Magic and the Modern Girl

by Mindy Klasky

  “I forgot to pull them together.”

  “You forgot?” My world was spinning out of order. Mountains were crashing into oceans. The sun was hurtling into the abyss. Every truth that I had ever known had just been dashed to smithereens on Cake Walk’s tiled floor. I barely managed to repeat, “You forgot to set five Conversational Topics?”

  “I guess I didn’t need them. I mean, I’ve known Rob forever. We could talk about real things—his work at the firm, the Arts Council, my work at the bakery.”

  “I don’t believe it,” I said. “You. The queen of Conversational Topics. Going cold turkey.”

  Melissa shrugged, and the motion seemed to trigger another sneeze.

  “Not again!” she said. “I must be coming down with a cold.” She turned to her stainless steel sink and soaped up her hands with the thoroughness of a surgeon going in for some lifesaving procedure. As she scrubbed beneath her fingernails, she blushed a spectacular shade of crimson.

  “What?” I asked, like any prying best friend.

  “Nothing.”

  “What!” I repeated.

  “It’s just that Rob had a cold. He said that he was almost over it, but…” Melissa giggled.

  My cool as a cucumber best friend giggled. Like a schoolgirl. Like a schoolgirl with a wicked crush.

  “You really like this guy, huh?” I couldn’t help but grin, myself, even as a corner of my mind still tried to figure out the best way to lay a snare for my wayward anima. What had drawn Ariel to the theater? Was it her namesake play? Or the actor who looked like David? What had I planted in whatever passed for her psyche, when I thought about The Tempest, about the Empower The Arts campaign at the precise moment that I summoned her to life?

  Melissa just looked down at her hand towel, suddenly bashful.

  I felt a rush of warmth for her. Even if this didn’t turn out to be the real thing, it beat her usual stream of dating disasters. “Well, let me see if I can do anything to help you with the cold.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a little magical potion.” I glanced around the bakery and bit my lip, trying to remember my herbal spell books. “Have you got any white water lily?”

  “Sure,” Melissa said airily. “I keep it right here in the fridge. Behind the snakeweed and the lotus pods.” She laughed at my grimace. “I run a bakery, Jane, not a greenhouse. Of course I don’t have any white water lily.”

  “Look, I’m just trying to help you,” I said. “If you don’t have any water lily, then we can probably work something with ginger.”

  “Ginger, I’ve got. But I can make ginger tea on my own.”

  “Do you know the right words to say over it, to make it really work?”

  “Um, with that tone in your voice, I’m guessing the answer is no.”

  “Get the ginger.”

  Melissa cast me a doubting glance, but she turned back to her cavernous refrigerator and excavated a gnarled root of ginger. It branched a half-dozen times, almost breaking itself into walnut-sized nodules. “Will this do?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “What comes next? ‘Get with child a mandrake root’?”

  “That depends,” I answered with a wicked grin. “Do you want to get rid of the cold that Rob gave you? Or do you want to snare him by having his baby?” I saw the nervous glance that Melissa cast on the ginger, and I laughed. “Come on,” I said. “I don’t even know any baby-making spells.”

  “You don’t know nothin’ about spellin’ no babies?” But there was a nervous quality to her laugh. She handed over the root.

  I hefted it in my hand, as if I were trying to estimate how much it would cost me, checking out at a magical grocery store. Closing my left fingers loosely around the ginger, I raised my right hand to touch my forehead, my throat and my heart. I exhaled each time, centering myself for my working. I shut my eyes and tried to remember the herbal spell book that I had studied, one of the first volumes in my collection that I had thoroughly committed to memory. After all, with a best friend like Melissa, with her herbal garden just outside her back door, I would have been a fool not to focus on such nearby riches.

  Still holding the image of the spell book in my mind, I took one more deep breath and started chanting in a low voice, keeping the words between Melissa, the ginger root and I.

  “Wild ginger, fire and earth—”

  Nothing. I felt a gaping hole of nothing. There should have been a tingle gathering in my fingertips, a frisson of energy threatening to spark and spill over into the knobby root.

  I cleared my throat and started again:

  “Wild ginger, fire and earth,

  Unveil power, show your worth—”

  Absolutely nothing. I felt as if I was reciting a nursery rhyme, a silly little poem that was never intended to have the faintest hint of arcane power and force. I could just as easily sing a rhyme from Sesame Street or mutter the words of a Christmas carol.

  Melissa, accustomed to my moods, accurately read disappointment on my face. “The magic thing still isn’t working?”

  “Not so much,” I said. I set down the ginger root, trying to act nonchalant. “This has never happened to me before.”

  “You know,” Melissa said, “you sound exactly like one of my first dates from last year.”

  I laughed along with her, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’d tried to work one of the simplest herbal spells I knew. If I couldn’t charm away a cold, how did I expect to catch up with my anima?

  And where else was that creature going to end up in D.C., before I managed to track her down?

  9

  I rested my forearms against the lectern in the Peabridge basement, watching the last of my lecture attendees leave the room. I was pleased with the crowd—they’d asked shrewd questions about the relationship between our colonial fathers and the Spanish adventurers who had controlled Florida at the time. I’d pulled together the lecture on a whim over the weekend, using my nervous energy about Ariel to replace a tired presentation on colonial economy. I’d alternated research with waiting for my phone to ring.

  Evelyn stood at the back of the room, chatting with Mr. Potter, one of the library’s trustees and our greatest benefactor. In fact, Mr. Potter’s generous donation had funded the cataloging project that had led to our finding the book on colonial gardens, the one that I’d been reading when Will startled me into spilling my coffee.

  Will…. I caught myself daydreaming about him for the thousandth time in the past three days. What had he thought when I stammered out my excuses, ducking out of our impromptu lunch date? Had he been so turned off by my pretended scatterbrained calendar-keeping that he’d vowed never to speak to me again? Since he hadn’t called over the weekend was it time for me to write him off altogether?

  “Jane!” Mr. Potter exclaimed, cutting short my reverie. “Excellent job! I never realized that the Spanish influence was so strong in the early colonies!”

  “Mr. Potter,” I said warmly. “May I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “Do you have any chocolate syrup to add?”

  “And whipped cream?” I smiled, knowing the answer before I’d even finished the question. Mr. Potter would have been content with a mug of whipped cream, a dash of chocolate and a spoon. Evelyn beamed as I escorted our favorite trustee upstairs.

  We indulged in small talk as I made the man his drink. I asked about Beijing, his shih tzu, and he asked about my various research projects. Then, he smiled. “Great news, isn’t it, about Sarah and George? Weddings are such happy times!” Mentally, I kicked myself. I’d somehow managed to forget all about Gran, about Uncle George’s proposal.

  Mr. Potter’s pleasure transported me back to brunch, to Gran’s announcement about her impending nuptials, and to Clara’s imminent departure. I truly had been neglectful—and my little anima disaster would only buy me so much forgiveness. I sternly told myself to phone both Gran and Clara that night.

  But I said to Mr. Potter, “I was so pleased when she
told me.”

  “We’re really going to miss her at the Autumn Gala.”

  “What about the Gala?” I had no idea what he was talking about. The Concert Opera event was the most important part of Gran’s social year. She’d even said that she was going to plan the wedding date around it.

  Mr. Potter shook his head. “Sarah realized she just couldn’t organize both things at once. With only two months till Halloween….”

  “Halloween?”

  “That’s the date they chose.” Mr. Potter obviously read my confusion. “I’m sure Sarah just forgot to tell you. She and George have decided to host a costume ball for their wedding, and Halloween just made sense.” Made sense to a lunatic, perhaps. A costume ball? Was Gran slipping into some sort of second childhood? Mr. Potter nodded as if every octogenarian wedding was a dress-up game. “It’ll be a lot of work getting everything ready. At least she has your friend to help her.”

  “My friend?” Melissa hadn’t said anything about helping Gran. And I would have thought that Melissa would mention something as basic as Gran setting a specific date for her wedding.

  “What’s his name?” Mr. Potter mused. “Neko?”

  “Neko is helping Gran plan the wedding?”

  That little bastard! He couldn’t be bothered to phone me back about Ariel running around the city, but he could help Gran pick out flower arrangements? I guess he had no use for me, now that my freezer was empty, my cupboards were bare and I could not bind him as his witch.

  Mr. Potter mistook my exclamation for concern about Gran. “I’m sure Sarah just didn’t want to worry you about the details. She told me that your friend has been charming, helping her pick out colors and everything.”

  “Picking out colors?” I asked, morbidly fascinated by the notion of my down-to-earth grandmother poring over fabric swatches. “What did she choose?”

  “Orange and silver.”

  “What!”

  Mr. Potter had to be teasing me. Neko would never aid and abet the pairing of orange and silver, not in a hundred years. Not in a thousand weddings.

  “I was surprised, too, especially when Sarah brought the samples to our last Opera Guild meeting, the night she handed over the account books. The orange is really quite, er, bright. But I know you’ll be lovely as the maid of honor.”

  “Maid of honor?” I asked automatically. What other secrets were floating around out there about the Wedding of the Century? But then it made perfect sense. Who else was Gran going to dress up in an orange-and-silver frou-frou dress? Clara would certainly stand up for her right to wear a normal outfit. Even if it meant that she had to light out for Sedona early.

  And maybe that wasn’t a half-bad idea. Flee the scene of the fashion crime.

  I glanced over Mr. Potter’s shoulder, half expecting to see Neko chortling in the doorway. This conversation was precisely his idea of a practical joke. No Neko, though. But there was another person standing there, someone who made my heart leap against my rib cage. “Will!” I exclaimed.

  My architect friend smiled and shrugged at the same time, as if to apologize for startling me. “Do you have another cup of coffee there?” He reached for his wallet.

  I looked at the dregs in the brewing carafe. “Um, let me make another pot,” I said, as I handed Mr. Potter his whipped cream-laden treat.

  Will glanced at the clock. “Don’t bother. It’s too late in the day. You’d end up tossing most of it.” I flashed him an appreciative smile. “Instead, why don’t you let me buy you dinner? It’s the least you can do, after that trustee meeting pulled you away from lunch on Friday.”

  “Trustee meeting?” Mr. Potter asked, and I could read the confusion on his face.

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “Last Friday. The emergency one? About funding the special exhibits downstairs? The one they called without any notice at all?” I could hear my voice ratcheting higher. “Mr. Potter, let me introduce one of the Peabridge’s newest patrons, Will Becker. Will’s an architect.” I turned back to Will, hoping that Mr. Potter would be so impressed by Will’s credentials that he would let the phantom trustee meeting drop. “Will, Mr. Potter is one of the library’s greatest benefactors, and a close personal friend of my grandmother.”

  I longed to reach out to Mr. Potter’s mind, to flick some magical switch in his memory so that he would accept my offhand introduction without questioning my lie about the trustee meeting. I didn’t have the power, though. And if my familiar was heading toward a second career as a wedding planner, I might never regain my ability….

  I almost collapsed against the coffee bar when Mr. Potter gave me the slightest wink and asked Will about his interest in colonial construction. The old guy came through yet again—an ally in my lonely-hearts battles, despite his utter ignorance about the never-ending complications of my love life. Before I knew it, Mr. Potter and Will were chatting like old friends.

  I glanced at the clock. My lecture had made the afternoon fly by; the question and answer session alone had eaten up nearly an hour. I sighed disconsolately, though, not wanting to take time to clean up the coffee bar. As if summoned by my disappointment, Kit materialized from the stacks. “My turn to shut things down, isn’t it?”

  I could have thrown my arms around her muslin-clad shoulders, but I settled for a grateful smile instead. “Thank you!”

  “At your service, madam,” she said, sweeping her tricorn hat off her braided head before she started to fill the little sink with soapy water.

  “Well, Jane, dear,” Mr. Potter said. “Beijing calls. I really must be going. Enjoy Don Lobos.”

  “Don Lobos?” I said, as if I’d never heard of the place before.

  “Er, I just thought…” Will started. “I just mentioned it to Mr. Potter…. That is…”

  Mr. Potter only winked at me again. “Have a wonderful time, both of you,” he said, and then he shook Will’s hand before heading to the door.

  “Don Lobos would be wonderful,” I said quickly, smiling after the dapper old meddler. And it would be. Melissa had certainly enjoyed her dinner there.

  I glanced at the clock. It was still only ten minutes to five. Ten minutes to freedom.

  “Go ahead,” Kit said.

  “Evelyn” was the only reply I needed to make.

  “She’s on a phone call with Colonial Williamsburg. She wants to get barrels from their cooper, to replace all our trash cans.” She rolled her eyes, even as she smiled. “It’ll take half an hour to sort out the delivery. I’ll cover for you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “There’s a pastry in it for you, tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Kit said. “Bribe me with baked goods. Just don’t torture me with one of those Blond Brunettes, whatever you do.”

  I laughed, knowing that the swirled butterscotch brownies were Kit’s favorite. I turned back to Will. “Let me just run back to the cottage and change. Give me five minutes?”

  “They’re yours,” he said with a smile. “I’ll meet you at the garden gate?”

  Even in ordinary street clothes, the September evening was warm, but the worst of the late summer humidity had baked away during the day. I settled for a pair of black jeans and a sleeveless turquoise blouse that Neko had given me as a birthday present the year before. He remained determined to diversify the portfolio of my black-on-black wardrobe. Who was I to complain? His taste was better than mine.

  And at least this garment wasn’t orange-and-silver. Orange? Was Neko playing some demented joke on Gran?

  I glanced at my answering machine as I closed the cottage door. Its red light glowed solid; there were no waiting messages. What had I done to be ignored so thoroughly by my familiar and my warder? Why weren’t they helping me with Ariel? Did they think it was my fault that I’d lost my powers, as if I’d left them behind on the subway?

  “What’s wrong?” Will asked, as I caught up to him at the gate.

  “Nothing,” I said, consciously wiping away the frown that had settled on my face. “
I was just thinking about some work I have to do.”

  “There’s always tomorrow for work.”

  “Spoken like a true hedonist,” I said.

  “Nope. Just a realist.” He held the gate for me, the perfect gentleman. “Is Don Lobos really okay? I just mentioned it to Mr. Potter in passing. We could go anywhere.”

  “Don Lobos is perfect,” I said.

  And it was. Taking a cue from my best friend’s sudden romantic success, I ordered the garlic shrimp, splitting it with Will. I embraced the cheese and onion enchiladas, not worrying about stringy cheddar ruining my date-ly grace or red sauce destroying my silk blouse. I savored sangria, fishing out a slice of orange without thinking that the red wine might discolor my fingertips, that I might look awkward as I poked at the festive drink.

  Throughout the entire meal, we talked. Will told me about growing up in Rockville, a Maryland suburb, about going to William and Mary for college, about falling in love with architecture. I told him about pursuing a master’s degree in English literature, only to realize that Shakespeare was never going to pay the rent, then discovering that library science and the Peabridge didn’t do a great job on the practicality front, either.

  He asked about Gran, and I told him about the upcoming wedding. I told him about Clara, as well, about her return to my life two years before, and her determination to leave me again. Somehow, when I was talking to him, the story was simple, truthful, not fraught with emotional peril. It was balanced by his tale of being a middle child with divorced and remarried parents—two older brothers, two younger sisters, all living in suburban harmony like a mini-Brady Bunch.

  Just before we dug our spoons into a shared caramel flan, I thought about Five Conversational Topics. No wonder Melissa had abandoned the notion when she went out with Rob. Who could ever need five scripted ideas, just to keep an evening’s chat going? Will and I could have talked forever about anything. In fact, we ordered coffee after we finished the flan. Both of us seemed eager to extend our rental of the Don Lobos table, to maximize our evening together. Everything was right. Everything was easy.