By Magic Alone (3 page)

“No.” Alcohol would have been good, though. And not some fruity umbrella drink, either. No, I wanted a shot of . . . of . . . whiskey. Something hot and wicked. Something that would burn going down and make me forget everything.

“What are you thinking?” This question came from Leslie.

“I’m wondering why you signed a confidentiality agreement when the only reason you were at Magical Matchups was for me. It would stand to reason that you’d refuse to sign something that would preclude you from living up to our agreement.”

“When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound that great,” Kara admitted. “But we didn’t think of it in exactly those terms.”

I snapped my eyes open so fast that my head began to ache. “How did you think of it?”

Neither of them spoke, but I saw the wheels turning.

I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the headache before it increased. “I sort of expected this from Kara,” I said. She gasped, so I tossed her a smile to lessen the sting. “But Leslie, I didn’t see this coming from you.”

How could I? Leslie had a practical—which I appreciated—but unrealistic way of seeking out men. They had to fall within five guidelines: handsome, honorable, charismatic, sexy, and—to Leslie, the most important of them all—rich. Leslie isn’t a snob. Not really. But she was raised poor. The lucky-to-have-food-on-the-table-and-shoes-on-her-feet type of poor. Therefore, money was a huge issue.

Unfortunately, men that matched all five of these requirements weren’t dropping from the sky. When you added in Leslie’s age limitations—no more than two years younger or six years older—the available pool shrunk more. Over the years she’d found a couple of guys who’d hit four out of five, but as Leslie liked to say, “Close isn’t good enough,” so she’d done what she did best: pushed them away.

Leslie said, “Do you remember Scot Raymond?”

He was just one of the guys I’d been thinking of. My jaw dropped open. I jerked it shut and tried to smile serenely. Did I remember Scot Raymond? Tall. Gorgeous brown eyes. A husky, deep voice that made my insides tremble. And not that I’d admit it out loud, but an awesome ass that looked mighty fine in a pair of jeans. Of course I remembered him. An uncomfortable blaze of heat whipped through me. “Um . . . barely,” I lied. “Why?”

“Because even though our relationship didn’t last, he’s the type of guy I should be with.
He
is the one I shouldn’t have let get away.”

“He didn’t ‘get away.’ You pushed him away. He wasn’t rich enough for you,” I nearly screeched. “You cheated on him
and made sure he knew it. Then he broke things off with you, which is exactly what you wanted!” Whoa. Where had that come from?

Kara gasped again, and Leslie’s complexion drained of color. Both of them looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, which probably wasn’t that far off base. Knowing the truth about your friends doesn’t necessarily give you permission to throw it in their faces. “Oh, God. Leslie . . . I’m so sorry I said it that way. I . . .”

She sighed and a tremor rolled through her. “I’m going to let your comment slide because I know you’re upset. But he . . . I regret what I did. My feelings for him scared me, so I purposely demolished the relationship before anything could come from it.” Her mouth compressed in a defiant line. “I made a mistake. A huge mistake, but I’ve learned from it. If I could have one more chance with him, I’d grab it in a second.”

This was a news flash. Leslie tended to look forward at all times. “Really? Then maybe you should call him. Why waste your time with Magical Matchups if you think this guy is
the
guy?”

Her eyes glazed over with pain. “It’s too late. I need to move on, and Verda’s going to help me so I don’t make that mistake again. She believes in me.”

“I believe in you! Don’t you know that?”

“Yes. But I need someone on my side who also believes that what I want is possible. Verda can do that. I don’t think you can. I’m sorry, Julia.”

That hurt, like a punch in the stomach after eating a full seven-course meal. Tears sparked behind my eyes, but I shoved them away. Why was I arguing? Leslie had the right to go for what she wanted, and if—when—it backfired, I’d be here to pick up the pieces.

“If this is what you want, I support you.” I looked at Kara. “You too. I will always support both of you. We don’t have to agree for that to be there.”

Relief slid into both of their faces and their bodies relaxed. “Thank you,” Leslie said. “I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, but I do have an idea that might give you the information you need.”

“Um . . . Les? It was my idea,” Kara rushed to say. “Remember, we talked about this last night.”

Leslie arched her right eyebrow. “Fine.
We
have an idea of what you can do next.”

“Not we.
Me.
It was my idea,” Kara repeated. “Give credit where credit is due.”

“That’s not the way—” Leslie clamped her lips together and nodded. Motioning toward Kara, she said, “Go ahead and tell Julia
your
idea.”

Wow. We were all stressed to the max. And while some of my friends’ stress was my fault, I put most of the blame on Verda and her lovey-dovey voodoo. “Go on, Kara. I’m listening.” I mentally crossed every one of my appendages that her idea was a good one.

“You need to join Magical Matchups yourself. If you’re a client, you’ll learn whatever it is you want to know on your own.” Kara’s eyes had that shimmery glow again. “Maybe we could even go on some triple dates!”

Again, both Leslie and Kara watched me expectantly. I figured they wanted me to jump in with both feet because it would dispel any of the guilt they might be experiencing for letting me down. But, “I already thought of that. And it’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?” Leslie asked.

“I’m not impartial. How can I go through Verda’s process, whatever it is, when my beliefs are what they are? Besides
which, I’m her competition. She probably already knows who I am.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t see how it can work.”

“I don’t think Verda will care who you are, as long as she believes you’re serious about finding love.” Leslie leaned forward, so we were eye to eye. “Unless there’s another reason? Are you worried that maybe, just maybe, Verda will make you a believer, too?”

“No,” I said between clenched teeth. “I mean what I said.”

“Well, then, I don’t know what to tell you.” Leslie returned to her prior position and gnawed on her lip. “So you’re going to give up?”

“Of course not! That would be the same as shutting down Introductions myself.” It would also require admitting to my parents that I’d failed. I winced at the thought. “No, I’m not giving up.”

“Then what? Do you have any other ideas?” Kara asked.

“I’ll figure something out.” What, exactly, I didn’t know. My two best friends bailing on me and deserting to the other side was not a possibility I’d considered. Maybe the temp agency I sometimes used had a special subterfuge and secrecy division for these types of projects? Unlikely, but I could always hope. “It’ll be okay.”

“Would Gregory and Susanna give you another loan?” Leslie asked. “I mean, they are your parents, and they’re not exactly hurting for money.”

I shuddered in reflex. Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. But there was no way they’d pull my butt out of this particular fire. “That isn’t an option,” I said tightly.

“Why not? Think about it, Julia. They’re all about business, so if you brought this to them as an investment opportunity, they might go for it,” Leslie pushed. “And another infusion of cash might be enough to get you through this rough spot.”

I shook my head. “You’re right. My parents
are
all about
business, and I still owe them money from the original loan. They won’t see this as an investment—they’ll see it as throwing more cash into a losing enterprise.” Besides which, my relationship with my parents was tenuous at best. The last thing I wanted was to make things worse.

“She’s right, Les,” Kara said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. “We really are sorry. Can you forgive us? We hate disappointing you.”

“I know,” I said in a soft voice. “I appreciate the honesty.” And even with everything else, I did.

“So you’re feeling better?” Leslie asked.

“Absolutely,” I lied. I twisted my lips into a smile that I hoped appeared real. “I’ll figure this out,” I said again.

They returned my smile. Theirs were as fake, but hey, points to them for pretending. That didn’t stop my stomach from cramping. If my friends doubted me, then it was no wonder I’d lost so many clients.

But I’d fix it. I’d fix everything. How hard could it be? All I had to do was figure out how to plump up my company’s bottom line, discover what the mysterious and “kooky” Verda had that I didn’t, and bring in a bunch of new business. Piece of cake.

Right. If I had to bake that cake over an open campfire in the middle of a blizzard with my bikini on and wearing a blindfold. Easy peasy.

I gulped back a groan and smiled wider. So wide, my cheeks hurt. “Let’s go grab some dinner. Somewhere that serves margaritas.” I stood up. “My treat.”

Kara and Leslie nodded and followed me out of my office in silence. As we walked, I tried to conceive a plan that would accomplish everything I needed. Not a whole lot of anything came to me. But deep inside, there was this teeny-tiny part of me that wished that magic and fairy godmothers were real.
Because if I could blink my eyes—or have someone else blink their eyes—and have every last thing fall into place, well, that would certainly make my life a hell of a lot easier.

“Hey, Julia?” Leslie asked as I locked the building’s front door.

“Yeah?”

“You can’t go out to dinner with us, can you? It’s Wednesday. Don’t you have your weekly dinner at your parents’ house?”

“Shit.” I twisted my wrist to see my watch and cursed again. “Yes. Yes, I do. And I’m going to be late.” I pulled a couple of twenties from my wallet and handed them to Leslie. “Here. Have fun and drink a few margaritas for me, please. I’m going to need them.”

An hour or so later, I pressed the doorbell outside of my parents’ mausoleum-like home and waited for the maid to let me in. Amanda had opened the door the past four Wednesdays with a smile and a proper greeting. If she lasted two more weeks, she’d beat this year’s record. Four more weeks, and she’d be the three-year champion.

My family’s inability to retain household help wasn’t a secret. Five years ago, my mother’s longtime maid and confidant Eloise retired to Florida. My normally unflappable mother hadn’t handled the exodus well, and since, the Collins household had seen an ever-changing rotation of maids in a seemingly endless quest to fill Eloise’s perfect shoes. Extrawide white oxfords, if I recall correctly.

My mother, Susanna Marie Kaiser-Collins—of the Philadelphia Kaisers, by the way—didn’t or couldn’t comprehend that her failure to find good help had more to do with how much she missed Eloise than it did actual housework and a pleasant demeanor. I’d tried to explain this emotional-connection concept to her about three years ago, but that conversation had gone downhill almost as quickly as Introductions.

These weekly dinners had become sort of a betting match between me and Mom, albeit a silent and secret one. My rules were simple: Each week that passed without my mother firing the maid—or that the maid didn’t quit—I’d tuck away a five-dollar bill toward a special gift for my mother. The week following a firing or quitting, I’d present her with an
item purchased with the money I’d saved. Most of these gifts were bought from one of Chicago’s many dollar stores, though I’d picked up a few at thrift stores. Watching my always impeccable and socially adept mother attempt to understand the wide variety of interesting items I gave her was pretty much priceless. Strangely, she’d yet to question me on any of them, and as far as I knew hadn’t connected the dots of what I was doing. Which made the game all that much more fun, because it was probably the only thing I’d ever kept from her. If the impossible ever happened and a maid lasted an entire year, I’d already promised myself that besides coming clean with Mom, I’d triple the pot and give the entire amount to the maid. Even with the present state of my business, I wasn’t all that worried.

I rang the doorbell again, my hopes for Amanda fading fast. I was already considering what quirky item I might buy with the current pool of fifteen dollars when the heavy door swung open. A flustered young woman who appeared to be sweating profusely stared at me with wild eyes—the type you might expect to see on a caged and starving animal repeatedly mocked with the promise of freedom and an all-you-can-eat buffet.

Poor Amanda. I’d truly believed she’d last longer than three weeks.

I smiled at the new maid. “Hello, I’m—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Collins’ daughter, yes?” the young woman said in a barely coherent rush. “Please come in.”

“That’s me. I’m Julia. And you’re . . .?”

“Helen. Please come in,” she repeated. “Dinner is almost ready, and Mrs. Collins would like you to join them for a drink before the meal is served.”

I nodded and stepped into the marble foyer. “Are they in the living room or the parlor?” Yes, my parents had a parlor.

“Living room. Please, Ms. Collins, your mother was quite insistent.” Helen darted a nervous look over her shoulder. “Your coat, please. Mrs. Collins would you like you to join them posthaste.”

“She’s always insistent, and
posthaste
is her favorite word.” I unbuttoned my coat. Helen tugged my right sleeve and then my left until the coat was ripped from my body into her arms.

I wanted to offer Helen some words of encouragement. My mother wasn’t a bad person, and I knew she paid her employees a more-than-competitive wage. But working for her required a strong backbone, thick skin, and a fearless attitude. I’d learned, though, that no matter how good my intentions were, nothing I said made a lick of a difference.

I tried to help in a different way. Reaching into my purse, I pulled out a business card and handed it over. “Here. Take this in case you need it. I’ve done business with the owner, so if things don’t work out here, give her a call. She’ll help you find a better fit.”