Do You Believe in Magic

chapter SIXTEEN



Back in her apartment, Francie sat slumped on her bed, staring into space. Clay must have left, she figured, when the pounding on the door stopped and he yelled that stuff about how they had to talk. She gave a big sigh, but it didn’t feel like one of relief. It felt more like one of emptiness.

He wanted to talk. Oh, God, he’d be calling her. She roused herself and pulled the plugs on the phones in the kitchen and her office, leaving only the answering machine hooked up. Returning to the bedroom, she disconnected the phone by her bed, then took off her shoes and resumed her place on the spread.

What good would talk do now? The man was definitely deranged, mentally unsound. Nutty. Off his rocker. He had bugs in his hardware and was many code lines short of a working program. She was better off having nothing to do with him.

Wasn’t she?

Yes, she nodded and, threading her fingers through her hair, rubbed her scalp vigorously. Yes, of course, she was.

What a fantastic tale he had told! Magic—what did he call them—practitioners? Magic practitioners who applied spells to their jobs to do them better. How could he have thought she’d believe him? Sure, there were very smart people or those with an intuitive feel for their work who produced wonderful ideas and products. She knew several of them. Her fellow gamesters, for example.

And Clay? She had to admit he seemed to take computer programming and manipulation to new heights. She frowned at her last thought. What he did couldn’t be magic.

Magic didn’t exist.

And his explanation! He hadn’t given her the chance to process the information about this so-called magic. He hadn’t let her ask a question—he obviously didn’t want her to since he’d asked her to hear him out first. Instead he had gone from magic to talking about “soul mates,” for crying out loud. If that didn’t sound like a line straight out of a bad sitcom, or an even worse singles bar, she had never heard one. Sort of a someday-my-princess-will-come story. Was the idea, the claim they were “fated” to be together, supposed to make a woman fall into a man’s arms? Or rather, his bed?

His bed . . . How enticing it had looked, up there in his bedroom. She sighed again and rubbed the painful itch— the ache had never let up from the time it flared back at Clay’s house. Now a dull throb accompanied the irritation.

“No, no, no!” she said aloud and shook her head until she felt her hair flying about her face. Thinking about his bed was not a good idea.

Back to his soul-mate . . . imperative. Hah! She was supposed to believe that some outside force, an arcane, magical, mystical coercion, was pushing them together? Or was it an internal chemical compulsion? Or just good old-fashioned lust? Didn’t matter which. It came down to the same thing: All he really wanted was to jump her bones.

She rubbed the aching spot between her breasts. This torment was no ancient force, and it certainly wasn’t an alien. She was developing a real-life, non-pretend ulcer, and no wonder with all she’d been through lately.

Mr. Clay Morgan was quite a seducer. First he kissed a woman until she turned to jelly, then he walked out the door as calmly as could be, and he repeated the pattern until she was a quivering mass of frustration.

Then the coup de grâce: Guess what? We’re soul mates. Magical soul mates. Don’t fight it. I want you.

Why on earth he’d thought he needed such an unbelievable story about practitioners and then the soulmate idea to get her into bed was beyond her. At least he hadn’t uttered the horrible ancient cliché, “It’s bigger than both of us.”

In all of his preposterous explanation, he had not said one word about caring about her beyond the physical. Not one word about love. No, be fair, she chided herself. He had used the word once, but in “making love,” not as in “I love you.”

I love you.

Oh, God. Did she want him to say that? Did she want to say those words back to him?

No, she couldn’t be in love with him. Not when all he talked about was sexual attraction and this weird “imperative” to be soul mates.

But, oh, she did like the man. Liked looking at him, talking to him, being with him, touching him, kissing . . . No, don’t go there! She shook her head again and concentrated on the opposing argument to her reflections.

What she felt was just an infatuation, that’s all. She hadn’t been involved with a man in so long her hormones had finally rebelled and taken over her mind for a while.

She could get over Clay. She would get over him. She simply had to stay away from him. They had nothing left to talk about. There was nothing to “get over.”

The pain in her chest intensified to a true heartache, and she collapsed back on the bed and curled up in a ball. With an immense feeling of loneliness settling in her bones, she fought tears until she fell asleep in the late afternoon.

She opened her eyes Sunday morning feeling like her system had totally crashed, her usual morning grogginess infinitesimal compared to this mega-headache and feeling of immense exhaustion. She looked at the clock: ten in the morning. She had slept, if she could call it that, over fifteen hours. Carefully, she extricated herself from the tangled bedspread, groaning as her stiff body protested.

She stumbled into the bathroom and almost gasped when she saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Her hair was a tangled mess, her makeup was smudged, and large black circles hung under her swollen eyelids like the curtains on the stage at Jones Hall. She vaguely remembered waking up from time to time to a wet pillow, so she must have been crying in her sleep.

As she removed the clothing she had slept in, memories returned of the dreams that had caused her tears. She and Clay making love, an act so beautiful she had to cry. Clay standing naked before her, looking like Desire Incarnate, holding out his hands to her, but try as she might, she couldn’t move to meet him. Clay saying, “If you won’t believe me, then you can’t have me,” and her wailing, “I want to, but I can’t!” Clay, his face a mask of pain, stating, “You’re my soul mate. Of course, I love you.”

Francie doubled over in anguish as the last recollection flashed through her mind and pain radiated from her middle. Laboring for breath, she somehow collected herself and stepped into the shower. The hot water rushing over her body didn’t restore her equilibrium completely, but the heat helped to soothe her too-tightly-wound muscles. Finally somewhat refreshed, she shut off the spray and toweled herself dry. After swallowing some aspirin, she ran a comb through her hair. She put on her robe and slippers and shuffled toward the kitchen, determined to go about her usual chores and put all the rest out of her mind.

The doorbell rang.

The sound practically threw her against the wall. Oh, God, what if it was Clay? Heart racing, she clasped the robe tighter around her body, tiptoed to the door, and peeked out the peephole.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered. It was Tamara. Only Tamara.

Francie opened the door. “Hi.” The single word came out in a croak.

“You look awful,” Tamara stated after giving Francie a fast once-over.

“I know,” Francie replied.

Tamara looked like she always did, well put together in a crisp bright blue shirt and pressed jeans. “I broke up with Kevin,” she announced with a cheery smile.

“I broke up with Clay,” Francie responded with no smile at all.

“I brought Oreos and ice cream.” Tamara held up a large grocery bag.

“Come on in.”

Francie stepped back, and Tamara headed straight for the kitchen.

Francie put on the coffee while Tamara gathered plates, silverware, napkins, and two large dishtowels—their usual ritual for commiseration when Tamara broke up with a boyfriend. This was the first time Francie found herself in total sympathy with her friend.

“I bought pints of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and Cherry Garcia for you, and Phish Food and Uncanny Cashew for me, as usual,” Tamara said. “Which do you want first?”

“Cherry Garcia.”

“Fine. I think I’ll start with Phish Food.” She put the remainder of the ice cream in the freezer and placed the bag of cookies on the table.

They both sat down at the table, wrapped the pints in the dishtowels, took off the lids, dug out one spoonful, and held the spoons up to each other.

Together they repeated their standard litany: “Here’s to the only men who truly understand us. Ben and Jerry.” They ate the ice cream.

After several moments of savoring the creamy goodness, Francie asked, “So, what happened with Kevin? You don’t seem to be very upset about it.” With any luck, she could keep Tamara talking about him and not asking any questions about Clay.

“Remember how I said the zing was gone from our relationship? Well, the zing turned into a thud. I finally had it up to here with him.” She waved her spoon in front of her throat. “First, he once again didn’t take me to dinner, but I told you about that on Friday. He was acting strangely at the club, too, first excited and talking big about his prospects at work, then anxious and worrying about money over some deal he has going. He never asked me how I was, or how the shop did last week, or even about my new computer. We hardly danced at all.”

Tamara stopped to eat more ice cream.

“Did he explain why he was excited or anxious? About either the prospects or the deal?” Francie put in, hoping they wouldn’t go into those subjects.

“No. He acted really mysterious about both. As I sat there and listened to him, I realized this was one of the few times we’d been at one of the clubs without seeing someone we knew to sit with and talk to. Without somebody to run interference for him, you know, carry on the conversation, Kevin is boring. Booorrrring.”

She shot a glance at Francie over the top of the ice-cream container. “I know, you’ve thought it from the beginning. At the start, he was so attentive to me, and I was looking for nonserious companionship, so I didn’t pay any attention to the negatives. The more I think about it, however, the more it looks like he was using salesman tactics on me. You know, let the prospect talk, find out what she likes, what she needs, say what you need to close the sale. All men do it to some extent, I know. Kevin carried it to an extreme. He seemed really interested in the shop until recently and even gave me some good suggestions about making sales. I was perfectly willing to fill in any conversational gaps that developed. And then, he is a good dancer, I’ll give him that, and I do like to dance.

“But lately, we’ve had less and less conversation about anything but him. He’s been drinking more and dancing less. Friday night the reality of the situation finally hit me. So, I decided to think about it and him and us. When he took me home and wanted to stay the night, I pleaded exhaustion, a busy day coming up at the shop on Saturday, and I don’t know what all to get rid of him. He wasn’t happy about it, but he left with good enough grace.”

Francie reached for the coffee pot and poured them each a cup. “What happened on Saturday?”

“I thought about him all day, every moment in between serving customers, and came to the conclusion you have been right all along. Kevin is not the man for me. Going back over all our ‘conversations,’ it became clear we never talked about anything but our jobs—especially his problems—or his pontificating about something, be it the economy, sports, or the latest scandal. When we watched TV, it always had to be what he wanted. We never went anywhere except to bars or clubs or ball games with his clients. He may be a good dancer, but that’s not enough to sustain a relationship.”

She grimaced and shook her head. “And I gave in to him all the time, never stood up for what I wanted to do. I have turned into a wimp. I can’t believe it. This is so unlike me. For example, do you know he works for NatChem?”

“Really?” Francie managed to put a look of surprise on her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because Kevin asked me not to, said it would make things awkward between you and him. I thought the idea was ridiculous, but went along with it. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be,” Francie admonished with a shake of her head and a waggle of her spoon. “Knowing his employer wouldn’t have made any difference at all in my opinion of him. Whatever he did or whomever he worked for, he still wasn’t good enough for you. And certainly not smart enough. What did you decide after all this thinking?”

“He came over again Saturday night. This time he was supposed to take me to dinner—a casual dinner, he said. It probably would have been to a cheap Mexican or Chinese place, after all his grumbling about money. I didn’t give him a chance. Just told him flat out I didn’t think our relationship was going anywhere and we’d both be better off if we didn’t see each other anymore.”

“How did he take it?”

“He was angry, of course. Ranted and raved a bit. Claimed he was just about to ‘make it big’ and I’d be sorry.”

“He didn’t get violent, did he?”

“No, but he turned awfully red in the face at one point. I wasn’t afraid, though. Then he said something nasty—accused me of being frigid, would you believe?— and left.” Tamara started laughing. “Can you imagine? Me, frigid? How unimaginative and banal can you get? Not to mention wrrrroooonnnng.” She smirked and took another bite of her ice cream.

“You certainly don’t seem to be upset about him, like you have been with guys at times in the past,” Francie observed, not wanting to hear about how good or bad anybody was at lovemaking.

Tamara looked startled for a moment, then shrugged. “You’re right. Which just goes to show you I was right to kick him loose. It hurt more to break up with Rich and then Dave, but they are truly nice people. We just didn’t suit each other somehow, once the excitement was gone. And we both knew it, each time. Kevin? No way could we even remain friends. I really picked a loser with him. But, that’s all behind me now. I feel like I shook a big load off my back.”

“I don’t know how you do it, dating all the men you do. I’ve thought you were actually in love with at least two of them—the kind of love that leads to marriage, I mean. Then you broke up with them and didn’t seem any the worse for wear.”

“Because I haven’t been in love, not the gut-wrenching, can’t-live-without-him, totally bewitched, completely committed type. I know that kind of love exists, and I’m looking for it. I’m going to find my soul mate one of these days, I just know it.”

Soul mate. Even Tamara was looking for a soul mate. Francie winced inwardly. Soul mates were the last things she needed to think about. Or talk about. So she said simply, “Good for you, Tamara,” as she opened the cookies. She took one out, used it to dip out a scoop of Cherry Garcia, and took a bite. The crunch of the cookie combined with the smoothness of the ice cream to enhance all the flavors. “Oh, this is so good.”

Tamara unscrewed her Oreo, licked off the creamy filling, and took a bite of the chocolate wafer. They sat for a moment, cookie-crunching the only sound.

After finishing her ice cream, Tamara set the container aside. She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, worry on her face. “All right,” she said, “now what’s all this about your breaking up with Clay? I thought everything was going smoothly with you two.”

Francie finished the Oreo she was eating and took a sip of coffee. When Tamara had that look in her eye, she wasn’t going to let anyone off the hook until she knew the whole story. Well, she wasn’t going to get it this time. “Let’s just say we had a difference of opinion and leave it, can we? I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, Francie, I’m so sorry. I hoped you were finally coming out of the fort you built around yourself and beginning to live a little. Clay seemed so perfect. Good-looking, intelligent. You had the same interests, computers, even basketball. You were enjoying your dates, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Francie said with a sigh.

“What’d he do, come on too fast?”

“No, yes, oh, I don’t know. I kept thinking about Walt and . . .”

“Walt!” Tamara rolled her eyes. “Clay is not anything like Walt, I can tell you that for sure. There was something phony about Walt’s oversized ego from the beginning. And the way he was so condescending. I couldn’t understand the attraction. Just like you told me about Kevin, I told you about Walt, remember?”

“Uh-huh.” Francie put her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “I guess we ought to start listening to each other, shouldn’t we?”

“Right. From now on, we won’t go out with any man till the other checks him out.” Tamara cocked her head and gave Francie a penetrating stare. “You got scared, didn’t you? Scared of Clay’s appeal, his attractiveness, that you wouldn’t measure up, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t been around a man coming on to you in a long time. And Walt did a number on your self-esteem. And here comes Clay. If he is half as sexy as he looks, I’ll bet he’s not shy, either. But, because your last encounter with sex was such a disaster, you assumed this one would be, too. What did he do that scared you so? Was it really that bad? Could you have overreacted and made a mistake about him?”

Tamara was coming too close for comfort, Francie realized. The two of them knew each other so well, they could have been twin sisters. But she didn’t want to think about the possibility of having overreacted. A straightforward “let’s go to bed” she could have handled—and probably would have raced him up the stairs after a couple of those mesmerizing kisses. But all this “practitioner” and then “soul-mate” business . . . No, she couldn’t tell Tamara about that. Even if she hadn’t promised Clay to keep it secret, the story was too outlandish to repeat. So she lied.

“No, no, it wasn’t about that at all.” She’d let Tamara define “that” any way she wanted to. “We just got into a crazy argument, and it escalated, and he said some things, and I said some things, and . . . and . . . Oh, damn.” As tears filled her eyes, Francie grabbed a handful of paper napkins and hid her face behind them.

“Oh, Francie.” Tamara came around the table and gave her a big hug. After Francie calmed down, the redhead returned to her chair and asked in a soft voice, “Are you going to see him again? Try to patch it up? Making up can be fun, you know.” A wink accompanied her last sentence.

“I honestly don’t know. But, Tamara,” Francie leaned over the table and pointed a finger at her, “don’t you try to mediate. Don’t call him or tell him anything if he comes by your shop. Just tell him you’re neutral. Don’t let him talk you into bringing me a message. Promise me.”

Tamara frowned, and her lips thinned, but she said, “Okay, okay. I won’t meddle. But I have to tell you—and I feel it in every one of my red hairs—if you don’t try, you’re making a mistake, a big one, and I hope you don’t live to regret it.” She slumped back in the chair, then straightened up and snagged another Oreo out of the bag. “So, do we start on the next pint, or what?”

“Thank you, Tamara, you’re a good friend.”

“So are you.”

They grinned at each other, although Francie could feel her lips wobble.

“However, I don’t think I can eat more ice cream or anything. How about you?” she asked.

“No, me, either,” Tamara replied with a grimace. “We just can’t hold it like we used to.”

“Not if we want to fit in our clothes, we don’t.” Francie rose and started clearing the table.

Tamara helped put cups and spoons in the dishwasher, then turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Francie, are you all right? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously, I’m all right. Now. Thanks to you and Ben and Jerry, not to mention Mr. Oreo.” She put on a cheerful smile. “I feel fine. I’m energized.”

“Do you feel up to entering my accounting information in my computer as we planned, or shall we just blow it off ?”

Oh, damn. She had forgotten her promise to Tamara. “No,” she said as brightly as she could, “let’s do it. Give me a minute to dress.”

“I’ll get my things and meet you out front.” Tamara started for the door.

“Great.”

As Tamara stepped out of the apartment, Francie said, “I’m really glad you got rid of Kevin.” She just wished she could tell her friend why.

“Me, too. See you in a few minutes,” Tamara replied as she went down the stairs.

Francie shut the door. Leaning against the wall, she contemplated her options. Helping her friend would keep her mind off . . . other things, and she wouldn’t be at home to answer the phone—or, God forbid, the doorbell. Also, the whole crazy situation looked better somehow after talking to Tamara. She could get through this; it would just take time. She pushed herself off the wall and headed to her bedroom, determined not to think about anything.

By early evening, she was exhausted. She and Tamara had entered most of the accounting data by mid-afternoon, and she had left Tamara at the shop checking inventory. At home she’d thrown herself into a frenzy of cleaning, going even so far as to wipe off the shelves in her refrigerator. She stopped short of scrubbing the oven; she wasn’t that miserable, she lied to herself.

She’d managed somehow to ignore the constant pain in her stomach, and the milk, ice cream, and aspirins she’d poured down it seemed to help.

In her office, she’d plugged the phone back in and called her parents in Dallas—this being the night for their usual biweekly rendezvous. Somehow she had managed to sound normal and chat as if nothing at all was wrong, although she was afraid her mother was getting suspicious by the end of the conversation. After the call, she’d stared at the answering machine where a red “7” blinked. Telling herself she wasn’t a coward, she hit the play button.

“Francie.” His voice came through loud and clear, and an agonizing pain stabbed her middle, next to her heart. She hit the delete button. Then she hit it six more times. She unplugged the phone and marched out of the room, intent on finding something else to clean, anything other than him to occupy her mind.

By the time she went to bed, she had arrived at an equilibrium of sorts. First, she refused to think she had overreacted. Second, his claims were too fantastic to believe. Third, Clay was an alluring man. The attraction was merely chemistry. Fourth, all she had to do to get through this—whatever “this” was—was stay away from him.

Soul mates, what a ridiculous idea.

She wasn’t in love with him.

She wasn’t.

Was she?