by Deanna Chase
Jason shook the offered hand, but he looked at me in confusion. He blinked hard, and I was reminded of a child waking up from a too-long nap. He started three different questions before he settled on, “What just happened here?”
I worked a spell in front of you. Just a little something I’ve been working on in my spare time. Witchcraft, you know. It’s all the rage in library circles these days.
I sighed and said, “I don’t know. It must have taken longer for the blanket to smother the fire than I thought it would.”
“But you stood there.” Jason pointed to the spot that Neko and I had occupied. “I watched you. You read from that book, and the fire went out.”
“I must have panicked.” The explanation sounded lame, even to me. “While I was waiting for the blanket to work. I’d been reading about the fire spell before you got here; my subconscious must have grabbed at straws.”
“Something happened when you read those words. I couldn’t see clearly; it was like there was some silvery curtain or something. But the fire died down.”
“Silvery curtain?” I looked at Neko, desperate for help, but he only gave an elaborate shrug. “It must have been something in the blanket. Some strange chemical reaction when it came in contact with the flames.”
Jason shook his head, but he didn’t really have an option, other than to accept my explanation. After all, it wasn’t like any ordinary, every day, red-blooded male was going to believe in magic. He let himself become distracted enough to nod toward Neko. “And where did he come from?”
“Downstairs?” I said, and realized that it sounded like I was asking a question. “Downstairs,” I repeated firmly.
“With your cat?”
“Um, there is no cat. There’s only Neko.”
“Only!” Neko repeated, and he sounded scandalized.
“Well, Neko and Roger,” I amended, gesturing toward the sculpted stylist, who was now fully clothed. “Neko’s my, um, tenant. He lives in the basement. Roger is his friend.”
“And you said you had a cat because?”
Because I didn’t want you distracted by the thought of the passionate man-man love being made one floor below us, I thought. I didn’t say that, though. I just sort of shrugged. Roger stepped forward and saved the day. “So, that old blanket trick really works? I thought it was just something they told you about in Scouts.”
And when had he ever been a Scout? Nevertheless, I could have kissed the man, deflecting attention like that. “Apparently so.”
There was a knock at my door.
I should have expected it. By the time I crossed into the living room, I knew who would be there. Not the fire department, dispatched to save the day. Not Dan Savage, ready to research another exciting Savage Love sexual advice column with the plethora of men in my kitchen.
“David!” I said, as my warder swept into my living room. I tried to make it sound like I was surprised to see him, even as I worked to convey a hidden message, a mental telegraph. I wanted to tell him to get out of my house and let me get my dream date back on track. I settled for the more direct use of speech: “I was just about to finish cooking dinner for my guest.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” David said, barely playing along enough to sound civil. He strode directly into my kitchen.
I took a deep breath and began the unavoidable introductions. “David, I don’t think that you’ve met Roger, Neko’s friend.” The men exchanged somewhat wary handshakes. “And this is Jason Templeton.” I sighed and gestured toward my Imaginary Boyfriend. “Jason, this is David Montrose. He’s the, um, mentor I mentioned earlier. The one who is guiding my independent study.”
Jason glanced at Elemental Magick as he offered his hand. The book now looked perfectly harmless, resting on the countertop where Neko had placed it after our fire-dowsing. “David,” he said, offering his hand.
“Professor.” David shook, but his voice was flat. It barely warmed when he turned to me. “Jane, we need to talk.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.”
“Look,” I said, and I must have recovered from the shock of everything, because I could feel anger shortening my breath. “This has not been my dream night, okay? First, I almost burned the pear tart because the oven runs hot. Then, I came close to poisoning Jason with peanut soup. As you can see, the oven caught fire while I was preheating the broiler. I do not have time to talk to you, David. Not tonight.”
If I had not known better, I would have said that a smile tugged at David’s lips as I cataloged my catastrophes. He managed to sound sincere, though, when he said, “There are just a couple of details that we need to work out. Tonight. There are some problems that have come up with your…independent study, and I would hate for the administration to get involved.” As if to emphasize his words, he laid a protective hand on my elbow.
Jason stepped forward, glancing at that hand, and then at my face. “Look, Jane. Maybe I should head home.”
I shrugged off David’s grasp in annoyance. “But we haven’t eaten!”
Neko looked at the lamb chops on the counter. “I wouldn’t trust the oven,” he said helpfully. “But I’ve heard that lamb tartare is considered a delicacy in some parts of the world.”
Jason looked repulsed, either by the notion of eating raw lamb, or the thought of spending another minute with me. “You probably should get someone to check that oven. We’ll do this again, though. Sometime soon.”
“But I baked a pear tart!”
Jason glanced at it with barely masked horror, as if he believed it might fly from the countertop and attempt to choke him. “And I’m sure it’s wonderful. Look, you can bring it into the library tomorrow. I’m sure you could sell slices to go with lattes. It would give a real colonial feel to the library.”
“Jason—” By now, he had edged around David and made his way past Neko and Roger. His hand settled on the door latch. I crossed the living room, trying to pretend like I was the perfect hostess, like this sort of thing happened all the time, and didn’t we all just love the quirkiness of it?
“Thanks for everything, Jane. The… Well, the glass of wine was great.”
“Yeah,” I said, miserable. “Thank you for the flowers.”
I resisted the urge to look at the trampled blossoms, spread across my kitchen floor. I’d like to think that Jason would have kissed me goodnight if we hadn’t had a full audience watching from the kitchen, but somehow, I don’t think he would have. I closed the door and leaned my head against it. One deep breath was not enough. Nor two. Nor three.
I was going to have to face them all some time. I steeled myself and turned around.
David was just slipping his wallet into his back pocket, and Neko was palming several bills. “Right,” my familiar whispered, but I think that he intended me to hear. “Roger and I will have a ‘late supper’. At Bistro Bis. On Capitol Hill.” He winked and put his hand on Roger’s shoulder.
They slipped past me, closing the door quietly behind them. I came to stand beside David, surveying the wreckage in my kitchen. “Well,” he finally said. “At least you weren’t frivolous about using your magic this time.”
“I’d pretty much run out of other options.” Even though I was exhausted, even though I was embarrassed, even though I wanted to sob about the mess I’d made of my perfect date, I somehow found myself smiling.
The entire thing was absurd. Magic on a first date. My gay familiar making loud thumps from the downstairs. My culinary talents stretched to their maximum extension.
At least I didn’t have to pretend for the rest of the night. David already knew I wasn’t perfect. He already knew that I wasn’t the ideal girlfriend. He already knew that I made mistakes—and plenty of them. I could relax around him.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you out to dinner. We’ll get something safe. Something cooked in someone else’s kitchen.”
I started to pro
test, but then I looked around. My kitchen looked as if the Battle of Agincourt had been fought across its tiled floor. The mess from making dinner had sifted into the debris from extinguishing the fire. I should clean it up as best I could and then tumble into bed.
Before I could say anything, though, I realized that I was exhausted. The adrenaline from working my spell had pumped away, and I was left with a bone-weariness that could only be partially ascribed to ruining my date with Jason. I looked into David’s guileless face, recognized his offer for the kindness that it was. “Thank you,” I said. “I’d like that. Very much.”
Chapter 16
The next day, I conferred with Melissa, and she suggested that I bring the pear tart to Gran’s apartment. It’s a good thing that she remembered my social calendar—I had completely forgotten that I was supposed to help Gran with a little party she was hosting for the concert opera guild board of directors.
A soiree, she called it. They were putting the finishing touches on plans for their Harvest Gala, their biggest fund-raising event of the year. With only two weeks left until the fete, there wasn’t much to be done, but the board members enjoyed each other’s company, and Gran never passed up a chance to use her fine china.
A gathering of operaphiles was not my first choice for a Friday night date, particularly since I was still exhausted from the night before. David had rewarded my hard work by taking me to Paparazzi, a late-night Italian restaurant down by the canal. The waiter had rolled his eyes at my order of baked ravioli, but he had conceded that the kitchen was still open despite the relatively late hour. I had not even realized that the pasta came with mozzarella cheese—stringy, baked mozzarella cheese—until after I ordered, but I decided to take my chances. After all, this wasn’t a first date, so Melissa’s food rules did not apply.
David and I had talked until they threw us out of the place, at nearly one in the morning. We’d avoided witchcraft and Jason Templeton, managing to fill in a couple of hours of light conversation about favorite foods, treasured childhood books, and dream vacations.
My late night activities had made for a long day at the office—a day made longer by the arrival of a thin envelope from one of the foundations I had queried about grants. That envelope contained a parsimonious half-sheet of paper with a form letter that had been photocopied so many times the words were scarcely legible. I made out the message, though. The Peabridge could not expect any funding from the Institute of Library Preservation.
Oh well. There were more fish in that sea. Twelve more, in fact. I tried not to let myself get depressed. After all, Eleanor didn’t know that I was trying to track down grants. I didn’t need to admit my failure to her.
By the time evening rolled around, I resorted to a Starbucks latte with an extra shot of espresso just to keep awake. No, I don’t drink coffee. But lattes are medicinal.
Especially when I hadn’t seen my grandmother since I’d run out on her at the Four Seasons. At least we’d spoken on the phone several times in the past few days.
Ostensibly, I was invited to this meeting as the Voice of Youth. (I could hear a chamberlain introducing me at the Gala: “Miss Jane Madison. The Voice of Youth.” Smattering of applause as I swept into the ballroom wearing a stunning gown and tiara.) The entire board wanted my opinion about what “You Young People” thought about the Harvest Gala. Apparently We Young People all think alike, act alike, and donate to charities alike.
Would You Young People mind paying for your drinks at a cash bar? (Yes, and we’d be more inclined to donate if we felt indebted to the Guild for our liquor.) Was it sufficient to have wine and soft drinks, or was the hard stuff mandatory for You Young People? (Not mandatory, but “spirits” would loosen a lot of wallets.) Should the dress code be strictly black tie, or would that frighten off You Young People? (They should label it black tie; people would wear what they had in their closets.)
I’m not sure why I got to make all the decisions, but it made Gran happy for me to help out. Besides, where else was I going to get such excellent counseling on my love life?
“Wonderful to see you,” Uncle George said, kissing my cheek after I let myself in the front door. “Doesn’t that tart look delicious! And homemade? That’s where you’ve gone wrong, Jane dear. You should advertise your baking skills more. They will help you find a good man.”
If he only knew how my cooking had worked the night before. Or that Melissa was still frustratedly single, despite being a baker extraordinaire. He only meant well, though. “Thanks, Uncle George.”
“Your grandmother is in the kitchen.”
I thanked him again and threaded my way through the gathering in the living room—a dozen opera fans whose average age was higher than the freeway speed limit. What did it matter, the advice that I gave at these meetings? Concert opera just did not attract young listeners; I could not think of a single person my age who went.
In fact, with a few exceptions—Bugs Bunny cartoons or the Marriage of Figaro scene from The Shawshank Redemption—I could not think of any opera that was familiar to my peers. Certainly none that would make them fork over thousands of dollars to support the arts.
I sighed. If I could find a few enthusiastic opera lovers, I might be able to identify someone to help support the Peabridge. I’d been upset enough about the morning’s rejection letter that I’d crumpled it and tossed it into my wastebasket. That led poor besotted Harold to hurry across the lobby and ask me if anything was wrong with the way he’d delivered my mail. It had taken nearly half an hour to reassure him, although I think that part of that time he was dragging his feet, purposely staying on to have a few more minutes to bask in the glory of my presence. Yeah. Right.
And I need hardly add that Jason had not shown up at the library that afternoon. Not that he ever did on Fridays, but still. He could have called. To make sure that I was all right. That I hadn’t burned down anything else.
“Jane, dear! Why so glum?” Gran looked up from the counter, where she was pouring coffee into a monstrous silver pot.
“Nothing, Gran.” I brushed a kiss against her cheek, noticing how flushed she was in the close heat of the kitchen. “Let me take care of that.”
“What a beautiful tart! To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The greatest disaster of my dating life, I thought of saying. That would only worry her, though. “I had the pears sitting around, and I thought you’d enjoy the treat.”
“How sweet of you!” Gran nodded toward a pink cardboard box. “You’ll put my store-bought cookies to shame.”
Her cookies were shameful, but not because she bought them in a store. If she’d stopped by Cake Walk, for example, she could have had any number of toothsome treats. Instead, Gran insisted on buying from the Watergate Bakery. The name was prestigious, but the sweets hadn’t been updated since Nixon was a boy—there were plenty of pink lady-fingers and a passel of green leaf-shaped cookies, all of which crumbled into dusty remnants when you picked them up.
Gran and I made small talk as I sat down on the floor, reaching back into the deep cabinets to retrieve her china cups and saucers, along with the dessert plates that were her pride and joy. She had polished her silver earlier in the day; the dessert forks gleamed on the countertop.
When everything was ready to be carried into the other room, Gran laid a hand on my arm. “I’m so sorry, dear. I heard that things did not go well when you met your mother.”
For one brief moment, I thought that Melissa must have phoned Gran, must have filled her in on the unhappy reunion. I quickly realized, though, that Clara had done the dirty work herself. She’d probably called my grandmother straightaway, reporting on all of my perceived shortcomings.
“Yeah, well….” I shrugged and tried to figure out an explanation. Not an excuse, mind you. I didn’t have anything to excuse. Just a reason why things had not gone as Gran had hoped.
“Your mother felt just terrible, dear. She worried that she’d put too much pressure on you, that she overw
helmed you with too much information all at once.”
I shrugged again, feeling like a teenager who had lost the last vestige ability to communicate with her elders. If I weren’t careful, I was going to be reduced to a vocabulary consisting entirely of exasperated sighs, eye rolls, and deep grunts. I made myself say, “I think that too much time has gone by, Gran. If we were ever going to find a way to talk to each other, it had to be years ago.”
Gran’s lips thinned into a greyish line. “We’re never so old that we don’t need people who love us.”
“Gran, that woman doesn’t love me! She doesn’t even know me! At most, she loves the idea of me, a perfect little girl that she tragically lost so many years ago.”
My grandmother shook her head. “I don’t expect you to understand, Jane. You’ve never had children, so you don’t know what it’s like.” That’s right. Let’s turn this conversation into a referendum on my floundering love life and nonexistent children. Gran went on, though, obviously unaware of how much her words bothered me. “You can’t imagine how it feels, Jane. A mother is always connected to her children. She always feels the bond that once fed them, nourished them, kept them safe and sound—”
Gran would have gone on (was she really waxing eloquent about the umbilical cord, or was there something else she was getting at?) but she started coughing. She made a terrible noise, deep and wheezing, as if her lungs were melting inside her chest.
“Gran!” I said, throwing an arm around her waist to support her. She felt so frail, so tiny. For one terrible moment, I realized that my grandmother was old. Not old as in she-liked-opera. But old. Old as in she-was-going-to-die-some-day. Old.
Her face turned crimson with the exertion of her coughing, and she turned away from me. I didn’t know whether she was trying to hide her weakness or just keep her face away from the counter, the cups, and the food. The motion, though, only served to make her look more vulnerable.
I grabbed a glass and filled it with water, but she waved me away. By then, she was able to snag great shuddering breaths in between coughs. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but I wasn’t sure if she was crying from emotion or physical effort.
