The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) (19 page)

“I never said that,” she protested. “And I suppose you think the stunts you pulled with my car and the bubbles were magic?”

“Nah. They were nothing. Anyone can make a car play ‘This Magic Moment’ and blow bubbles through an air vent.” From up his sleeve he withdrew a solitary long-stemmed red rose. “Here. This is for you. A token of my love.”

She wouldn’t take it.

“It’s real, like my love for you. I have scratches on my arm to prove it. Smell it.”

He was cajoling, and she loved him so dearly, she found it hard to refuse him anything. She leaned forward slightly and took in the sweet distinctive fragrance of the rose.

The rose spit in her face.

Payton chuckled, and the class was in stitches as she wiped drops of water from her face.

“That’s cute, Payton. But it isn’t magic. It’s a trick. And a stupid trick at that.”

“I know, but watch this.”

From the deep, dark recesses of his fabulous frock he produced a bottle of champagne, a crystal glass, and a white envelope. He started to open the bottle of wine as he spoke.

“Most magicians use milk and a newspaper for this trick because it’s easier to see, but I like doing things my own way,” he explained as he worked. And to maintain a constant banter, a trick of the trade, he said, “I’m that kind of man. I’m used to snapping my fingers and getting what I want. I’m used to having things my own way. I make sure I’m always in control.” Pop! “I used to anyway. But I’m changing.” He looked at Harriet. “You changed something in me. I never let anyone have so much control over me. I felt safe with you.”

He poured wine into the glass and handed it to her. He took up the envelope, removed a sheet of paper, and began to fold it. “I haven’t let anything or anyone mean anything to me for years, because what I didn’t care about, I couldn’t miss.” He stopped to meet her gaze. “But I’ve never been in love like this. I’ve never felt as if I had so much to lose before.”

He held the cone-shaped piece of paper out to her, and she automatically poured the wine into it, too moved and confused to speak, too much in love and in too much pain to do more than listen and watch.

He unfolded the paper, and with his back to her, he showed his audience the wine was missing. He began to refold the paper.

“But how could I argue with magic?” he asked the crowd, and then turning back to her, he said, “I didn’t know how to fight for you against something that couldn’t be seen or touched or heard. You’re a provoking, irritating, and really frustrating woman, Harriet Wheaton. Traits, one and all, that I love about you, by the way.”

He turned to her expectantly and traded her the paper for the glass.

Speaking out of the side his mouth, he instructed her to, “Shake the paper out and show them that it’s as dry as a bone.”

She started to unfold the paper, the process slowing when she noticed the print on it. Script print. A state seal. It was a land deed ... to Jovette Island ... in the name of Harriet Martha Jovette Wheaton Dunsmore.

“Oh, Payton, no,” she said with a gasp, with no inkling of what to think or say or do.

He saved her the trouble of having to decide just then, by placing a silencing finger to her lips.

“You asked me why I loved you, and I told you I didn’t know,” he said, as if they were alone in the room. “Well, I’ve been busy the last few months. I have a list of reasons.” He took another sheet of paper from his pocket and began to read. “Your mouth is crooked. Your eyes are brown. I love those little wispy curls around your face.” His fingers moved from her mouth to touch them. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You look great in bubbles. You care about the world. You’re forgiving. You’re gentle and sweet.”

“Payton. Stop.”

“You’re a fairly decent cook. You’re patient as hell. You’d leave the lights on and your door open. You’re clever and sneaky. You’re brutally truthful unless you need to lie, and then you
omit
rather than tell lies. You can bore a man to the point of tears when you’re talking about biology, but I love your enthusiasm on the subject. I’ve never known a woman who could do the things you do to me in bed.”

“Payton. Enough.”

“There’s more. You’re illogical and stubborn. You have an irrational belief in magic which is contrary to everything else you believe about life—and that’s where I screwed up.”

“No. You did nothing wrong. It was my fault,” she said, weak and wishing he’d hold her. But he went on as if he hadn’t heard her.

“See, I was arguing with logic, when what you were feeling was illogical—even to you. All you knew was that the magic had worked, whether you believed it was real or not.” He turned to a young man standing several feet away, who was taking the entire scene in with undivided attention and fascination. “There’s a box out in the hall. Would you bring it in for me please?”

“Payton—”

“No. No. You had your say back on the island. Now it’s your turn to listen to me,” he said, cutting her off as he pulled the ties of his great cape, releasing it, tossing it onto a worktable.

When his new assistant went through the door into the hall, Payton noticed several people standing in the doorway watching. He’d already met several of them.

“Come in. Join us,” he said, his smile charming.

Harriet glanced to see several of her colleagues, a few more students, the head of the science department, and the college president enter the room, their expressions passive, intrigued. Her shoulders drooped in resignation as she envisioned her dismissal.

A tall black-lacquered box with painted red flames on the sides, set on a wheeled platform, was pushed into the room and Payton picked up where he’d left off.

“My mistake was trying to argue with logic. So I went out and got some magic of my own to argue with.”

“But—”

“Pay attention. A show like this is a once-in-a-lifetime deal. If you ever drive me this crazy again, I won’t be held responsible for my actions,” he said. Dead serious.

She couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her, and he grinned at her, loving and gentle.

With an air of mystery, he opened three small doors that formed one wall of the box. He knocked on the three remaining sides and invited Mrs. Packard, a middle-aged chemistry teacher, to inspect the box. When she was satisfied, he turned the box around once, showing it from all sides, talking magical gibberish all the while.

“If you will assist me, Ms. Wheaton,” he said, holding his hand out invitingly.

Well, she couldn’t beat him, because she didn’t want to. So she joined him. She stepped forward and placed her hand in his. He looked at it for a second or two, gave it a soft squeeze, then brought it to his lips for a tender kiss.

“Okay,” he said, all business again. “I’ll just step inside here. ...”

He did, instructing Harriet to close all the little doors and latch them securely. This done, there soon came a muffled command for her to reopen the upper door.

“There,” he said. “Now we can all see one another, and I’ll amaze you with my skill.” He grinned. “Harriet, please open the bottom door.”

She did, revealing the lower part of his body from midcalf down. He even shuffled his feet for them, though no one was particularly impressed to see his feet at the bottom of the box.

“Are my feet still there?” he asked, craning his neck to see, as if he were surprised that they hadn’t disappeared. A sympathetic group nodded at him, equally as embarrassed as he that his trick hadn’t worked. He looked desperate. “Well, is the rest of me still there?”

Harriet opened the middle door. Low and behold! he was missing from neck to knee—and now he was grinning.

“Thank you, thank you,” he said, nodding his decapitated head with mock humility.

Laughter rose up inside of her, and she could feel herself stepping off the deep end of sanity.

“Payton, this is truly wonderful. I’m very impressed,” she said. “And I’ve never loved you more than I do at this minute.”

“Close the doors, Harri. I want to kiss you.”

She considered it, then decided, “No. I think I’ll leave you there awhile longer. You see, this is a trick, a fine trick this time, but a trick nevertheless. It’s not magic. It’s a clever illusion. Our love is no illusion.”

“I know that,” he said, as if she’d called him stupid. He began to struggle a bit inside the box, though the only way she could tell was by sound. His head remained immobile, as scuffing and scraping noises came from within the box. “That’s the point of all this.”

“But I never claimed that the island’s magic was an illusion. It’s a very real thing.”

“Yeah, yeah. I figured that out too,” he said, the strain of his struggle showing on his face. “Now you’ll get into all that supernatural stuff, like voodoo and witches, and I’m prepared for that argument too, Harri. Help me out and I’ll show you.”

She closed the bottom door and then stood up on her toes to talk to him. “If I close this middle one will you be able to get out easier?”

“Lord, I hope so,” he said, looking pained. “I obviously can’t do it with the door open, so maybe it needs to be closed.”

She debated helping him a few seconds longer. It wouldn’t be every day that she’d have him at so nice a disadvantage. She grinned.

“Harriet! Close the damned door. My legs are cramping.”

“Will you admit that the island has a magic power?”

“No.”

“Will you admit that you’re acting under the influence of something you can’t control?”

“Yes. But it isn’t magic.”

“Neither is this,” she said, motioning to the box.

“Aw, Lord.” He grimaced. “Please, Harri. Trip the blind, the trapdoor. Please.”

Quickly she closed and latched the little door.

“What about this one?” she asked, her hand on the top door, ready to close it and end his pain.

“No.” He groaned, wincing. “It’s okay.”

She stepped back, anxious to see if he could extricate himself from the box. A visible wave of relief passed across his face as he muttered, “Open the doors please.”

The bottom door revealed his feet as before, but the middle space now contained another set of his feet—his real feet, his bent legs, and the rest of his torso. He tried to step out of the box, but his muscles were in spasm, and he sank to the floor. Harriet knelt beside him.

He closed his eyes against the pin-pricking sensation rushing through his legs as blood returned to the lower part of his body. He opened them to Harriet’s face, and without a moment’s hesitation, he took it between his hands and covered her mouth with his own.

The world closed in about them. The students, the department head, the other teachers, the unhatched eggs ... they didn’t exist. It was only Payton and Harriet, in love and living in a world of their own making.

“If you want this to be magic,” he said, barely moving his lips from hers. “That’s fine by me. I’ll believe it’s anything you want me to believe it is.” He reached inside his shirt with one hand. “I got these amulet things from a witch in New York and the crystals from a psychic in Tampa. This ...” he looked down then, at a small vial on a chain with yellow fluid in it. “And this, if I can get you to drink it, is a love potion I got from a very strange woman in the Everglades, guaranteed to make you love me back.”

“I do love you back.”

“I’ll believe it’s this kind of magic if you want me to, Harri. I’ll hum and meditate and shave my head if that’s what you want. But if you want to know my honest thoughts on it, I have to tell you that I still don’t think it’s magic.”

She didn’t care what it was anymore. All she knew, all she ever wanted to know was that she loved him and he loved her. Nothing else really mattered.

“So? What do you think it is?” she asked quietly, expecting him to say that it was love, plain and simple. An uncontrollable force with its own power, its own magic, generated not in the supernatural but on common ground between two very ordinary human beings.

“That you could possibly love me enough to make me love you. ... Well, frankly,” he said, kissing her gently, “I think it’s nothing less than a miracle.”

“L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE
tale is true and in just a few moments you’ll be able to see the island and decide for yourselves whether it was magic or a miracle that brought Harriet and Payton together so long ago,” the automated tour guide said. She was a female model, QXM III, blond and soft-spoken, programmed to sound enthusiastic and sincere.

The hydrofoil skimmed over the water, passing between the mainland and Cedar Island toward the major traffic lanes of the antiquated but still functional waterway of the St. Lawrence River.

The group of tourists released a mass sigh of admiration as they approached another island, a mile long and forty acres wide, its slopes thickly quilled with pines and hardwoods. It boasted a prime example of nineteenth century Victorian architecture in dark olive-green, trimmed in gold and terra-cotta on the bargeboards, scalloped friezes, and porch brackets, with just a touch of Indian red here and there for accent.

“The island was officially renamed Miracle Island in the late twentieth century, several years after Harriet Jovette Wheaton married Payton Dunsmore. The island is still part of the vast Dunsmore estate and remains a favored summer residence for the family—the great-grandchildren of Payton and Harriet Dunsmore.”

Mary Kay McComas is an acclaimed romance novelist and the author of twenty-one short contemporary romances, five novellas, and three novels. McComas has received several honors and awards for her work, including the Washington Romance Writers’ Outstanding Achievement Award and two Career Achievement Awards from
Romantic Times
(one for Best New Author and another for Innovative Series Romance).

Born in Spokane, Washington, the third child of six siblings, McComas graduated with a bachelor of science degree in nursing. She worked for ten years as an intensive care nurse. After marrying her husband and having their first child, the family moved to the Shenandoah Valley in northern Virginia, and McComas soon retired from nursing to raise her family, which included three more children.