by Ann Macela
“I’ll think about that one,” Francie replied. Date somebody else? How could she? The pain flared but subsided when she shook her head at the idea.
“If I have to come over here in the morning and dress you for work, I will,” Tamara remonstrated.
“Okay, okay.” Francie held up her hands in surrender. “I’ll wear ‘real’ clothes, but I reserve judgment on the other.”
Tamara looked at her watch. “Oh, my gosh. I have to go. I have to help my saleswomen close the shop.” She rose and when Francie did also, gave her a hug. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. Remember your promise. Maybe I’ll find a couple of guys we can go out with this weekend.”
“Oh, no, I’m not ready for that. Not yet.” Francie held her friend at arm’s length. “Don’t tell me you have your eye on a new man already!”
Tamara grinned. “Lieutenant Childress was sorta cute. I wonder if he’s married. He wasn’t wearing a ring.”
And he’s Clay’s friend, Francie thought, but didn’t say. She simply turned Tamara toward the door. “Go take care of your shop. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After Tamara left, Francie closed the door and leaned against it. Explaining to Tamara had gone better than she expected, better than she had a right to ask for. Her best friend was still that—her best friend. She could stop worrying about betraying Tamara. The police had Kevin. The nightmare was almost over.
The doorbell rang, and the sound jerked her upright and around. She looked out the peephole. Good Lord. What were the gamesters doing here? She opened the door, and Jim, Linda, and Rick walked into her apartment.
“Hey, y’all. What’s up?” she asked as the trio made themselves at home on the sofa and chairs.
“Are you all right?” was the first thing out of Linda’s mouth.
“Of course,” Francie answered blithely—or so she hoped—as she sat on a chair. “Why?”
“Because you don’t look so good, kind of pale, and your eyes are red.”
“No, I’m fine,” Francie replied. “It’s been a hard week. Can I get any of you something to drink?”
“Nothing for us. We’re on our way to dinner,” Jim stated after a good long study of Francie. “I’ve been doing some thinking about marketing Conundrum, and I decided I’d better talk to Clay before going any further. Would it be okay to call him, do you think? Do you have his number?”
At the sound of Clay’s name, a sharp pain, much stronger than the one that hit her when Tamara was there, took her breath, but she covered her sudden bending over with a cough.
Rick reached over to pat her back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Francie nodded and breathed deeply. “Yes, something just went down the wrong way,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll get you his number.” She rose and walked into the kitchen where she wrote his number on her notepad, tore off the page, and brought it back into the living room.
“Here it is,” she said, handing the paper to Jim. “Uh, I need to tell you—Clay and I have broken up.”
“Oh, no,” Linda groaned.
“What happened?” Jim and Rick said in unison.
“Did he hurt you?” Jim asked angrily. “If he hurt you, Francie . . .”
“Oh, honey,” Linda rose and came to give Francie a hug.
The friendship expressed in the hug caused Francie’s eyes to well up, and she blinked back tears as she stepped out of Linda’s embrace. With sheer willpower, she stopped the sorrow and emptiness cascading through her. Damn. Where was her self-control?
“No, no, y’all. It was a mutual decision.” What had she told Tamara? Oh, yes. She repeated her former prevarication. “We just didn’t suit, didn’t fit, couldn’t agree on some basic levels at the end. It’s probably better this way, to find out before getting in too deep. You don’t need to worry, really, and it’s still okay to give him a call. He’s a man of his word. If he said he’d help with the financing, he’ll follow through. You can trust him, no matter what the situation is between him and me.”
Jim looked distinctly skeptical, Rick was confused, and Linda wore a distressed expression, but her friends rallied around her. “Come with us, why don’t you?” Linda asked and the guys agreed.
With some difficulty, Francie managed to turn down the invitation and persuade them to leave without her. She didn’t think she had convinced them of anything about the “breakup,” but at least she thought Jim would call Clay to discuss the game.
Her own words rang in her head as she slumped—again—against the door after the trio left. She was so exhausted. She pushed herself off the door, walked into the kitchen, and dug a package of chicken-noodle soup out of the cupboard. Hot comfort food was about all she could handle for supper.
As she ate the soup, an idea began to form in her mind. What she needed was some rest, time to come to terms with the situation, preferably away from there. She had plenty of vacation time accrued. She’d go to work tomorrow and ask Herb for the next week off. She could visit her parents, or maybe just go to Galveston and walk Seawall Boulevard. Someplace where she wouldn’t run into Clay.
Clay. Her heart gave the tiniest of jumps, and her mind replayed what she had told Tamara and the gamesters.
She hadn’t lied. She and Clay didn’t suit. They couldn’t agree on some very basic levels. Like the existence of magic.
She couldn’t figure it out. How could Clay, an honest, trustworthy, intelligent man in every respect, believe in such a thing?
In her bones, she knew he was a man of honor and integrity. That being true, why on earth did the man think he could cast spells and cause machines to do his bidding? That he was, in fact, in actual, provable fact, literally a computer wizard? That this ancient imperative not only existed, but was causing them pain because they weren’t together?
He couldn’t be telling the truth about all that, could he?
She’d told the others that they could trust him.
Why couldn’t she?
In counterpoint to her thoughts, her breastbone began throbbing again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Damn it! He’d told Francie the truth—about practitioners, soul mates, and himself. And look at where it got him. Why couldn’t she at least trust him enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and the chance to prove it? Now here he was, sitting at his kitchen table on Saturday morning, practically crying in his coffee from sheer frustration at being able to do nothing, nothing, to get through to her. And he had to depend on his sisters to rescue him—one of the lowest blows of all. Not even last night’s little norther had made him feel better, as the cooler air always did.
Clay looked around his kitchen at the dirty dishes, messy newspapers, piles of junk mail, and general woe-begone aspect of the place. If his mother could see it, she’d read him the riot act, even if he was in his thirties. His sisters were supposed to talk to Francie today. Daria told him last night they’d come by afterward. He’d better clean up the place and—he rubbed his unshaven chin—himself. He’d be damned if he showed them the bad shape he was really in. He did, after all, still have some pride.
He had just completed the cleaning chores and was on his way upstairs when the doorbell rang. Before he could even take the three steps, someone started pounding on the door. He opened it to find on his threshold the gamesters, all five of them, all with scowls on their faces.
“We want to talk to you, Clay,” Jim stated, looking like there was no way in hell he’d allow Clay to refuse him.
“Sure, come on in.” The gamesters had evidently spoken to Francie, Clay surmised as he stepped back and waved them into the living room.
For once, his house had no effect on its visitors. The quintet kept their attention totally on him. Nobody sat, they just arranged themselves in an arc with him as the focal point.
Clay shut the door. “What can I do for you?” he asked. He felt his muscles tighten in fight-or-flight anticipation, and he made himself relax. Although he didn’t know them well, he didn’t think any of th
em would sucker punch him.
“What did you do to Francie?” Jim demanded.
“Yeah, what?” Gary snapped.
The other three frowned harder.
“I did nothing to Francie.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned back.
“Well, somebody sure as hell did,” Jim stated. “She looks like she’s been crying for days, and she’s losing weight.”
“That’s not all,” Linda interjected. “She’s wearing her oldest, baggiest clothes, and her eyes are, well, I guess the best description is, full of pain.”
“She didn’t get that way by herself,” Jim said. “The last time she looked like this, it was because a guy hurt her really badly. Now, what did you do to her?” He thrust out his chin and stared Clay in the eye.
Good, just what he needed—interference from her friends. Clay had to struggle to keep his voice down as he held on to his temper, so his words came out slowly between his gritted teeth. “I repeat, I did nothing to Francie.”
“Then why did you break up with her?” Linda asked.
“I didn’t break up with her.” Clay shook his head slowly from side to side to emphasize his statement.
“That’s not what she said,” Rick put in.
“What exactly did she say?” Clay really wanted to hear this.
Jim was the one to answer. “Something about how you two didn’t suit each other, disagreed on some fundamental issues, crap that doesn’t mean anything. Now, once and for all, why did you dump her?”
The group leaned forward at the question. Clay thought he heard somebody growl. He felt like growling himself. He decided he’d had enough of this interrogation. Time to get his own two cents in.
“I didn’t.” He leaned toward them, his hands on his hips, enunciating each word precisely. “I don’t want to break up with her. I want to marry her.” There, he’d said it out loud to somebody at last.
Amazement on their faces, the gamesters stood up straight, then looked at each other and back to Clay.
“Well, hell,” Jim said.
“Great!” Linda put in.
“Oh, man.” Gary clapped his hands together.
Rick just grinned.
Tom kept frowning. “I don’t get it. Why is she implying you did? That’s what those ‘we don’t suit’ statements usually mean. So what’s going on?”
What indeed? Clay thought, but he replied, “I don’t know. I can’t persuade her to talk to me. She said something about a guy named ‘Walt,’ and I couldn’t get a straight answer out of her.” He watched the group exchange significant looks. “What’s the deal here? He’s the one who hurt her, right?”
Jim cleared his throat, looked down at the floor, then up at Clay. “Yeah, he . . .”
“It’s Francie’s story to tell, Jim,” Linda interrupted, shaking her head at him. She turned to Clay. “We promised her never to discuss that mess with anybody, Clay. I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Clay said. He understood loyalty and trust also, and these friends of Francie’s had both in abundance.
“Come on, guys,” Rick said. “Let’s leave the man in peace since we’re not going to beat him up. Sorry for the intrusion, Clay.”
“It’s okay.”
“We hope you work things out with her, Clay,” Linda said with an earnest expression. “We’re rooting for you. Do you want us to talk to her?”
“Thanks, but no. It’s something we have to resolve ourselves.” They couldn’t really help anyway, not with the fundamental problem.
“Look, when the dust settles and Francie comes to her senses,” Jim said, offering his hand, “I’d like to get together with you about the game.”
“Fine with me.” Clay shook Jim’s hand and ushered the group out the door. As he closed it and started upstairs, he couldn’t help smiling. What good friends that bunch was to Francie. He had no doubt they would have willingly done all they could to punish him for hurting her.
His statement about wanting to marry her had stopped them cold. They had fortunately not noticed the reaction the declaration had given him: a red-hot flash had radiated out from his center to suffuse every cell in his body. He had barely managed to remain still. The good old SMI was certainly alive and kicking him right in the solar plexus.
He walked into his bathroom and took his razor and shaving cream out of the cabinet. As he started the water running, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The gamesters were on his side. Tamara would probably be there, too—if he could talk to her and if she knew the true situation. But none of it did him any good.
The primal problem remained. If Francie did not believe in magic, could not be convinced magic existed, then . . . No, he refused to consider such an outcome. His sisters would make her see the light. They were probably doing so right about now. Once they started a project, whether to bedevil him or help him, those two witches never gave up. They’d truly work magic on Francie.
Damn right, they would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Francie stared at the two women standing at her door at ten o’clock Saturday morning. She recognized Daria. Her companion must be the other sister. Same green eyes; same dark, curly hair; same beauty. The only differences were the sister was a couple of inches taller and her hair was longer. They both smiled up at her in a friendly manner. Whatever Clay may have told them about her didn’t seem to have made them angry.
“Hi, Francie,” Daria said. “This is my sister, Gloriana. May we come in and talk to you? Please?”
Francie peered at them suspiciously. They could only want to talk about Clay and this “magic” business. Damn. If she’d stuck to her original plan, she wouldn’t even be here to have to deal with this. She’d have been on the road already, but she had too many tasks, too many errands, and she simply hadn’t been able to get herself together, packed, and out the door. Even the little cold front that had blown in during the night didn’t invigorate her. Something—a lethargy, a premonition, an anticipation—was not letting her move with her usual efficiency and dispatch.
She wasn’t going to be deterred now, however, so she stood up to her full height, frowned down at the smaller women, and answered, “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to talk to anyone right now. I’m sorry, too, that Clay is trying to use you in this mess.”
“What we have to tell you is critical to your life,” Gloriana said, frowning back. “You really need to listen to us.”
“No, I don’t,” Francie replied and shut the door in their faces.
They immediately began to ring the bell and pound on the door. “Francie! Yes, you do!” one of them shouted. “Open the door!” the other yelled.
When they didn’t stop pounding or ringing or shouting, Francie threw open the door and put one hand on it and the other on the jamb to bar them physically. She scowled down at them. “Look, don’t interfere in my business. Get out of here, or I’ll call the cops. I don’t and won’t listen to anything you have to say.”
She didn’t really think it would come to the police, and she didn’t anticipate not being able to get rid of them, by force if necessary. After all, she had at least five inches on both of them and much better muscle tone. The two of them together didn’t look like they could lift a chair.
The two sisters exchanged a sneaky glance and a nod with each other, then turned back to her. They said in unison, “Oh, yes, you will.”
“No, I won’t.” She began to shut the door.
Flash! A brilliant blaze of light burst in front of her, and all she could see were multicolored lights whirling about her.
The next thing she knew, she was flat on the floor with a sister leaning on each arm, holding her down.
“Oh, yes, you will,” Daria said, and used her foot to kick the door closed.
“Let me go!” Francie tried to sit up, but the sisters’ grips were tight. She tried to struggle, but she couldn’t budge them. They were just pip-squeaks. She should have been able to th
row them across the room. How could they feel like two tons of lead on each of her arms?
She tried kicking, but each sister simply moved a hand to Francie’s nearest leg and held that down also. If that weren’t enough, a feeling of total weakness flooded her body, and her breastbone ached like a mule had kicked it.
“Now, listen, you two—” she began with a wheeze.
Flash!
When she blinked back to sight again, she almost screamed. Now, instead of two sisters, a dragon sat on one of her arms and a panther on the other. Both were black with big green eyes and sharp-looking teeth.
“No, you listen,” the dragon said in Daria’s voice.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” the panther said, sounding like Gloriana, and rolled its eyes at the dragon. “I told you it would come to this, Daria. She’s just like Clay, as a proper soul mate should be, and we always had to resort to trickery to get to him. Now, aren’t you glad we planned ahead?”
“I prefer to think we’re forthright and persistent,” the dragon replied. “And truthful. And, yes, you were right, she left us no alternative but to use our spells.”
Francie lay on her back and watched the beasts bicker above her while she tried to get her mind going again. What in the hell had just happened? How had the two women become . . . animals? Werebeasts? Were they shape-shifters? Were they going to drink her blood?
No, that happened only in fantasy novels. Didn’t it? This was the real world. Wasn’t it? She opened her mouth to let them have it verbally—her only recourse—but all that came out was, “Uh.”
That brought the attention of the two sisters back to her.
“Are you ready to listen, Francie?” Daria asked. “We’ll let you up if you agree to calm down and hear us out.”
“No tricks, now, Francie,” Gloriana admonished, waving a claw-tipped paw in front of her nose.
“O-o-okay,” Francie pushed the word out of her mouth by sheer willpower.
“Okay,” the sisters said together and let her go.
