Do You Believe in Magic

chapter TWENTY-NINE



While Francie slept Sunday morning, Clay ran to the store in the West University Village and brought back bagels and cream cheese. They were lingering over breakfast and the newspaper in his sunny kitchen when he put down his section and regarded his soul mate. He couldn’t help feeling content, appreciative, and, to be truthful, smug. She was his, she was gorgeous, and they mated perfectly, if he did say so himself.

Francie glanced up and raised her eyebrows in interrogation at his look.

“I’m just enjoying having you here,” he said. “And I’m happy we can make love without electrocuting ourselves.” They had woken up to sunlight and had made slow, absolutely glorious love—without the fireworks of the previous time.

“Me, too,” Francie said. “Although I did see some colored lights.”

“So did I. But they were much dimmer than before. Maybe the SMI is finally settling down.” He took a gulp of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about those lights. I wonder if anybody else could see them.”

“Clay Morgan, I am not letting anyone watch us when we make love, just to see if they can see lights. I am not an exhibitionist.”

“Calm down, darlin’. We’ll just have to note when they appear. If they show up when all we do is kiss, then it would be all right to show someone, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess,” she answered grudgingly. “Maybe.” She went back to the story she was reading about the Houston Rockets.

Clay grinned to himself. She was so cute when she was disgruntled. He also turned to the paper and began reading a story in the business section about a start-up high-tech firm. The name of one of the founders caught his eye. Walter Somebody. Walter. Walt. The guy in the paper was only twenty-four, so he couldn’t be Francie’s Walt. Clay suddenly burned with the need to know about Walt the A*shole. Would she tell him? He’d never know until he asked.

Clay put down his paper. “Francie, I have to ask you something.”

She looked at him over the top of the sports section and seemed a little startled, a little apprehensive, probably by his tone, but she put down the paper. “What about?”

“Now, I’ll only ask this once,” he said, “and if you don’t want to tell me anything, it’s okay. I don’t particularly want to talk about it, either, but curiosity is eating me up, and after all you’ve said to me, I’d really like to know.”

The expressions on her face ran from apprehension to concern to puzzlement. “What is it, Clay?”

“Who’s Walt?”

“Walt?”

“Yeah, Walt.”

She grimaced. “I was hoping you’d forget I ever mentioned him.”

“I can’t. Not after being compared to him. I assume he’s part of the ‘old mental baggage’ you referred to yesterday.”

She fiddled with her spoon, then her knife, and took a sip of coffee. She was clearly not happy with the subject.

“I swear, I’ll never bring up the name again,” he said, holding up his right hand, palm out.

She put down the paper, then took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right. I’ll tell you. But like you did with me, ask no questions till I’m done. Okay?”

Now he was the apprehensive one, but he nodded. “Okay.”

“You have to understand something,” she began with a soft voice. “I ‘developed’ late.” She waved her hand at her body. “When I was growing up, I was often, usually, taller than the boys, and I was a skinny, scrawny smart kid. I was also basketball crazy. I caught the computer bug early, too.

“In high school, boys became my buddies, either because I could beat them in basketball or because I could help them with their computers.” She shrugged in a self-deprecating motion. “I had no real dates in high school. By the time I entered college, I figured I was destined not to have any boyfriends, ever.”

Clay watched her closely, a little sorry he had asked the question he could now see—despite her feigned nonchalance—how painful it was for her to discuss this, but he had to know. He nodded to indicate he understood her situation.

“So,” she continued, “I decided to make the most of my intellectual abilities. My parents always stressed using my mind over my body. Daddy used to tell me my brain would certainly last longer than my speed on a court. They supported me in basketball, and if I had wanted to go out for the varsity team, they would have been just as proud as they were I was the high-school valedictorian. But I was more excited about and fascinated with computers, and I turned down athletic scholarships for academic ones.”

She flashed him a happy grin. “I met Tamara the very first day at UT, and it was friendship at first sight for both of us. She already knew she wanted to open a fashion boutique and was going after a marketing degree. She was also already a clotheshorse, dressed in the latest fashions. She claimed to be envious of my tall, skinny body, and she helped me learn how to dress for my height. Then . . .”

Clay could picture Francie skinny, but it took all his powers of imagination. Or maybe, he simply liked her as she was now—curvy and definitely not skinny. Liked? Lusted. He confined his response to one word. “Then?”

“Somewhere late during my freshman year, I started developing a female figure. By the beginning of my sophomore year, I had, uh, ‘bloomed.’ Tamara called me a ‘guy magnet’ and claimed when men’s eyes traveled down my long legs and back up to my, uh, top, they almost popped out of the guys’ heads. I felt like I was instantly ‘popular,’ and Tamara talked about beating men off me with a stick. But all my dates turned out to be, at best, back in the buddy category or, at worst, wrestling matches.”

She stopped to take another sip of coffee, and Clay knew the worst part of her tale was coming. Francie wasn’t looking into his eyes, but off into the distance while her fingers fidgeted with her napkin.

“Anyway, by the new year, I had just about given up on finding any man who would see my brain as well as my body. That’s when I met Walt.”

Clay had to restrain himself from growling at the sound of the name. He forced himself to remain calm. She’d never tell him all of it if he acted like a possessive lunatic.

“Walt Gibbons was a tall, blond, good-looking engineering major and a senior. He seemed truly interested in me, my mind, not just its housing. He was kind, considerate, attentive. I guess the correct phrase is the old cliché, ‘he swept me off my feet.’ I was in love, I thought. We became lovers.”

This time Clay couldn’t quite hold in his feelings. Francie jumped, and he disguised the snarl with a cough. He motioned for her to continue.

“One day late in the school year, Tamara and I were in a restaurant on Sixth Street. We were sitting in a high-backed booth, you know, the kind where the back goes up about five or six feet. You can’t see your neighbors, but if they’re talking loudly enough, you can hear them.”

Clay nodded.

“We heard these guys talking in the booth next to us, and we recognized Walt’s voice. I was going to pop my head around the booth and say hello, when one of the others mentioned my name, said something about losing some bet that included me.”

Clay groaned. He had a pretty good idea what was coming. “Francie, you don’t have to tell me any more,” he said, reaching a hand to her across the table.

“No, I started it, I’ll finish it,” she responded and went on in a flat tone, but Clay could hear the anger behind it. “Walt proceeded to brag about how easy I’d been, how much of a disappointment I was in bed, how relieved he was he could drop me now he’d won the bet, and then he talked about his next target. Tamara and I just sat there and listened to it all. After they left, she took me back to the dorm and listened while I cried and raged until I got Walt out of my system.”

The smile on her face told him the memories were bitter ones. He could easily imagine her anger—it was the same outrage gripping him now.

“He called the next day,” she continued, “and I told him I wanted nothing more to do with him and hung up on him. He came up to me between classes, made some cutting remarks while we were standing in front of the student union. I told him off, right there in front of God and everybody, and he left me alone after that.

“During the summer at home, I decided I didn’t need men, especially handsome, charming ones, to whom I didn’t matter as a person. All that type of man wanted to do was use me. I was sufficient unto myself. That’s the story of Walt.”

She took a deep breath, then let it out. “When you and I first met, I’m afraid I automatically put you in the same category as Walt, afraid you’d be like him and I’d end up alone. My fears got the better of me. So I was fighting you and the imperative to avoid going through the pain again. I’m sorry for hurting you and for comparing you to someone who’s not fit to be in the same room with you.” She looked at him with a face full of contrition.

Clay stood and pulled her out of the chair and into his arms. “Thank you, Francie. That’s all I wanted to know. I’ll never ask again.” He kissed her lightly and then just held her, rubbing her back. Her muscles were tight, and he could feel the strain in them brought on by her tale.

He didn’t need to hear any more; he knew what had happened. After what Walt did to her, she had started wearing clothes to hide her body. She had barricaded herself behind those big glasses, too, hoping to force men to acknowledge her mind. She probably thought men couldn’t see past them, but he knew differently. The only ones who had been able to get past her defenses, however, had also been smart enough not to let her know it—the gamesters, for example. He wasn’t worried about Walt any longer, but he had to be sure she understood one very important thing.

He lifted her chin with a finger so he could see her eyes. “Francie,” he murmured, “you are definitely not a disappointment in bed to me.”

She smiled, then the smile grew into a grin, and a sparkle came into her eyes. “Well, I should think not. Not after all those fireworks!” she said with mock indignation.

“Would you like me to go after Walt? Beat him up or something?”

“No, of course not. I have no idea what happened to him, and I don’t care.”

“Okay, but if we ever meet him, just say the word and I will make his life miserable. All it takes is a few spells and every computer he owns, desktop, laptop, handheld gadget, cell phone, watch, car, microwave, hell, I don’t know, his cable connection, all of them will fry completely.”

Francie started laughing and gave him a big hug. “No, let’s just forget him.”

“Okay with me.” He gave her another kiss. “How about if we go to the grocery store? We’re running out of provisions.”

“Fine, but I need to go home and change clothes. I can’t run around like this all the time.” She waved at the robe she was wearing.

“But I like you so . . . accessible.” He gave her immediate frown a friendly leer. “But all right. We’ll go by your place. I’ll clear the breakfast dishes. You get dressed.”

Francie climbed the stairs, walked into the bedroom, and realized this was the first time they had been apart, if you didn’t count trips to the bathroom and his excursion for bagels. But she had slept so hard, she hadn’t even known he was gone until he returned and waved a cup of coffee under her nose, so she didn’t count it.

She needed the break, she decided, as what she had told him about Walt came back to her. Talking about the scumbag hadn’t been as hard as she thought it might. Clay had given her just the right amount of support when she had finished. She almost had to laugh at what he considered the most important part of his support—that she wasn’t disappointing in bed. All that testosterone, indeed.

Remembering his offer to wreak vengeance on Walt did make her laugh out loud. His method had been the exact one she had thought of way back then, but she’d had no means to bring it about. Revenge on Walt didn’t matter now. She had Clay.

They still hadn’t talked seriously about the future, and she had thought he was going to bring it up at the table. She had felt abruptly unprepared for such a talk. She knew she wanted to be with him forever, so that wasn’t the cause of her qualms. It was more like she was waiting for something else to happen.

At that thought, her center tingled slightly. “Is that a yes?” she asked it as she hunted for her sneakers.

No answer, of course.