God help me. I liked Scot Raymond. Liked liked him. Thinking-what-our-children-might-look-like liked him.
“Three days! One kiss! How?” I don’t know whom I was asking. Myself . . . fate . . . God? All three, perhaps. Grabbing a pillow, I squeezed it tight to my chest. In a lower voice, one of confusion and a solid dose of teenage-girl-type angst, I said, “Why? Why him and why now?”
Being alone and all, I didn’t expect a response. But the air stirred, and the faintest brush of a rose-scented breeze kissed my cheek.
My blood chilled. In the space of a heartbeat, I thought I knew what that scent and that breeze meant. Heck, Alice and Ethan had named their daughter after that flower. It was significant. Very much so.
“Who are you?” I whispered. “And why are you here?”
The aroma grew in strength, saturating the room, chilling my blood even more. I was right. I was sure of it. Let’s face it. If magic was real, then why not ghosts?
Chapter Eleven
“Verda? This is Julia Collins.” I said into the phone. “I need to talk to you as soon as possible. It’s about . . . um . . . the roses. Can you please call me back? Thanks.” I rattled off my cell number, clicked the “end” button, and dropped the phone on my desk.
Three freaking times I’d tried to call her already. Though this was the first message I’d left. I mean, come on, how was I supposed to leave a message about a rose-perfumed ghost without coming off as a lunatic? Exactly. I couldn’t.
I swallowed a groan. It was early Monday afternoon and I’d accomplished less than nothing. Between obsessing over the journal, Scot, ghosts, Scot, Jameson, and yeah, Scot, I’d been lucky to remember to brush my hair this morning.
The business line rang. Diane was already gone for the day, so I grabbed it. “Introductions, this is Julia.”
“Hi, Julia. It’s Jameson.” His voice was clipped. “I need to cancel our appointment this afternoon.”
A tingling sense of relief eased over me. “Oh. Is everything okay?”
“Just busy. A development with a client requires my immediate attention.” His voice dropped to a low rumble. “But I was thinking it might be best to hold off on becoming a client. I’d like to see you again.”
“Yes. Of course. We have your family’s—”
“Party,” Jameson filled in with a laugh. “But I want to see you before that. I really enjoyed the time we spent together yesterday.”
“Yes. Right! The zoo was lovely,” I managed to say. “Too bad we didn’t see any joeys!” Oh, dear God. I instructed myself to pull it together. Now. “I enjoyed myself too, Jameson.”
“How about dinner this week? Seeing how our lunch didn’t pan out all that well.”
Crap. I grabbed a paper clip and started untwisting.
“Dinner?” I coughed the word. Not on purpose, but I went with it. “I might be getting a cold. I’ll . . . ah . . . give you a call in a few days. Let you know how I’m feeling.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I heard a bunch of noise in the background. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, Julia. We’ll talk soon?”
I agreed and we hung up.
I continued twisting and untwisting my paper clip. He had not offered to bring me chicken soup. “Stop,” I hissed. “Stop comparing them. Just stop.”
Hell. I’d eventually say yes to another date. There wasn’t any reason not to. We were about as compatible as two people could be. But I hadn’t worked out how I felt about Jameson, and the weird sensation of being pulled along with the tide hadn’t disappeared. I felt as if our outcome was somehow a done deal. Marriage. Kids. Many uncomfortable functions with his family and mine—years and years and years of them. Piling up on one another until they meshed into a lifetime of . . .
Pressure tightened my throat, encased my chest. I breathed evenly to loosen everything up. Scot. Three boys. Relaxed family gatherings that were filled with humor and ease. A lifetime of . . . love?
“Stop!” I said again. But the image refused to leave, and that irritated me. “You don’t like him. You can’t like him. Even more to the point, he doesn’t like you.” I sighed and closed my eyes. I’d repeated the same assurances pretty much all of last night and today. Why weren’t they sticking?
Because I was an idiot, that’s why.
And where were all of my new clients? I’d had Diane make a slew of new client files this morning in preparation for the influx I’d wished for, but so far, nada. Even worse, I’d gotten Diane’s hopes up enough that she’d asked about full-time employment. If I couldn’t increase her hours and give her some benefits soon, she was going to leave. Or worse, I’d have to let her go.
Ugh. I needed to get off my sorry ass and get to work. I pulled up my client calendar. Mondays were check-in day for clients who’d had first dates over the weekend. It used to take several hours to handle this task. Lately, I was done in thirty minutes or less. I sighed again as I looked at more proof of my failure. Only three couples to phone.
I’d learned to contact the men first to find out if they were interested in another date. More often than not, women forgave perceived faults more easily. Oh, not all the time, for sure. But usually, a woman was more apt to give a second date a shot if the first date fell flat. Men mostly weren’t.
I skimmed through my choices. Good news would be nice. Out of the three couples, there was only one I felt sure was a great match. Darryl Ogden it was.
I punched in his number. When he answered, I said, “Hi, Darryl. This is Julia Collins from Introductions, just checking in to see how your date with”—I glanced at my monitor—“Zita Hildebrandt went on Saturday night. Is this a bad time?”
Darryl earned his living as a pediatrician. Zita was a social worker. Their compatibility score was in the low nineties. All of this gave me hope. Heck, all things considered, they might even be a better match than Jameson and I.
“You caught me at a great time,” Darryl said. “Done with patients for the day. And yes, to answer your question, Zita’s terrific.”
Yay! Maybe the day wouldn’t be a total bust, after all. “That’s wonderful news! How was the conversation? Did you two have plenty to talk about?”
“Absolutely,” Darryl enthused. “She listened to every word I said. She barely ate her dinner, she was so focused on our conversation.”
Years of experience tempered my excitement. Sure, this could be excellent. If Darryl’s interpretations of Zita’s behavior were correct. But Darryl’s opinion might not be Zita’s. Just because something looks and quacks like a duck doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a duck.
“Well, that certainly seems promising. Did you two do anything after dinner?”
“I took her to a play. I’m not a fan of stage performances, but Zita noted in her profile that she loves them,” Darryl said. “Before I drove her back to her car, we stopped for coffee.”
Easily a five-to-six-hour span of time. Good news. If Zita had been willing to do dinner, a play, and coffee, then everything looked excellent. I mentally patted myself on the back. “That all sounds lovely, Darryl. Can I assume you’re interested in seeing Zita again?”
“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Have you spoken with her yet?”
“I wanted to talk with you first.” I typed in Darryl’s comments about the date. “I’ll give her a call now, though, and will get back to you.”
We hung up and I dialed Zita’s number. When she answered, I went through my introductory spiel and then asked, “How are you feeling about Darryl?”
“Well . . . he’s a nice guy,” Zita said slowly. “Definitely nice.”
Uh-oh. My good vibe started to fade. “But?”
A loud sigh spilled through the phone line. “He . . . uh . . . There’s zero spark. It was completely flat between us. And he chews with his mouth open. It was uncomfortable to watch, but I couldn’t not watch. So I ended up staring at him all through dinner.”
Ugh. Her attentiveness wasn’t based on interest but on the gross-out fa
ctor. Lovely, right? Not ready to give up, I tried for a positive spin. “Hm. Maybe we can work on that. Darryl said he took you to a play? You love plays, don’t you? That was sweet of him!”
She sniffed. “The play was an adaptation of Gone with the Wind, except it wasn’t about the North and the South. Uh-uh. It was about aliens and vampires. And it was a musical. An alien vampire musical version of Gone with the Wind.”
“That might be interesting,” I said, spinning the positivity wheel harder. “If done properly.”
“You think? Because it wasn’t. And about halfway through there was full-body nudity. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. And Darryl watched the damn thing like it was Shakespeare or something.” I could just about visualize Zita shaking her head. “It was . . . odd. All very odd.”
“But you must have liked him a little? I mean, you went out for coffee—”
“He insisted. I’m not sure I could’ve said no. It was more like an order.” She lowered her tone to a deep growl. ‘“Buckle up. We’re going for coffee now, Zita.’” In her normal voice, she said, “And he didn’t seem to hear me when I told him I was tired. That it had been a long day and that I’d like to get home. Just drove us to this diner with single-minded determination.”
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 th
e 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.
By Magic Alone Page 17
