A Stroke Of Magic (2 page)

Because I needed to make a good impression, I attempted to pay attention to the staff meeting currently in progress. Not such an easy task. My eyelids refused to stay open. I envisioned propping them up with a couple of toothpicks, like in the cartoons I used to watch as a child. It had worked okay for Tom the cat in
Tom and Jerry.
But, seeing as I’m not a cartoon cat, or crazy enough to actually put little pointy sticks in my eyes, I hoped the image alone would be enough to keep them from slipping shut. So not the case. A heavy weight, almost like a drugged feeling, pushed down on me.

The owner of Enchanted Expressions, the dark-haired, ridiculously long-lashed, smoky-eyed Ethan Gallagher, was running through our current list of clients, asking for a progress report from each of the leads. His deep voice carried through the room, and with it, a faint Irish brogue that had most of my female coworkers entranced. For me, the result was more sleepiness. Every time he spoke, it was as if he were telling the most mesmerizing bedtime story ever written, delivered with the perfect cadence and rhythm.

My eyelids drifted shut again, and I pinched my thigh as hard as I could, hoping to send a burst of adrenaline through my system. I yelped. Every gaze in the room swung toward me. Geez, I’d wanted to be forced awake, but not like this!

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

Ethan cocked his head to the side, eyes sweeping over me. “Everything okay, Alice?”

Prickly heat crawled along my skin, inch by inch. “Um. Yeah. Couldn’t be better.”

“People don’t normally yell out in pain without reason. Are you sure there isn’t a problem?” He stared at me, his eyebrows raised.

“Not pain,” I replied. “Excitement. I just get so darn excited at these meetings, I can’t keep it to myself.”

“I see. Do you often say ‘ow’ when you’re excited?”

“No. Of course not. That wouldn’t make much sense, would it? I said ‘Wow!’ as in…well, you know…”
Great.
Any hope I’d had of making a good impression had just flown out the proverbial window.

A few quiet giggles from my coworkers sent another wave of heat to my face. I just knew I’d be the topic of conversation at the water cooler for the next several days, if not weeks.

Ethan’s long lashes grazed the top of his cheeks as he blinked at my statement. “Okay, then. While I’m pleased you’re excited, let’s try to stay focused, shall we?”

“Yes. Of course. That’s me. Focused. One hundred percent.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes as he nodded, which bugged me a little. My embarrassment was fair game for a chuckle? Evidently so. It didn’t matter that if the same situation occurred to someone else I’d find it funny; Ethan Gallagher got to me. Not for the first time, I wondered why. It was as if, when he looked, Ethan saw the real me. He saw the Alice I didn’t show anybody. Which was kind of freaky, but also kind of cool. But since I hadn’t figured out what he thought of what he saw, I didn’t like the idea of him laughing.

He flipped a page in his binder and moved on to the next account, asking for an update. With the pressure off, I stared at him for a minute, enthralled by his easy confidence, by the way he took charge of a room just by being present. Whenever he was close by, I knew it instantly. This awareness perplexed me, as I’d never before experienced anything like it.

Even stranger, I was fairly sure he felt it too. There was this ongoing vibration between us, almost a connection, and in different circumstances, I wouldn’t have hesitated to make the first move. But with things as they were, most days I just tried to keep Ethan out of my head.

Opening my notepad while Ethan talked, I doodled a cartoon character with toothpicks holding its eyes open. If I started to get sleepy again, maybe the image would snap me out of it. But instead of heavy eyes, my stomach swirled and then somersaulted.

Not again. Not now.

Based on my doctor’s claims of ginger being a good cure for nausea, I’d grabbed a can of ginger ale from a vending machine right before the meeting. Taking a cautious sip of the now tepid beverage, I prayed it would do what it was supposed to. My stomach gurgled in response.

After a hard swallow, I tried to even my breathing. Getting sick now would be bad. Horrifically, horribly, humiliatingly bad. Between the encounter with Shelby and my outburst in front of my coworkers, I’d been humiliated enough today, thank you very much. I clamped my lips together and willed my traitorous stomach into obedience.

“Missy had to leave early today,” Ethan was saying, picking up a tiny, nearly paper-thin remote off the table and pointing it at the monitor in the front of the room. “But she has the preliminary commercial ready for the Kendall account. I watched it earlier, but let’s take a look together.”

He pressed a button and the monitor came alive. I squirmed as it did. This was one of the accounts I’d been working on, and honestly I thought the commercial was way off base. Not that Missy, the lead for the account, was interested in my opinion, but I’d still given it to her. Politely, of course.

Our advertising agency logo flashed, followed by the client’s name. I scrunched lower in my chair. A mommy and a daddy penguin stood in the center of the screen with a group of children penguins all around. With dripping ice-cream cones in hand, they began to dance to an upbeat jingle.

As silly as this was, it was about to get even sillier. Cartwheeling polar bears holding melting Popsicles came next, their furry white bodies jiggling in rhythm. As if anybody could cartwheel while holding a Popsicle, especially large lumbering polar bears. For whatever reason, Missy thought this commercial would bring the residents of Chicago to Frosty’s Ice Cream Shoppe.

When the monitor finally flashed off, a sigh of relief escaped my chest. I’d drawn the images the animator had referenced for the commercial, but I still wasn’t on board with the overall design.

Ethan turned toward me just as my stomach burbled again. I slapped my hand over my mouth and eyed the door. How long would it take for me to run to the ladies’ room?

“What are your thoughts on this, Alice?” he asked.

I sipped my soda, hoping like hell it would stop the sloshing in my gut. “I think we accomplished Missy’s goals.” Why did the door seem farther and farther away as each second passed?

“What about the client’s goals?”

Sweat moistened my forehead. Not only did I have to fight getting sick in front of everyone, I needed to be tactful. Many of Missy’s friends were seated at the table, and anything I said would get back to her. I really didn’t want to piss the woman off.

But an answer was expected, and I couldn’t ignore a direct question from my boss, so I forged ahead. “One of Mr. Kendall’s requests was to suggest his place is fun for children, and I think this commercial certainly does. It is fun. For children.” I mentally patted myself on the back, for I’d oh-so-neatly sidestepped his question.

I started to stand, so I could excuse myself, when I realized it wasn’t going to be that easy. All of Ethan’s attention was centered on me. Other than the slight up and down movement of his chest, he stood completely still. The combination of absolute confidence and patience unnerved me, made me feel like I had to say more. It was the perfect boardroom tactic, and this man did it better than anyone I’d ever met. Not that I’d been in that many boardrooms, or met that many men who spent their time in boardrooms, for that matter; but I could still tell.

“Missy mentioned you had other ideas for this campaign,” he remarked. “I’d like to hear them.”

“Um…but…I’m just an artist,” I said.

He shook his head, the gray of his eyes darkening. “Nobody is
just
anything here. We’re a team, and everyone’s opinion is important. That includes yours.”

Ha. He should tell Missy that, as she certainly hadn’t thought much of my ideas.

Once again, his stare went right through me—not the most pleasant of feelings. To buy a few extra minutes, I grabbed my soda…then instantly changed my mind. One sip and I’d be done for. I wished it was just out of the fridge, icy cold peppermint tea instead of flat ginger ale.

All at once, a shiver rippled through my body and tiny bumps coated my arms. The strength of the feeling surprised me, and I inhaled a long slow breath until the sensations gradually bled away.

“Alice? We’re waiting.”

“Well…” I cleared my throat and reminded myself to be tactful. Before I could speak, the soda can grew cold beneath my fingers. I swear! But that was impossible, right?

I dropped my hand and tried to focus on Ethan. “Mr. Kendall wants a campaign that promises fun for everyone who loves ice cream. While the commercial is cute, I think the cartoon limits the appeal to children and to those who have children.” Swallowing to moisten my suddenly dry mouth, I forced myself to finish my thought process. “His place looks like a soda shop from the fifties. I think if we tie this shop to old-fashioned fun but also make it clear it’s perfect for whatever people celebrate today, it would have a broader appeal, beyond families with kids.”

“You visited the ice cream store?” Ethan asked.

“Well, yeah. That’s how I came up with the idea. Walking in is like stepping back in time to when people did more together than they do now. Let’s show them that celebrating at Frosty’s is fun…no matter what the occasion.” I shrugged. “I’m new at this, but it seems to me we should use that angle. Celebration, fun, and old-style togetherness.”

“I like that. Put together some specific ideas by next week’s meeting. We’ll go over them then.” And with that, he moved on to the next account.

Flattered, but also more than a little nervous, I sat back down and waited for my legs to stop shaking. Being in group situations, unless it was with my rather large family, was something to which I was unaccustomed. It knocked me off balance.

My stomach jumped again. It seemed Ethan was wrapping up the meeting, so I chanced another sip of ginger ale. But as I tipped the can, I had to force myself not to spit the drink back out. Oh my God, what the heck was happening?

You know when you’re expecting one taste and you get another, how completely freaky that is? Even if the secondary taste is appealing, it doesn’t seem that way because your brain’s expecting something else. Slanting the can forward at an angle, I waited for the contents to seep over the edge to pool in a little puddle on the top. It was light amber in color—which really didn’t tell me anything.

Raising the can, I sniffed. The unmistakable scent of peppermint met my nose. My skin chilled and my pulse sped up. I slammed the can back down on the table and watched it closely, as if it would break into dance like the cartoon penguins, which was ridiculous, because unless I’d crossed over into la-la land that was pretty much impossible.

Yet, how could room-temperature, flat ginger ale, in a freaking aluminum can, instantly turn into cold peppermint tea? No reasonable explanation presented itself. Was I hallucinating? Maybe pregnancy hormones had created a chemical shift in my brain and I truly was going insane. Did this happen to other expecting women?

On the heels of that thought, I recalled the mystery woman in my dreams and bedroom, and the windows opening on their own accord. I might have been able to convince myself, over time, that I’d gotten out of bed in a freak sleepwalking encounter and opened my bedroom windows that night.
Maybe.
But now I had two impossibilities staring me in the face. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore that.

I looked at the can of soda again. Another shiver struck, this one a shiver of apprehension mixed with a little bit of fear. My world, as crazy as it had been, had just gotten a hell of a lot wackier and I had absolutely no clue what to do about it.

“Why are you so freaked out? I think it’s cool,” said my best friend, Chloe Nichols, as we sat at my retroish dining room table Thursday evening. She’d recently cut her luxurious Lucille Ball red hair into a short style that framed her now even more pixieish face. The haircut definitely suited her, but I wasn’t quite used to it yet.

“Cool? It’s weird. And scary. Not to mention impossible.” Chloe was the only person I told everything to. She already knew about the dreams and the window, but this was the first she’d heard of my changing-ginger-ale-into-tea story.

She shrugged, her light green eyes dancing with humor. “Nothing is impossible. Besides, I’ve always thought you were extra sensitive about things. Maybe being pregnant has heightened that awareness.”

Chloe is a true believer in anything mystical. I was fairly sure she had a string of psychics on speed dial, ready to assist her at a moment’s notice with any question she might have. She even owned a little store specializing in all things crazy.

“Did you hear me?” I asked. “I’m not talking about awareness here. I wished my ginger ale was tea and it
became
tea.”

“I heard you. Have you tried again? To see if you can make it happen on purpose?”

“No.” Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Should I?”

“Yes!” She jumped up and then dashed into the kitchen. A minute later, she reappeared with a glass half filled with orange juice. After placing it in front of me, she returned to her seat. “Try to turn that into something else.”

“Okay. Let me think.” Did I really want to do this? I figured I might as well try, so I closed my eyes and concentrated. “I wish I had grape juice instead of orange juice.” Then, to be sure, I thought the wish a couple more times. Opening my eyes, the same half-filled glass of orange juice met my gaze. I didn’t know if I was disappointed or relieved. “Crap. I swear it happened.”

“Try again. Maybe you’re not concentrating hard enough.
Imagine
it turning into grape juice. See it with your mind’s eye, and when the image is crystal clear, wish again.”

I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but she had that voice people use when they’re telling ghost stories. But she knew more about this kind of thing than I did, so, funny or not, I took her advice. Unfortunately, other than pain at my temples, thirty minutes of effort brought me nothing except warm OJ. “Forget it. Nothing’s happening. Maybe I did imagine it.”

“I guess that’s possible,” Chloe admitted. “Maybe you wanted iced tea so badly, your brain made you think you had it? But I wouldn’t give up entirely. Try again later.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. I think I’m better off if I can forget it, though.” The last few days had been a giant pool of nonproductivity, what with my thoughts of the strange and unexplained. So, yeah. Definitely it would be better if I shoved those aside and focused on more important things. Like keeping my job.

Ethan expected my ideas for the Kendall account by Tuesday’s meeting, a mere five days away, and at this point I’d basically done nothing. Maybe I’d jot down some thoughts later that evening and put it all together over the weekend. It might mean skipping Sunday brunch with my sister, but I figured she’d understand.

“You never mentioned how your doctor’s appointment went.” Chloe was also one of the very few people who even knew I was pregnant.

“It went fine.” I filled her in on everything Dr. Layton had said about my dreams. “But you’ll never guess who I ran into.”

“Who?”

I took a breath before answering. Chloe could be unpredictable, and I wasn’t sure how she’d react. But I had to tell her. We had a no-secrets-allowed type of relationship. “Shelby Whitaker.”

She gasped, and her already pale face paled more. “Seriously? If there’s any justice in this world, you’ll tell me she’s grown a third eye and has a hairy mole on her chin.”

Laughing, I shook my head. “No mole, and only two eyes, but she’s huge. Well, her stomach is, anyway. She sounded the same, and looked mostly the same, but she was actually kind of nice. That was the biggest difference.”

“Impressions can be deceiving. Once a spoiled brat, always a spoiled brat.”

While Chloe had an open mind about almost everything, there were a few things in her life I didn’t think she’d ever get over or forgive. Seeing as how Shelby had swooped in and stolen not one, not two, but
three
boyfriends away from her in high school, I was pretty sure Shelby would remain on Chloe’s evil-eye list forever.

It was the third boyfriend that had really done it. The first two Chloe had gotten over relatively easily, as her emotions hadn’t been completely involved. But the third boyfriend, Kyle Ackers, she’d fallen head over heels for. He’d broken things off with Chloe right before graduation, and all the plans they’d begun to make were forgotten. It had been a long time ago, yes, but that didn’t mean it hurt Chloe any less today than it had back then. Especially because she and Shelby had been friends before the first boyfriend-snatching incident.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll probably never see her again. You’ve been over Kyle for years now, anyway. Right?” I remarked.

Chloe blinked before answering. “Sort of. I guess I’ve always wondered if fate played out correctly, or if Shelby screwed up my one chance at happily ever after. Sometimes you only get one shot. I’d hate to have had it stolen.”

“One chance? I don’t believe that,” I replied. “Just because you haven’t found your knight in shining armor yet doesn’t mean you won’t. Look at me. I’m still alone.”

“But you want to be alone,” she pointed out. “I don’t.”

All at once, the man I tried very hard not to think about entered my thoughts. Troy Bellamy, the father of my unborn child, was a thief, a jerk—and, oh yeah, married. No. I didn’t know he was married when we were dating. His wife demolishing my then-apartment in a fit of rage clued me in to that little detail.

Just thinking his name brought about images better left forgotten. I shuddered. “After a man lies to me, steals money from me, and acts like an escapee from an insane asylum, alone is pretty much all that’s left.”

A glimmer appeared in Chloe’s eyes. I knew that look, so I braced myself. Always, right before she had some crazy idea, she’d get all lit up from the inside and almost glow. “What?” I asked, not sure I really wanted to know.

“You just reminded me! When Troy came to your old place to pay back your money, you said he stated some far-out things. Do you remember?”

Like I’d ever forget. “Of course. He was ill and thought I’d cast a spell on him. Said his mother was a witch and had done the same exact thing to him, and begged me to take it off. And then he pointed to my sister as being the cause!” I grinned at the thought of Elizabeth casting a spell on anyone, for any reason whatsoever. My sister? She was almost as practical as our mother. Definitely not witch material, if there even was such a thing.

Chloe stood and paced the dining room. “Don’t you see what this means?”

“No. Why don’t you explain it?”

“You’re pregnant with Troy’s child. Troy’s mother is a witch. So, maybe the baby is too, and that’s how your soda turned into peppermint tea.”

Chloe’s words slammed down on me like a block of cement. I gave myself a minute to take it all in, because let’s face it: this was the first semireasonable, if totally crazy, explanation I had. But after that minute passed, I remembered one key fact. “Troy’s a liar. We can’t believe anything he said. His mother is probably a sweet old lady who bakes cookies for his kids.”

Chloe pulled a chair out next to me and sat down. “Well, there is that, but my skin is tingling.” She shoved her arm in front of me. “See? Goose bumps. I always get them when I’m on to something like this. Just the other day, one of my customers told me about how she thought she saw a ghost, and the same thing happened. Goose bumps everywhere.”

“Sweetie, that’s just your body giving you a physical reaction to something you’re excited about,” I told her. Someone had to keep Chloe’s feet on the ground. Witches weren’t real. Not the magic-producing, twitchy-nosed kind like in
Bewitched.

“What’s Troy’s mother’s name?” Chloe asked.

I’d never met her, but he’d talked about her here and there when were together. “It’s Beatrice. Beatrice Bellamy.”

“Is she local?” Chloe pushed.

“I think so, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Where’s your phone book?”

“You are not going to call her and ask her if she’s a witch, Chloe!”

“Don’t be silly. It’s not like she’d tell some stranger on the phone. I just want to see if she’s listed. So, where is it?”

Sighing, I stood. “I’ll get it.” After grabbing the phone book from the living room, I returned to the dining room and plopped it down in front of my friend, troublemaker that she was.

“What’s his dad’s name?”

“I don’t know. He never talked about his father.”

She flipped through pages until she found the Bs, and then ran her white-tipped fingernail down the list of names. “Wow, there’s lots of Bellamys but no Beatrice.”

“Maybe she’s unlisted. Or maybe I’m wrong and she doesn’t live around here.”

Sliding the phone book my way, she said, “You still haven’t been able to get a hold of Troy?”

I shook my head. Against my sister’s advice, I’d attempted to reach Troy several times over the past month. Because, jerk or not, I felt he had the right to know about the baby. Only none of his numbers were still in service. I’d even checked the health club he’d worked at when we dated, only to find he was no longer an employee. They had no idea where he was, or if they did, they weren’t telling me. So, as of now anyway, he didn’t have a clue I was pregnant. Maybe good, maybe bad. But at least I’d tried. “I don’t know where else to look for him.”

“I’ll do some checking around. About him and his mother. If she’s really a witch, someone I know will know of her.”

“You don’t seriously think this is a possibility, do you?” I asked.

“Like I said before, anything is possible. Even this. And come on, how cool would it be to have a witch in the family?”

“Your idea of cool doesn’t quite mesh with mine. And even if this is more than a far-fetched thought, it still doesn’t explain my weird dreams.”

“That might be one thing your doctor is right about. Maybe the woman
is
you, Alice. You’ve gone through a lot of stuff lately. Most of the time, dreams are all about our subconscious worries, fears, and fantasies. You know that.”

Weird, but for some reason, it was far easier for me to write off the other, more tangible things to imagination and hormones. But the dreams were just too real, in every way. It was hard to let go of that. This woman? She wanted to tell me something. I’d never been surer of anything in my life. “My gut says it’s more than that, but you could be right,” I ceded.

“Time will tell.” Chloe squeezed my hand. “I’m going to take off. I want to find out more about Beatrice Bellamy, and I think I know where to start.” Rising from her chair, she almost bounced to my front door. “I’ll call if I learn anything.”

I’d known Chloe long enough to realize that once the twilight zone portion of her brain is engaged, there’s no pulling her away from something. “Okay. We’re still on for Wednesday next week, right?”

“Absolutely. My treat, since it’s your birthday. And maybe I’ll have some answers for you by then.”

After she left, I rubbed my belly and thought again about Troy and that day he’d been at my place. He’d been so insistent that either I or my sister had cast a spell on him to make him sick. That was the reason he’d paid me back. Somehow, he’d had it in his head that once he did, the pain in his stomach would dissipate.

Troy was most definitely a liar. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. But that didn’t mean he’d lied about everything. So maybe this thing about his mother was the truth—at least as far as he believed.

Hell. Did witches,
real
witches, exist? I glanced at the door Chloe had exited through and hoped, really, truly hoped, she’d discover something to disprove the notion. Because, in all seriousness, the thought of raising a baby with magic in his or her bloodline freaked me out more than anything else possibly could. My new motto in life was all about control. And come on: there was absolutely nothing I could control about this. If it proved to be true.

Pushing the situation out of my mind, I made my way to my desk. A few hours of work on the Kendall account would certainly bring things into better perspective. After all, that was one thing I
could
control.

As to the rest? I’d just have to wait and see.

The telltale shuffle of my coworkers walking toward the elevator clued me in that it was time for lunch. I felt like the odd girl out. It wasn’t that the people at Enchanted Expressions weren’t nice. They were; they just didn’t think to include me in any of their out-of-the-office activities.

Usually this sort of thing didn’t bother me. But today, for whatever reason, a hint of disappointment settled in when I was once again alone in the office I shared with two others. I shrugged it off. So it would be a working lunch. No big deal. Opening my sketchbook, I decided to flesh out some of my ideas for the Frosty’s Ice Cream Shoppe account.

The ice cream counter went in first, with a line of stools in front. Behind the counter, I added a couple of employees and the large menu that hung on the wall. My hand moved quickly, the pencil making that
swoosh
sound I’d always loved, and I didn’t stop to think about the image emerging: I just wanted a rough sketch to begin with. The tables went in next. One by one, I filled the chairs with people spending time together, enjoying ice cream.

Everything around me disappeared as I worked. Creative energy flowed from me to the pencil to the page, my hand in perfect harmony with my mental vision. While this feeling wasn’t completely unusual, it hadn’t occurred in far too long—since before the drastic change in my life, and never at Enchanted Expressions. On many occasions in the past, I’d begun a painting or a sketch and hours had disappeared without me being truly aware of it. When I looked at my work later, I’d remember every stroke I made with brush or the pencil, but the process itself was pure magic. Coming out of this trance was like waking up slowly from an afternoon siesta, without any outside intrusions.