A Taste of Magic

by Tracy Madison

  “She should be out soon.” Nate nodded toward the hallway. I assumed he meant the bathroom. He wore another pair of sweats (red) and a T-shirt (black). No grape juice stain this time.

  “We must be talking in different languages. I have no idea who ‘she’ is.” I edged over by the table, taking cover behind a chair.

  He grinned, and my heart tumbled. “Your grandmother. She’s been hanging out with me until you got home.”

  Grandma Verda was here? I’d been searching for her for hours, and she’d been tucked up with Nate? Little spiders crawled across my skin at the thought of what she may have said to him. After all, with Grandma Verda, you really never knew. “How did she end up here?”

  “We walked in together. It’s cold in the hallway, so I invited her in.” Nate set the soda can down and stepped toward me. “Let me take your coat. Sit down. Relax. We can talk while we wait.”

  I slipped my coat off, switching the mail from one hand to the other while I did. Part of me thought it was chivalrous he’d saved my elderly grandmother from standing around in a breezy hallway. Another part of me wondered why she’d come into a stranger’s home. “That was nice of you. I’m just shocked she agreed.”

  The corners of his lips twitched. “Why?”

  “She doesn’t know you. You could be a madman.” I wasn’t really worried about that, but come on—Grandma Verda wouldn’t have known. I needed to give her the strangers talk.

  “Ah, you’re a worrywart. That’s kind of cute.” He reached over, his fingers brushed across mine as he took the mail out of my grasp. Setting the stack on the table, he said, “Sit down, Elizabeth.”

  “It’s not cute, it’s common sense,” I blurted, still recovering from his touch. “There are crazy people in this world. As a cop, you should know that.”

  “But your grandmother and I know each other. No reason to worry.”

  They knew each other? I wanted to ask him how, but I kept the question to myself. I’d ask Grandma Verda later. In private. “What’s taking her so long? You sure she’s okay?”

  “I’m swell. I’ve been eavesdropping. It’s one of the few perks of being old.” Grandma Verda waltzed into the room as if she were a queen—which isn’t easy in fluorescent sneakers, but she pulled it off. “Glad to see you, Lizzie. We were just talking about you.”

  “We should get going.” I wanted to get her to my place so I could question her about the birthday card. Then, what she said hit me full force. “Talking about me? What do you mean, talking about me?” I saw a twinkle dance into Nate’s eyes. The cop seemed to be enjoying my torment.

  A frisson of something passed between us. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, but it could have been attraction. Maybe. Or not. I was pretty clueless on that stuff.

  “Nothing to concern yourself over,” Grandma said, pulling the recliner up and out and leaning back. As if she planned on staying awhile.

  Not if I could help it.

  “She asked me if I was a lemon, an orange, or a pomegranate. But she didn’t tell me how I should know,” Nate said, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Or why it was important. Why don’t you explain it to me, Elizabeth?”

  My face flushed. I stayed behind the chair. “I don’t understand Grandma’s fruit versus men comparisons, either. So I wouldn’t be much help.”

  “It’s important to know before you start dating again,” Grandma said.

  I needed to get her out of there. Now. “I’m sure Nate has better things to do, Grandma.” I looked to Nate for confirmation.

  “Nope. You’re welcome to stay. I’m enjoying myself.”

  I frowned at him. “Don’t you have unpacking to do?” He couldn’t be completely done. I mean, there had to be boxes to be dealt with—somewhere.

  “Nope,” he said again. “All done.”

  “You moved in less than a week ago. You can’t be done.”

  “I am. I’m organized that way,” he teased.

  “Organization is a mighty fine trait in a man,” Grandma piped in.

  Nate nodded. “It is.”

  I was being double teamed.

  “Quit standing there with your mouth hanging open.” This came from Grandma Verda, who, honestly, appeared as comfortable as a cat on a sunny windowsill.

  I snapped my mouth shut. I wanted to learn how to flirt. And I wanted to flirt with Nate, but not with my grandmother in the room. “I’m going home. I’d like it if you came with me, Grandma, because I need to talk to you.”

  “Can I stay for dinner?” she asked.

  “Sure. What do you want?” Anything to get her out of that chair.

  “I don’t care. Nate, do you want to join us?”

  Had she just invited him to my place for dinner? My brain scanned the contents of my freezer. I thought there were a couple of frozen burritos left. I could feed him those and my decade-old wedding cake for dessert.

  Nate laughed but shook his head. “Thanks for the invite, Verda, but I work the late shift tonight. I should take a nap soon.”

  Okay, so he’d let me off the hook. Good. Except I was disappointed. So yeah, I guess I’d wanted to feed him a meal. Another time, perhaps. Without Grandma and when my questions were answered. Preferably before I committed any further culinary crimes.

  My mind went back to those muffins, and I relaxed slightly. After all, if they’d been magical, I’d have noticed something— wouldn’t I? Probably.

  But then Nate winked at me, and I felt it. Electricity. Attraction. Interest. Oh, hell. I stepped backward and bumped against the wall.

  “Maybe another time, Nate,” said Grandma Verda, pushing herself to her feet. “Be careful tonight. There are a lot of bad folks out there.”

  Nate opened the door. “I’ll be careful.” He raised a brow at me. (How did he do that? I couldn’t raise an eyebrow. I knew this because I’d tried.) “I even found someone trying to crawl through an apartment window the other night.”

  The brat. I grabbed my coat and mail. Scowling at him, I pulled Grandma’s sleeve. “Come on, Grandma, let’s go.”

  “I’m coming. What’s your hurry?” she complained. But at least she followed.

  “Thanks for taking care of my grandmother, Nate. I appreciate it,” I said. Grandma and I stepped into the hallway.

  “You’re welcome, Lizzie,” he replied.

  Ah, so he’d figured out one of my nicknames. Better that than any of the names my brothers used to call me.

  In my apartment, I deposited my stuff before making a quick meal of soup and sandwiches for me and Grandma. Afterward, we sat at my dining room table. I tried to think of how to ask about the possibility of my wreaking havoc with Marc’s sexual prowess on his honeymoon. Nothing I thought of sounded right. I mean, while it certainly had a cool factor, it was still just a little too out there for me to comprehend.

  But because I needed to understand, and because I knew deep inside that something had happened—was happening— I had to ask. “I want to talk about the birthday card you gave me.”

  Her blue eyes went opaque, and her gaze hit the wall behind me. “I don’t think so. I told you I wasn’t going to say anything more about it. At least, not yet.”

  “But you haven’t said anything at all.”

  “I said a lot. You just weren’t listening. Think about it, Lizzie-girl, and then trust your instincts. You’ll know the truth, and when you do... we can talk then.” She twisted her wedding band, a gesture I recognized as nervous ness.

  I weighed her words and decided to forge ahead. “Something has happened. And I think I do know the truth. But I need to hear it from you.”

  A tremble passed through her. She shifted her gaze so it rested on me. But she stayed quiet.

  “I think I did something that interfered—changed— someone. I’m not sure, though, which is why I need you to explain that card to me,” I said.

  “Tell me exactly what happened.” Her voice was soft but insistent.

  I crossed my arms. I knew my grandmother well enou
gh to know I’d have to act tough to get the information I wanted. “Not until you tell me everything.”

  Indecision played over her face. A current of energy passed between us. She wanted to tell me; the truth of that was in her eyes, in her expression. At that moment, I knew I wasn’t crazy.

  My arms shook, just a little, as I reached across the table to grasp her hand. “Come on, Grandma. Spill the beans. What did you do?”

  “You’re asking the wrong questions. It’s not what I did— it’s what you can do and why you can do it.” She pulled her hand out of mine. “I don’t know. When I told your mother, she didn’t take it very well. This time, I decided to take it slow. I really want it to work for you.”

  “My mother?” What did she have to do with this?

  “Do you promise to consider everything I say? And to not make any rash decisions?”

  “Yes. I can do that.”

  “Say it.” Her chin was set.

  I sighed. Semantics, you know? “Yes, Grandma. I promise I will think it through and not make any rash decisions.”

  She wagged a finger at me. “I’m going to hold you to that promise.” She waited a beat, probably to be sure her words had meaning to me, and then continued. “How much do you know about your great-great-great-grandmother? Her name was Miranda Ayres.”

  “I know nothing. You talked about her once, a long time ago, when I was little, but I don’t remember anything but her name. Why?”

  “It started with her. It’s because of her. So you need to understand who she was and what kind of woman she was before you can understand the answers to your questions.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Miranda’s family came from Romania, but she was born in this country. She was a gypsy. And I mean a real gypsy, Elizabeth. Complete with magic, curses, and trickery.”

  “Magic isn’t real,” I blurted.

  “You’re wrong. But you already know that, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  She had a point, even if I wasn’t ready to admit it. But come on—magic?

  “So, my great-great-great-grandmother was a gypsy. Go on.”

  “Miranda and her mother traveled with a large group of other gypsies. Some were blood family, others weren’t. It was a tough life back then. When Miranda was a teenager, her mother passed away. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but it left Miranda in a precarious situation. A lot of the other gypsies were envious of her—of her power.”

  “How old was she when her mother died?”

  “Sixteen or seventeen, I think. But she was young. Too young.”

  “Did she have any brothers or sisters?” My heart went out to the young girl who’d lived so many years before. I hoped she’d had someone on her side. Someone who loved her.

  “None. She was surrounded by people who should have been her family. Who should have protected her and watched out for her. Instead, she was alone.”

  “I know that feeling,” I mumbled.

  Grandma Verda frowned. “You have family and friends who want the best for you. You’ve felt alone, but you really aren’t. There’s a difference.”

  “I know. That’s not what I meant. I just . . . understand, I guess.”

  Her eyes remained on me, her expression both sad and thoughtful.

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “She did what any young woman would do. She met a man, and she fell in love.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?”

  Ignoring my question, she said, “For some reason, the other gypsies decided to stay in one place for a while, rather than moving on as quickly as they normally did. Maybe they recognized that something was happening with Miranda. Maybe they hoped she’d leave. We’ll probably never know. But Miranda took advantage of the opportunity and spent every minute she could with her new love.”

  At those words, something opened up inside of me. It was as if I could feel this woman’s happiness. Strands of hope, love, and joy wove through me. And, as strange as it was, it felt right. It felt real. And I felt a connection to Miranda that I’d never been aware of before but somehow realized had been there all along.

  Grandma seemed to notice, because she smiled. And in that smile, I saw the young woman she once was. Lines in her face softened, almost disappearing. Her faded blue eyes deepened in color to the rich hue of a ripened blueberry. Mischief sparkled, and her skin glowed with youth.

  I didn’t want to lose this picture of my grandmother, but when I blinked the vision vanished. The room was eerily silent. I wanted her to continue, to finish Miranda’s story, but I didn’t want to rush her, either. Finally, when the quiet didn’t seem as if it would ever end, I said, “What happened? Did she live happily ever after?”

  Grandma Verda’s lips curved downward. “What happened? She fell in love with the wrong man. He wasn’t a pomegranate, I can say that much for sure. She became pregnant, and her wishes and hopes were tied to the man who’d fathered her unborn baby. Only, when she told him, he rebuffed her. He was already married. She was nothing but a plaything.”

  My hands shook. I clenched my fists to make them stop. “What did she do?”

  “I’m not done. Later, the man returned with his wife. They wanted Miranda to stay with them until the child was born. And then, they wanted her to give the child to them.”

  As fast as a breath of air, Miranda’s agony became mine. It grew inside of me until I could hardly bear it. This mysterious woman I’d never met, whom I’d known nothing about before that night, somehow became intertwined with me. Anger, fear, and loneliness flashed inside of me so fast that, when it passed, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

  “Don’t cry. This was a long time ago.”

  I wiped the dampness from my cheeks. Did it matter how long ago it was? I mean, pain is pain. It felt as real today as it must have felt for Miranda then. “She didn’t give in, did she?”

  “Of course not! What she did was talk the gypsies into moving on, and she went with them.”

  An almost overpowering scent of roses saturated the room. I breathed it in, and if I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn I was standing in a rose garden. The music from the show The Twilight Zone echoed in my ears. Kind of apropos, really, considering the circumstances. “Grandma? Can you smell that?”

  Little lines crinkled around her eyes in confusion. “Smell what?”

  “Flowers. Roses, I think.”

  A tiny smile. “No, I don’t smell that. But the fact you do tells me you’re ready for this. That you’re the right one for the gift. My mother talked about smelling flowers, but I never have. I don’t know what it means.”

  Seriously strange, but I could almost see velvety red roses stretching their petals to the sun. The scent was so intoxicating. I set it aside, for now. I wanted to hear the rest of Miranda’s story. “Finish, please.”

  Grandma Verda closed her eyes, her soft voice weaving around me. “Miranda kept to herself throughout the early months of her pregnancy. One night, in a temper, she decided to use her powers to curse the father of her child. But before she did, she felt her baby kick for the first time.” Opening her eyes, Grandma clasped my hand. “In the flutter of that soft, sweet kick, Miranda’s sixth sense told her she was carrying a daughter. Your great-great-grandmother. My grandmother. And so she didn’t.”

  “She should have cursed him.” I scowled. “I would have.”

  Grandma regarded me silently for a moment, but then she said, “Maybe so. Maybe Miranda would have if she hadn’t felt her daughter at that instant. But, if she had, it may have cursed us all, as we have as much of his blood in our veins as we have of hers.”

  “Good point,” I realized.

  “What she did instead was cast a spell in the form of a gift. This gift has been handed down daughter to daughter, and now it’s your turn. It’s only skipped one generation, and that was your mother.”

  “Why did it skip her?”

  “I passed it to Isobel when she was your age.
I don’t know what happened, but it didn’t take hold. I got it back.” Grandma tipped her head, eyes on me. “I think because she doesn’t believe in magic. Even as a child, your mother had no affinity for anything make-believe. Even the Tooth Fairy was nonsense to her at an age when she should have been pure enchantment. Too much of your grandfather in her. Practical to the core.”

  Reaching over, she stroked my cheek. My face warmed at her touch. “Open your heart, Lizzie. You are the descendent of a powerful gypsy. I gave you Miranda’s gift on your birthday. It’s your turn now. You have magic at your fingertips!”

  “How does it work?”

  “Well. It’s different for each of us. But simply speaking, it’s all about wishes. My magic has always been in my writing, which is how I passed the gift on to you—through your birthday card.”

  Ah. The glowing writing. I hadn’t imagined it.

  “And my grandmother was an artist, just like Alice, and that’s where her magic came through. What about you?”

  If what my grandmother was saying was true, I knew how my magic manifested. Seeing as I baked for a living, this could pose a rather large problem for me in my day-to-day life. I thought again of Marc and the honeymoon wish. “Fuck,” I whispered.

  “Lizzie! Watch your language.”

  “Oh, sorry Grandma.” My mind flipped through the conversation we’d just had, trying to find holes and gaps. Anything to put my worry to rest. I couldn’t have really done that to Marc, could I?

  “You said something happened. What was it?” Grandma asked.

  I conjured up the scene at A Taste of Magic and whispered, “I was baking Marc’s wedding cake. I was upset.” Everything I’d experienced came back at me. The anger, the hurt. My whispered wish. I’d never thought in a million years I would share that moment with anyone, let alone with my grandmother. “And, well, I wished he wouldn’t be able to have sex on his honeymoon.” I rushed the words out, not sure how she would take it.