Authors: Tracy Madison
The chicken still tasted bland. I threw it away. I stood in the kitchen, not knowing what to do with myself. I stared at the phone, and the desire to hear Scot’s voice hit strong and heavy. What the hell was wrong with me? I’d had a nice date with a nice man and we’d shared a nice kiss. Now I wanted to call a
different man. A man who was my complete opposite. A man who infuriated me and turned me on all in the same breath. A man who, other than an acknowledgment of his sex appeal, had barely been a blip on my radar four days ago. And finally, a man I didn’t—couldn’t—belong with.
Frustrated and lonely and both angry and proud for not giving in and calling Scot, I did something completely nonsensical: I made a batch of Jell-O. My rationale for preparing strawberry-flavored gelatin escaped me, but wow, I focused on this task with the precision and single-mindedness of a chef cooking for royalty. I made the Jell-O the quick-set way and then poured the glop into individual bowls so it would firm up even faster.
A cherry-blossom-scented bubble bath took up the better part of the next hour, me flipping through the latest issues of
Money and Bon Appétit
magazines, not finding much of interest in either. Then I poured myself a glass of wine, grabbed one of the bowls of Jell-O, and retreated to my bedroom, where I situated myself against a pile of pillows. My chest felt heavy. Like a moose or a bear or some other large animal had curled up between my breasts. My throat had this scratchy, tight thing going on. My eyes were achy, tired, and hot. And my temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.
Miserable. That’s what I was. Probably a cold coming on. Or the flu. Ha. That would serve me right. Catching a cold after lying about having one.
I sipped my wine and ate a few bites of my gelatin. I stared at the walls and picked lint off of my pajama bottoms. I dug out an old bottle of nail polish and painted my toes a fiery red. Another hour passed with more inane tasks, such as reciting the fifty states in alphabetical order, the alphabet itself backward, and then in a last desperate attempt to not think about Scot, I counted to one hundred in French. This,
sadly, was all I remembered from four years of high-school instruction.
When I ran out of ways to occupy myself, I pulled the journal from its hidey-hole and reread Verda’s message. I slid my finger over the ink, waiting for the heat, the pull, that had happened before. Nada. That didn’t mean anything. The magic was still there, still alive, just waiting for me to take pen to paper.
Oh, wow. I could. You know, if I wanted. Right now,
if I
wanted, I could wish for Scot to call or come over. Heck, I might even be able to dictate every word of our conversation, every action and reaction. I mean, I hadn’t tested that theory yet, so I couldn’t be sure. But what if I could?
What if . . .? Oh, God, a million and one possibilities flooded me all at once. My hand trembled with the need to try. Just to see, of course. Another experiment, another test. Verda had given me this journal with this power for me to use. So, why not?
I was tempted. So. Very. Tempted. I even went so far as to find a pen before lucid thought won out. While I believed to the core of my being that Verda had somehow instilled magic into the journal, and while I believed that my other two wishes were going to come true, I also didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, and possibly most important of all, I didn’t know what, if any, the side effects would be.
Belief is one thing. And believing in magic had been a difficult enough barrier to cross. But I remained Julia Collins: rational, practical, focused on facts. I was still the same woman who planned out every step before taking it.
“You’re just chicken,” I said to the empty bedroom.
Yeah, well. That too.
With a sigh, I closed the journal and put it away. I got a second bowl of Jell-O and more wine, and then powered up
my laptop. Googling “well-known slogans and jingles” brought up a host of sites with lists and lists of examples. I studied these lists as if I were prepping for a final exam, memorizing a handful that might stump Scot.
Returning to Google, I typed in, “Scot Raymond, Chicago IL.” Oh! He owned a business? I clicked on the link and a Web site opened.
“‘Raymond Construction & Carpentry,’” I mused, reading the header. The site was simple but clean and easy to navigate, consisting of a mere four pages: Home, About, Services, and Contact. He worked with a larger construction crew in the summer, but off-season he specialized in home improvements, odd handyman jobs, and carpentry.
Yep. A blue-collar guy. But also, a man who was good with his hands.
My melancholy mood lifted and I yawned, suddenly beyond tired. I shut everything down, locked up—including engaging the chain on my door for once—and crawled into bed with a contented sigh.
The image of Scot stepped to the front of my mind, and I sighed again. “Mmm,” I said, snuggling into my pillows. Verda had said three boys. Whom would they look most like? I hoped Scot. Brown eyes are dominant over blue, so chances were—
“Oh. Oh, hell!” I sat up in bed and turned the lamp on. “Damn, Julia! Damn, damn, damn, and damn!”
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?
“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 factor. 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.”