Do You Believe in Magic

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 them 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.