Winging high above them all, a graceful eagle soars, senses attuned to those below, to their beating hearts and deepest yearnings. He watches and waits, prepared to dive as the need arises, protecting and guiding when instincts lead them astray and holding his position when the answer lies in their grasp. His eyes see what theirs do not: that magic exists in every place, person, and moment, asking nothing more than belief. Within us, and beyond us, magic waits for us all.
Dear Reader,
If the dedication in the front of this book had you questioning my opinion of firefighters, I hope reading Call It Magic assured you that I am fully aware it’s not just about the trucks. But I also hope Gunnar and Katy were able to show you it’s not about the glory, either. (Lord knows it’s not about the money, as most firefighters—at least here in Maine—have to work two jobs to support their families.) And despite all the news stories highlighting the creative ways we honor our heroes, firefighters and medics more often than not continuously study and train in quiet obscurity until they are suddenly and desperately needed.
So yeah, I may have exaggerated the cockiness of my fictional responders a bit (hey, if we can’t poke fun at our children, why have them), but those of you familiar with my work already know that I don’t care to read, much less write, emotionally draining stories. That doesn’t mean I shy away from the more serious subjects; I simply prefer to use levity to inspire hope. And like Gunnar, I, too, am fully aware that firefighting is serious business, so I hope you’ll forgive my taking a few liberties with their protocols and procedures for the sake of story. I don’t think I strayed too far from their collective mind-sets, though, for surely if firefighters and paramedics, our military, policemen, doctors and nurses, and everyone who works with the elderly, the feeble, and the disadvantaged, didn’t step back and have a good laugh on a regular basis, they’d likely never stop crying. Not only do those dedicated men and women possess hearts befitting the warriors they are, they also have lion-sized (if slightly warped) senses of humor.
So, consider honoring your local fire and rescue squad by maybe giving them a gift card for a nearby takeout eatery, having pizza anonymously delivered, or stopping by and simply saying thank you. (But if you really want to make their day, ask if you can take a selfie with the entire team in front of one of their beautiful, badass trucks.)
And God bless all who tirelessly hit the ground running every time those alarms go off.
* * *
* * *
Okay, what you just read was originally the full extent of my letter, that is until I was nearing the end of writing Call It Magic and realized I had a bit of a problem.
Let me explain . . .
If you’re a returning reader, you’ve also probably figured out by now that I’m an insatiably curious person. In fact, I may have a bit of a reputation for driving people crazy with my incessant questions. I’m not only curious about how everything in the world works, but also how people think. Such as how we connect the dots to reach the conclusions we do or why one person will judge an action as wrong and the person standing right beside them, witnessing the exact same action, will believe it to be right. Are our morals formed solely by the societies we grow up in? Or is our view of good and evil programmed into our DNA, much like our personal perspectives as to whether something is loud or quiet, tasty or terrible, and pretty or ugly?
When I first conceive a storyline, it’s usually because I have a question about some aspect of human behavior that’s caught my attention—usually for no particular reason that I can fathom. For example, in Charming the Highlander, I found myself wondering if there might ever be a circumstance where a woman is justified in not telling a man he’d fathered a child. Like what if she felt the guy was a jerk? Or a deadbeat or even dangerous? Wouldn’t that be a convenient assessment if she happened to love the child too much to hand it over? (You might not believe me, but I truly didn’t know if Grace Sutter was going to give up Baby even three-quarters-way into the book, even right up until I began writing that heart-wrenching scene.)
And because I apparently like looking at things from different angles, I revisited the same question in Tempt Me If You Can, only this time wondering what might happen if a woman—or in this case an entire town—didn’t tell a man he’d fathered a child, and one day out of the blue, he receives an anonymous letter saying he should come meet his fifteen-year-old son.
I have absolutely no idea where the questions driving my stories come from. But I suspect it’s my characters themselves who, wrestling with a particular dilemma, come to me—and you, dear readers—looking for answers. But here’s the kicker: Your advice to them and my advice might not be the same. What you feel is right might not be what another reader feels is right or what I feel is right.
And that was the worry I had while working on Call It Magic.
Rape is a very sensitive subject to broach, and tragically for some, very personal. Even more tragic, it appears to be growing prevalent, especially with the advent of date-rape drugs. (Or maybe cable news and social media simply make it appear that way by finally bringing it out in the open.) And although it’s more often presented as a young people’s problem, anyone of any age can find themselves victimized. Not just once, either, but again in the court of social media, where everyone is free to shout their personal opinion as to whether or not the victim should have known better or even had in some way asked for it.
But I wish to draw your attention to another—and what I consider equally polarizing—question I hadn’t anticipated but nonetheless found myself pondering within days of Katy and Gunnar showing up on my creative doorstep.
And that would be, is Katy MacBain a murderer?
Would you consider it murder if a person knew that someone should immediately go see a doctor but didn’t tell them and that someone keeled over dead less than a month later? Even if the bastard had been raping the person at the time she discovered he had an aneurysm getting ready to burst inside his vile, perverted brain?
I imagine the answer is fairly cut and dry for some of you, in that of course Katy should have told him. For others of you, I can almost hear you applauding her decision.
So, you ask, do I believe Katy should have told him?
Honest to God—I. Still. Don’t. Know.
And you know what? I don’t think I want or even need to know. And you know why? Because I feel that that particular decision, having to be made in this particular situation, is nobody’s business but Katy’s. And I really don’t want to be one of those people shouting on social media what she should or should not have done since I wasn’t there and I’m not her.
This has never really happened to me before, as I always seem to be able to write my way to an answer. And because I couldn’t this time, you came very close to never seeing this book.
But then I thought, wait, I know you people. We’ve been through quite a lot together over the last fourteen years. And you’re really not reading my stories to hear my opinion of what my characters should do; you’re reading them to draw your own conclusions as to what you would do in their situation. I decided to hand in Call It Magic despite my concern, because—big sigh—I trust you. I have faith that you are all capable of drawing your own conclusions without needing to hear mine as to whether Katy was right or wrong to withhold her information. Then again, some questions are simply unanswerable. And yet again, some answers change over time. (It wasn’t all that long ago women were considered too—oh, let’s go with—uninformed to vote. And too scatterbrained, emotional, unpredictable, physically weak—pick one, any one—to operate heavy equipment, pilot commercial jets, captain ships, fight fires, or wear a badge and carry a gun. Heck, we apparently used to be too dumb to be doctors and lawyers and CEOs of mega-companies, much less capable of running an entire country. Thank God we’ve come a long way, baby. There’re still more glass ceilings to shatter, but we’re slowly and
surely getting there.)
Wow. Guess I’m not shy about voicing my opinion on some things.
Anyhoo; I started down this long-winded path for the sole purpose of thanking you in advance (I’m writing this letter almost a year before you’re reading it) for not getting upset that I don’t neatly tie up every little loose end in my stories. Because, you know, sometimes it’s just not possible. (And sometimes I do it on purpose, just so you can pick your own endings to some of the more minor messes my characters get themselves into. Yup, I confess, I’ve done that more than once. And as a heads-up, I’ll probably continue doing it.)
So here is my heartfelt thank-you for taking these journeys with me anyway.
Until later, you keep reading, and I’ll keep sharing the magic.
Janet
P.S. Please don’t be jealous the Canadians got Atlantis . I felt they deserve a little excitement, since I hear they measure snow in meters up there.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
From Kiss to Queen
Available now!
The sharp, roaring shrill of a powerful engine shattered the slumberous quiet of the deep Maine woods. Birds scattered, chipmunks scurried for cover, and Jane Abbot instinctively ducked when a fast-moving aircraft shot overhead just above the treetops. Deciding someone was doing a bit of illegal scouting for next week’s moose hunt, Jane frowned when she noticed the wing flaps on the floatplane were set for landing. Except that didn’t make sense, since the closest lake big enough to land a plane that size on was at least twenty miles away.
Surely the pilot wasn’t eyeing the pond she’d just passed.
Jane actually screamed when another plane roared overhead, this one smooth-bellied instead of rigged with floats. Her shotgun hanging forgotten at her side, she stood in the center of the old tote road and watched the sleek, twin-engine Cessna sharply bank after the first plane like a metallic hawk trying to drive its prey to ground.
What in holy heaven was going on?
The floatplane roared past again, this time low enough for Jane to see the male pilot was attempting to line up with the pond. A sudden burst of gunfire drew her attention to the second plane, where she saw a man kneeling in the open rear door holding a machine gun, his entire body jerking as spent shell casings rained down on the forest below. A small explosion pulled her attention back to the floatplane in time to see smoke coming from the nose of the aircraft as its floats brushed the tops of several towering pines. The plane was landing whether it was possible or not. No more chances for the desperate pilot to circle around and get it right. He was going down—now.
Jane finally came out of her stupor and started running at the sound of breaking branches and the sputter of a dying engine. A tree snapped with enough force to vibrate the air just seconds before the unmistakable thud of the plane hitting water echoed through the forest over the retreating drone of the deadly, victorious plane.
And then complete silence; no sounds from the pond, no birds chirping . . . nothing. Jane realized she’d stopped running and was holding her breath—listening. Waiting. Hoping.
Aw, heck. Give her a sound. Something! A whirl of water. A splash. Something to tell her the pilot of the downed plane was making his way free of the wreckage.
But still no sound, except for the sudden intake of her own breath as she awkwardly started running again. He couldn’t be dead. She didn’t want to witness a man’s valiant attempt to save himself and lose. Jane dropped her shotgun and backpack when she reached the pond and quickly shed her jacket. Not bothering to take off her boots, she frantically splashed into the water while keeping her eyes trained on the mangled remains of the upside-down floats a hundred yards from shore. She dove into the cold Maine water fueled by a combination of adrenaline, determination, and a lifetime of braving more than one cold swim in similar waters.
She arrived at the plane, gathered her breath, and used the float strut to pull herself down under the water—the rising bubbles making the journey difficult and her vision foggy. Finding the door handle of the upside-down plane and giving several unsuccessful tugs, Jane sank lower and looked in the window to see the pilot struggling with his seat belt, his movements jerky and clumsy. She grabbed the door handle again, braced her feet on the fuselage, and pulled with all her might—only to shoot away when it suddenly opened. She quickly righted herself and reached inside and touched the pilot.
He jerked, his head snapping toward her as he grabbed her wrist and hauled her through the opening. Jane thought about panicking, but realized almost at once that his grip was loosening. She moved closer, bringing her other hand up and touching his lips. He flinched, then stilled. She freed her wrist from his grip and brought a second hand to his face, clasping his head as she touched her lips to his and sealed them. Quickly realizing her intention, the man pulled some of the air she’d been holding into his mouth.
Jane broke free and reached for his seat belt buckle at the same time he did, only to find her own strength waning. She backed out and kicked to the surface, took several deep breaths as she groped for the knife on her belt, then gathered one last supply of air and dove back down to the open door to see the man fumbling with his seat belt again. Jane touched him, he jerked, and in a repeat of before, grabbed her. Not fighting him this time, she reentered the plane and sealed her lips to his again. He relaxed slightly and pulled in more of her life-sustaining air, then went back to fumbling with his belt.
Jane simply cut through the restraint and backed out of the plane while guiding him with her. They broke the surface together beside one of the floats, and Jane found herself having to hold his head above the water as he coughed and spit and gasped, his eyes closed and his face racked with spasms of pain.
He said a word. A curse, it sounded like, in a language she didn’t recognize.
“Come on,” she croaked on a shiver as she started dragging him toward shore. Hearing the other plane approaching, Jane stopped swimming when it roared overhead and sharply started banking again.
“Dammit! They’re back,” the man ground out. “Where are we?”
Jane looked at him. He’d spoken English. “We’re in the middle of the pond. Where do you think we are?”
“I can’t see. Are we exposed? How far to shore?”
Jane gaped at him, realizing the skin on his face was red, as if sunburned. His eyes were running with tears and repeatedly blinking as he stared at the sky. There was a gash on his forehead, and he was keeping one hand tucked close to his side under the water.
He was blind?
“How far to shore?” he repeated, giving her arm a shake.
“Fifty yards,” Jane said as she watched the plane begin another low approach.
“If they start shooting, dive under the water.”
Neither had time to say anything else as the man in the plane diving toward the pond did, indeed, start shooting. She was suddenly pulled below the surface just as the water around them became a frothing web of streaking bullets. Feeling a searing sting on her upper arm, Jane silently screamed and frantically tried to surface. Surprisingly strong hands held her down until the frothing stopped and she was suddenly pushed upward.
“Where are you hit?”
“In the arm,” she said, remembering he couldn’t see. “I’m okay. It just grazed me.”
He cocked his head, listening. “We need to get to shore,” he said, shoving her in the wrong direction.
Jane shoved him in the right direction, which seemed to startle the man. She gave a small, hysterical laugh, which seemed to startle him even more.
“Don’t panic on me now,” he ordered harshly.
Afraid he might blindly try to slap her, Jane decided to bring him to account for his high-handedness once they were safely on shore. The plane of death flew over the lake once more, and the gunman unleashed his weapon again just as Jane and her half-d
rowned pilot touched shore, forcing them to run and stumble as she dragged him to a large stand of pines.
Never, ever, had she felt anything like the terror of being shot at so relentlessly. The machine gun sprayed the trees, the bullets kicking up the surrounding dirt as broken branches rained down on them. All Jane could do was crouch against the trunk of a thick pine, her knees locked to her chest and her eyes shut tight, not even able to manage a respectable scream. The pilot of the sunken plane was pressed against her, actually protecting her from flying debris and oncoming death. Jane instantly forgave him for sounding like a bossy jerk in the water. He was blind, in pain, and trying to protect her.
Well, he should! He was the one they were obviously trying to kill. She was just an innocent bystander. Heck, she was even a hero. She’d saved him, hadn’t she? He deserved to take a bullet for her.
No, then she’d have to deal with a blind, bleeding jerk.
Jane wiggled out from between the man and the tree the moment the deafening gunfire stopped, barely escaping his blindly grasping hands. “Oh, put a sock in it!” she snapped. “I’m starting to get a little angry here. I’m cold and wet, you’re bossy, and someone is actually shooting at me. Well, Ace, I intend to shoot back!”
With that off her chest, Jane limped over to where she’d thrown her backpack and gun. She rummaged around in the pack until she came up with a box of shotgun shells, then unloaded the bird shot from her gun and replaced it with the new ammunition.
“Come back here!” the man ordered in a guttural hiss. “Now, before they return.”
She looked over and felt a moment of chagrin. If it wasn’t bad enough the guy was blind, he was also in the middle of nowhere with a stranger who was semi-hysterical and very angry. His plane was wrecked and somebody was trying to kill him. And somebody he couldn’t see was ignoring him.
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