. Most likely Lois intended to pump her for information about Chance’s business dealings and perhaps learn more about his supposed intuition.

  The danger was that Lois and Ray, who for some incomprehensible reason appeared to believe in magic, might find out that Harry was Chance’s son. If they did, what would they try to do with that information?

  “There’s nothing to be concerned about,” Tara said. “We didn’t work well together after all. I don’t mean to be inhospitable, Lois, but we were about to eat.”

  “You could join us,” piped Denise from the doorway. Tara wished that she’d briefed her friend better on the eccentricities of Chance’s relatives.

  She couldn’t avoid introducing the two women, and the next thing she knew they were all scrunched around the small table, downing their spaghetti and salad. Or rather, three of them ate with gusto while Lois picked at her food.

  “You’re Chance’s cousin?” Harry asked. “Can you do—”

  “Harry!” Tara didn’t dare allow her son to finish that sentence. “You haven’t touched your salad.”

  “It needs more dressing,” he protested.

  As Tara tapped out some more, Lois said, “Chance is a cool guy, isn’t he, Harry? Did he ever show you any tricks?”

  “He can make funny waves” in the pond, and one of the ducks kept ruffling its wings like he was tickling its bottom!” the boy said through a mouthful of spaghetti. “I can do it, too!”

  “You can?” Lois asked.

  “By throwing pebbles,” Tara interjected. “Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Mommy, I’m not supposed to tell lies.”

  “That’s exactly my point.”

  Making a face, her son began picking the shredded carrots out of his salad.

  To Tara’s relief, Denise launched into a description of a moisturizer that she swore would give Lois’s hair even more sheen. She also suggested a perm to add body, and soon the two were deep into a discussion of a new process for strengthening fingernails.

  Obviously, Denise had grasped the fact that Lois was as hooked as her cousin on the subject of mental powers. Being a beautician provided a convenient means of distracting their guest, for which Tara was grateful.

  As soon as he finished eating, Harry cleared his place and retreated to the bedroom to watch television. Tara felt herself relax for the first time since Lois had arrived.

  “I’ll drop by your salon and get some of that moisturizer,” the dark-haired woman promised as she set aside her napkin. “Now I’m afraid I’ve got to run. I’m glad to see you’re all right, Tara, although I suspect Chance didn’t treat you very well. He’s a selfish man, you know.”

  Denise accompanied them to the front door. “At least he’s going to set up a trust fund.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Tara tried to shoot her friend a warning look, but Denise didn’t notice. “Well, because of his being Harry’s—” She stopped, finally realizing she’d said too much.

  “Harry’s what?” Lois took in Denise’s dismay and Tara’s alarm. “Wait a minute. When Harry wa
s talking about making waves in the pond, he wasn’t kidding. He’s Chance’s kid, isn’t he? How did that happen?”

  “In the usual way.” This was getting messier by the minute.

  “I’ll bet you have a very unusual little boy there.” Lois glanced toward the bedroom. “Does he know he’s got a grandfather and a whole bunch of other relatives?”

  “He doesn’t even know he’s got a father, and you’re not going to tell him,” Tara growled. “I don’t want to be rude, Lois, but there are some matters that simply don’t concern you or Raymond Powers. My son belongs to me. Period.”

  “Well, of course.” Lois couldn’t repress a hint of smugness in her smile. “Denise, thanks so much for dinner and the beauty tips. I’ll be going now.”

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Tara collapsed on the sofa. “I’m sorry,” moaned Denise. “I didn’t realize it was so touchy.”

  “Just promise me you won’t let her anywhere near Harry when I’m not around.”

  Denise’s eyes narrowed as if she were facing an enemy. “I’ll chop her nails into nubs and dye her hair orange. But what would she do with him?”

  “I have no idea,” Tara admitted. “That whole family is crazy.”

  HALDEN OF THE FAR VISION hadn’t led a very happy life, Chance reflected as he snapped shut the aging volume. He was glad at least that the sad story had kept him distracted for part of an evening.

  It was Thursday night and Tara had been gone for two days. Two days and seven hours, to be exact.

  During that time, Chance had worked hard, giving his clients the concentration they deserved but afterward remembering nothing of what he’d done.

  He had rented two movies and watched neither. Sat in front of his new video game and failed to make heads or tails of the tumbling figures. Eaten a viciously spicy dish of Rajeev’s by mistake, and nearly had to undergo a stomach transplant.

  The one thing he would not do was to interfere with Tara’s life until enough time had passed for her anger to wane. Clearly, he would have to approach her with great care and restraint.

  What he wanted to do was drive over to Denise’s apartment and beg, demand, cajole and exhort Tara to forgive him. But to do so might inspire her to flee the area entirely.

  Chance’s attention returned to the book on his desk. Poor Halden had turned out to be a kind of Cassandra, able to foretell the future but unappreciated by those he advised.

  One nobleman, told that he would contract a disease if he didn’t stop taking mistresses, had tried to burn the man at the stake when the prophecy proved true. It hadn’t been much of a prophecy, really, Chance thought, since the likelihood of contracting a disease in those days must have been overwhelming.

  The leader of a rebellion, informed that he would lose both a battle and his head, went after Halden with a pickax. Only, the mysterious appearance of a lightning bolt had frightened the attacker away.

  Had Halden planted a hallucination in the rebel’s mind? The book didn’t say. It didn’t explain whether the prophecy about losing his head had come true, either.

  Frustrated, Chance strode from the tower, the book clamped under his arm. He’d skimmed the thing from back to front, but without dates or many recognizable place names, he had a hard time accepting it as anything more than a collection of myths.

  Yet if Valdemar and Ardath were imaginary, why had he experienced such a vivid memory of perishing in a fire? He reminded himself that even a stopped clock was right twice a day, so maybe the book had gotten a few things correct.

  In any event, he felt a strong urge to return it to Aunt Cynda. So strong an urge, he realized, that she must be summoning him. Couldn’t she just use the telephone once in a while?

  The evening was pleasant, the spring air crisp and touched with promise. Chance might have enjoyed the drive if his car hadn’t reminded him at least three times that it needed a tune-up.

  Aunt Cynda answered the door on the first knock. She regarded the book with a frown. “I didn’t send for you because I wanted this back. You can study it as long as you like.”

  Chance followed her into the cluttered room and set the book on a table. “I’m done with it”.

  “Men! Always impatient.” She settled onto a velour love seat

  “Does the reason you want to see me have anything to do with past lives?” He felt too restless to sit, so he leaned against a high-backed wing chair. “Or have you seen something in your crystal ball?”

  Aunt Cynda had tried for most of her life to predict the future, with unimpressive results. She certainly hadn’t inherited Halden’s far-seeing. But, Chance reflected, there was a first time for everything.

  “Past lives! Fortune-telling! Pooh!” she said. “My granddaughter was here this afternoon and I heard it right from her lips that you have a son. A son! Imagine! You didn’t even tell me! How am I supposed to keep the genealogical records up-to-date?”

  Chance stared at her. How could Lois know about Harry? “How did she find out?”

  “She said she went to see Tara and that girlfriend of hers mentioned something about a trust fund,” snapped his great-aunt. “How long did you plan to keep this a secret?”

  Tara had barely moved out of his house, and already she and Harry were in danger. Although he didn’t think his father would intentionally harm either of them, Ray was likely to act first and think later when he had a major business deal at stake.

  “Aunt Cynda, I didn’t want my father to know,” Chance said. “I wasn’t trying to keep it from you.”

  Understanding softened the elder lady’s face. “That does make sense. He hasn’t been good for Lois, and he won’t be good for your boy, either. Can’t you work your mind control on him, for goodness’ sake? Give the man some ethics!”

  It would have been a tempting thought had such a thing been possible. “I can’t change anybody permanently,” Chance said. “Besides, Ray’s got enough ability of his own that he’d be able to block me.”

  He began pacing, a difficult task in such a crowded apartment. Vases, magazine racks, umbrella stands and chair legs kept conspiring to bang his shins.

  “Well, get her back!” said Aunt Cynda. “Under your protection.”

  “She doesn’t even believe in magic. She certainly doesn’t believe in me,” he muttered.

  “Make her believe! You can do it, if anyone can. You’re the only one in the family with any real talent.”

  It went against Chance’s instincts to take a direct approach. He was as likely to antagonize Tara as to persuade her. But what choice did he have?

  TARA EMERGED from the dentist’s office onto a side street in Westwood to discover that it was raining.

  Los Angeles rarely got much rain after the middle of April, and it was now the beginning of May. Yet the drizzle was thickening into a downpour.

  The interview had been a mess, with the dentist trying to talk to her in between fitting a crown and filling a cavity. He wanted a receptionist with experience in the medical field, and despite the fact that Tara was more than qualified to make appointments and handle billing, he hadn’t seemed impressed.

  She had another interview scheduled a few blocks away in an hour. There was no time to go home for lunch, but she couldn’t justify paying the steep prices at one of the trendy eateries in this upscale area near U.C.L.A.

  With a sigh, Tara decided to duck into a restaurant nearby and nurse a cup of tea as long as possible. If she were lucky, the rain might let up before her next interview.

  Staring out the open door of the professional building, she watched passing students laugh as the rain soaked their long hair. Had she ever been that carefree?

  Having a child had changed everything. Not that she would trade Harry for all the freedom in the world, but Tara wished she didn’t always have to struggle so hard. And right now she wished she had an umbrella.

  Deciding she’d lurked in the entranceway long enough, she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Before more than a few drops coul
d pelt her hair, however, an umbrella appeared in her hand as if by magic.

  It didn’t exactly appear; rather, it floated there from across the street, or so it seemed to Tara. She’d only caught an impression of movement from the corner of her eye, and she knew that impression couldn’t be accurate.

  The umbrella was an attractive shade of dark blue, with an ivory handle. The construction was sturdy, and the panels already unfurled.

  If someone had thrown it toward her, it would have spun around and landed after only a few feet. Nor was there a strong wind that might have carried it in her direction.

  From beneath its protection, she peered about for the owner. She saw him at once, standing on the sidewalk opposite, in front of a bookshop.

  Chance Powers gave her a lopsided grin, mischief sparkling in his silver eyes. A gust of rain-laced wind ruffled his dark hair, but he didn’t appear to notice.

  He looked solid and safe, standing there in his camelhair raincoat and dark slacks. An impulse twitched at Tara, to cross the street and nestle into the shelter of those broad shoulders and strong arms.

  Behind him in the display window, she noticed posters advertising New Age books. The banner read Put A Little Magic In Your Life.

  It seemed the man had the power to conjure shop windows to suit his purpose, and to levitate umbrellas. She could almost believe the rain itself had been summoned at his command.

  What was she thinking? This wasn’t sorcery but trickery. Tara stared accusingly at the umbrella, but there were no strings attached. Not the literal kind, anyway.

  But Chance hadn’t stumbled into her path by accident. He was too busy a man to be wandering around Westwood in the middle of the day.

  He must have tracked her down, probably to try to talk her into letting him see Harry. Well, it wouldn’t work.

  As for the umbrella, she hadn’t figured out how he had transported it across the street, but if he didn’t find a similar means of snatching it back, she was going to keep it. Until the rain stopped, anyway.