By Magic Alone (6 page)

Before I pulled myself up, a gentle, warm breeze floated around me, filling me with a surge of calmness that somehow, in some way, knocked my fear down a notch. But that didn’t mean I wanted to stay. Uh-uh. I struggled to my feet and thrust myself toward the door.

No one tried to stop me, a voice didn’t holler out from behind, but the scent of roses remained just as strong, just as overwhelming. I made it to the door, saw my car through the window, and my panic dropped another level. But wow, was I happy to be leaving. I grasped the doorknob and pulled.

The door didn’t budge. I twisted the lock to the right and then the left, thinking that maybe the door had locked
automatically behind me when I’d entered. That didn’t work either.

“What the hell?” I pulled, twisted, and then—as a last desperate move—pushed with all of my might. Nothing. Had the lock somehow gotten jammed? Maybe. Probably. A fresh bout of panic clouded my thinking. This . . . this was bad. Really, really bad.

I paced the area in front of the door, eyeing my car across the street as if it were an oasis in the middle of a desert, trying to figure out how I was going to get out of this mess.

“Calm down. There is always a way,” I said. “Think this through.” The sound of my voice brought one rational thought: maybe there was a back exit? Yes! Of course there was. Fire laws and all that stuff. I took off across the room and down the hall. It took all of two minutes to discover that if another exit existed, it was behind one of the locked doors off of the hallway. The only door I’d been able to open was the one to the restroom. Lucky me and my bladder.

“Suck it up, Julia. Time to call for reinforcements.” I rummaged through my purse until I found my cell phone. I hated the thought of calling the police, but I didn’t see how anyone else would be able to get me out of here. It wasn’t as if I even knew Verda’s home number, let alone had it on speed dial. Though maybe Kara and Leslie did.

Relieved I might have an out, even if it was embarrassing, I dialed Leslie’s cell number and hit the send button. The call didn’t go through.

I tried Kara’s. That call didn’t connect, either. Fear returned as I tried dialing my parents, and then Leslie and Kara again. Still nothing. I stared at the backlit display, proof that the battery had power, and gave it one more go without success. Maybe it was broken. Maybe Magical Matchups was somehow
located in a dead zone. Regardless, the phone was not going to be my salvation.

“Great. Just friggin’ great,” I said, shoving it back into my purse.

More annoyed than wigged-out now, I tried to use the Magical Matchups phone. But there wasn’t—surprise, surprise—a dial tone. Another light breeze wafted through the room, redolent of roses. I clutched the edge of the desk as a series of tremors whipped through me. The ridiculous notion that I was
supposed
to be here overtook all other thoughts, followed by the feeling that I was meant to experience whatever the hell was going on, and that I was not going to be able to leave until . . . well, until
what,
I didn’t know.

My legs weakened and I sank to the floor. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. It seemed I really had walked through the wardrobe. I just wish I’d known it was a one-way trip.

The first two hours of my unexpected lockup passed in a smog of panic-induced activity. Every thirty minutes, I’d try my cell again. When that didn’t work—because it never did—I’d check the business phone for the always-nonexistent dial tone. After that, I’d return to the front door and give it a few hearty yanks. I even attempted cajoling the lock open with a straightened paper clip. Where was MacGyver when I needed him?

Somewhere in the third hour, I considered heaving the desk chair through the front window and making a break for freedom by crawling over shards of jagged glass. I got as far as rolling the chair across the room before changing my mind. No one had pushed me into entering Magical Matchups. It felt wrong—so wrong—to damage someone’s property because I’d decided to do a foolhardy thing.

I sat on the edge of the sofa with my arms crossed
defensively over my chest. Likely, I’d gotten worked up for no real reason. What I’d experienced
had
to be nothing more than an adrenaline-based reaction to behaving out of character. All of this made sense, so I did my best to ignore my panic, to forget about my earlier fear, but remnants of both remained strong enough that I couldn’t relax. Probably not a bad thing, as it seemed far smarter and safer to be awake and alert when morning came.

But somehow, as the hours progressed, my eyelids grew heavier and heavier, and my fixation with unexplained breezes, scents, and church-bell-like laughs drifted away. I closed my eyes with the promise that I’d sleep for only an hour. Maybe two.

Waking up
hurt.

Pinpricks stabbed my neck from sleeping at an awkward angle, the achy soreness in my jaw told me I’d clenched it throughout the night, and the rest of my muscles were tight and tender. I stretched my legs out, lost in the disorientation of those initial seconds of wakefulness, unable to comprehend the warning signals my sluggish brain was firing off.

My first conscious thought was that I’d fallen asleep in my living room. My second was that I smelled coffee. My third was how odd that was, because the timer on my coffeemaker had stopped functioning months ago and I’d yet to get around to replacing it. Had Kara or Leslie popped in while I slept?

Maybe. They shared the apartment across the hall from mine, and we had copies of each other’s keys. I cracked one eye open and then the next. Sunlight streamed in the window, bouncing off the polished hardwood floor so that it shone in a glittery, gleaming way. Almost reminiscent of the surface of a lake on a hot, steamy day.

My hazy brain latched onto that, and then a rush of images,
sounds, scents, and feelings flooded in. My heart picked up speed, thumping wildly beneath my breastbone, waking me up as completely as if I stood beneath the full-stream blast of an icy-cold shower.

I jumped up—fast—and pivoted, taking note of the coat slung over the desk chair. Someone else was here with me, but they . . . what?
Hadn’t
noticed me sleeping in the center of the room on their sofa?
Had
noticed but decided to let me get my beauty sleep while they brewed a pot of joe? I felt as if I had simultaneously become Goldilocks
and the
three bears.

My gaze skittered to the front door. Every instinct screamed to rush out, get in my car, and drive away without a backward glance. But my legs defied my instincts and carried me across the floor, down the hallway, to an open door on the right. I was curious. Curious enough that it pushed me forward, outweighed my desire to run.

I peered in and saw an empty break room that looked to be a miniature replica of a country kitchen. Fruit-laden wallpaper covered all four walls, a colorful backdrop to the bright red-checked dish towels folded neatly on the small, round table and the equally red coffeemaker, toaster, and small microwave perching on the butcher-block counter. I retreated a step. Acid sloshed in my stomach at the absurdity of the situation. I should’ve been awakened by a cop hauling me to my feet or, at the very least, a scream of surprise. But this was weird. Bordering on
Twilight Zone
weird.

“There you are!” A way-too-chipper voice came from the other side of me, farther down the hall. “I was just on my way out to check on you. Ready for some coffee, dear? Oh, and I might have a few day-old pastries left in the cupboard, if you’re feeling hungry.”

A petite elderly woman—most likely the mysterious Verda—slipped around me and entered the break room. She
wore a dress of varying shades of purple so vivid that my eyes watered in defense, and her short, curly hair was the hue of a pale lemon. She stopped in the middle of the room and stared at me inquisitively with light blue eyes. “Coffee?”

I ignored the impulse to wrap my arms around myself and returned her stare. In most scenarios, one could expect a specific type of response from another person. We were in a ridiculously peculiar situation, and this woman was not behaving in any sort of a predictable manner. It threw me, confused me, and sent another wave of apprehension through my body.

Perhaps that was her intent? Maybe her goal was to delay me until I was cuffed and tossed in the back of some cop car? I couldn’t rule it out.

Keeping my voice steady, I asked, “Are the police on their way?”

Her frail shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug, as if amused by my question. She opened a cupboard door, bringing out a white rectangular box labeled with the name A
TASTE OF MAGIC.
“Ah, yes. Here they are,” she said. She lifted the lid before setting the box on the table. “There are several left. My granddaughter, Elizabeth, owns a lovely little bakery in Highland Park.”

“I’m not hungry.” I took a few more backward steps and measured the distance between me and the front door. Was it open? Even more to the point: could I make it?

“Oh, dear. Listen to me! I haven’t even introduced myself.” She approached me with a lopsided smile and twinkling eyes. Holding out her hand she said, “I’m Verda.”

Without thinking, I placed my hand in hers. “I’m Julia,” I said, and instantly wished I’d made up a name. Or given her my middle name. Or my mother’s. Yeah, definitely my mother’s.

Tipping her head to the right, Verda appraised me. “Yes, you
look like a Julia. Let’s sit down and get acquainted. I’m so very excited you’re here!”

What? “Excited?”

“Well, of course I am! I’ve been waiting months for you to show. When Miranda told me this morning—” Verda shook her head. “Never mind that for now. Why don’t you help yourself to some coffee and a pastry while I get my tea started?”

Okay, I didn’t know which question to ask first. Why was Verda excited to meet me? Why had she been waiting for me? Who was Miranda, and what did she have to do with my being here? See? Way too many questions. And why wasn’t Verda asking me any? Deciding again that this was too weird to deal with—especially in yesterday’s clothes—I went with “I should probably leave. I . . . I have to get to work.”

All good humor left Verda’s face. She wrinkled her nose. “Nonsense. It’s not every day I find a strange woman sleeping on my couch.” She leveraged her hands on her hips. “You can spend a few minutes talking with me, or I can contact the authorities. What will it be?”

Ha. I figured she meant to scare me into staying, but her words had the opposite effect. I understood this response. I liked the
logic
of this response. And that bolstered my sagging comfort level. After all, I knew how to behave when logic ruled.

“Coffee it is,” I said. “But I need to make a phone call first. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to freshen up.”

The tension eased. Verda gave me another once-over and, apparently deciding I’d spoken the truth, smiled. “The restroom is across the hall. Do what you need to do, dear. I’ll be right here.”

In the ten minutes that followed, I washed my face and brushed my hair. I checked my cell phone and found it
functioning—how odd was that?—and called Introductions. It was Thursday, which meant my part-time assistant would be in shortly. I left her a message that I’d be delayed a few hours. Now, I was seated across from Verda at her itty-bitty table with a cup of coffee. And a pastry. She’d insisted.

Verda sipped her tea while she watched me. I had the nagging suspicion that she was sizing me up and determining my worth. That was okay. I was doing the same with her. Besides, if sitting here kept her from calling the cops, I’d sit all day. A long minute passed, maybe two. She set her cup down hard enough that tea splashed over the edge.

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

“I . . . um . . . Two of my friends are clients of yours. They’ve said a lot of positive things about you. And about Magical Matchups.” So far so good. “I came by last night to see what all the fuss was about. The door was open and I came in, but no one was here. When I tried to leave, I couldn’t open the door.” Wow, I hadn’t lied. Kudos to me.

I assumed Verda would press for more details, but she didn’t. Instead, a pleased expression flashed over her. “Did anything else occur that might be considered odd?”

I wasn’t about to mention the laugh, the breeze, or the aroma of an invisible rose garden. In the bright light of day, I was more than willing to chalk the prior night’s episodes up to nothing more than panic. “Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” An all-knowing glimmer brightened her eyes. “You must have been frightened. Why didn’t you phone for help?”

“Um . . . my cell wasn’t getting a signal last night.”

“You should have used my phone.”

“I tried.” I chuckled humorlessly. “Your phone didn’t work, either.”

“Ah, I see.” Verda leaned forward and clasped my hand with
one of hers. Normally, I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know that well, but for some reason this didn’t bother me. “That’s an odd occurrence, wouldn’t you say?”

I refused to give any additional credence to my wild imagination or the spaz attack that followed. I wanted to understand why Verda seemed pleased to see me, and what in the hell she’d meant about waiting for me to show. “It was just one of those things,” I said. “But you didn’t seem surprised to find me here.”

“I wasn’t. As I said, I’ve been expecting you.”

“Did Kara and Leslie tell you about me?” That made sense. Either that, or—just as I’d predicted—Verda had done her research and knew exactly who I was: her competition.

“No, Julia.” She sighed in a dramatic manner. “I opened this business
because
of you.”

“Wh-What?” I wagged my head to the side. “You did what?”

“You heard me correctly. I opened Magical Matchups because of you.” Verda’s chin gave a slight tremble. “Well, I didn’t know your name and I didn’t know what you looked like, but I knew that I needed Magical Matchups to find you.” She clapped her hands together. “And here you are!”

“Yes . . . here I am. But, I’m sorry, do I know you? Do you know my parents?” The absurd thought that maybe they were behind this, that they were somehow in cahoots with Verda, had me sitting up straighter. Was this their way of pushing Introductions toward failure, so I’d have no choice but to go work for my father? The calmness I’d been hanging on to for dear life whipped away in a burst of annoyance. “Did my parents set this up?”