Totally Charmed

by Crusie, Jennifer, Wilson, Leah

  Once Piper told Mark that she was a chef, the two flirted about Peking duck. Mark admitted that he enjoyed cooking enough that he could have seen himself as a chef had he not gone into molecular biology. Later, at his apartment, he gave her a box containing his family’s recipes that he obviously no longer had use for.

  They also discovered a shared love for Camus, Piper flipping open a book she pulled from Mark’s shelf to read, “I love this world as a dead world, and as always there comes an hour when one is weary of prisons, and all one craves for is a warm face—the warmth and wonder of a living heart.” Sigh. If only Mark hadn’t been dead. (A paranormal romance author could have done great things with this plot!) As Piper said at the end, “Leave it to me to fall for a dead guy.”

  When she and Phoebe cast the spell to attract a lover, Piper dated the perfect Jack Manford—though the perfection, she realized, was because of the spell, not because of any chemistry between them. When Phoebe argued that maybe the spell allowed Jack to say and feel what he would have said anyway, Piper responded that, “Love is a magic between two people that cannot be explained and cannot be conjured.”

  Smart girl, that Piper. At least until she reverted and based her decision not to date Lucas DeVane in “From Fear To Eternity” on superstition, having met him on Friday the thirteenth—the same day she met Jeremy. Later, when pursued by Josh in “When Bad Warlocks Turn Good,” she decided to trust her instincts and lay low. She’d had enough of inappropriate men.

  That said, Piper was enough of a romantic that in the episode “Feats of Clay,” she took on the role of matchmaker, playing Cupid at the risk of her own job by putting a spell on Doug, a bartender at [quake], that enabled him to have the confidence he needed to propose to his long-time-yet-recently ex girlfriend Shelly.

  Unfortunately, the spell backfired, and Piper realized that true love has to take its natural course. She told Phoebe that there was not a thing wrong with a great guy like Doug, even if he was a little “boring on the surface” and “easy to overlook,” since “the wrong guys are usually the most interesting. Until you get your hopes up and let your guard down and they reveal their true selves.”

  When Leo first appeared in “Thank You For Not Morphing,” it was as the handyman the sisters had called to fix their attic door. He made his second appearance several episodes later and was by then a fixture in Piper’s life.

  She first tested out the attraction while under Prue’s truth spell and then finally asked him out, making the leap into a relationship. In the same episode, once they’d made love, Leo told her he might have to leave. The upturn in the relationship reversed immediately, ramping up the conflict between them and the stakes of the romantic plot line. When he returned several episodes later in “Secrets And Guys,” Phoebe was the first to discover his true identity as a Whitelighter, a guardian angel for good witches. Unfortunately, Whitelighters were forbidden from falling in love with said witches.

  This created even more conflict on Piper and Leo’s road to romance—as did the fact that she found him “geographically undesirable.” She preferred not to get involved with a guy she couldn’t see regularly—or so she used as an excuse instead of letting him break her heart. Yet when she finally broke up permanently with Josh, it was because she knew it was unfair to ask him to remain with her in San Francisco and turn down a job offer in Beverly Hills when her thoughts were still with Leo.

  Leo’s return in “Love Hurts” signaled the end of the Piper and Leo relationship for the first season. Though each admitted their love for the other after Piper saved Leo’s life, they recognized their Whitelighter/ good witch circumstances would not allow for their romance to blossom. At the end of this story arc, the crisis was not followed by a satisfying romantic resolution—though it did end in such a way that would work in women’s fiction, as it was an emotionally satisfying conclusion.

  When Leo admitted that he could become human again, Piper refused to allow him to do so. Instead, she made the sacrifice and let him go, knowing that his work was more important than their being together. She had saved the love of her life. They were still in love. And nothing would change that.

  Prue’s primary romantic interest in the first season was the most traditional in many ways, and the ups and downs of the relationship made it the most mainstream. Inspector Andy Trudeau filled two romance conventions—that of the alpha male protector and that of the best-friend-turned-lover.

  As a child, Andy had been a big part of Prue’s life. We even saw the two of them as children (“That ’70s Episode”) when the Halliwell sisters cast a spell that returned them to the past to stop their mother from making a pact with a demon. During that episode, little Andy ran into Halliwell Manor dressed as a cowboy (another romance novel convention), guns drawn as he chased Piper and Prue. In the same episode, Phoebe admitted to her sisters that she used to listen to Andy and Prue through the heating vent that ran from the kitchen to the house’s second story when Prue would sneak him up to her bedroom during their dating days in high school.

  With a shared romantic history, the sexual tension between Andy and Prue was already established the minute they reconnected in the hospital emergency room after Phoebe’s bicycle accident during the pilot. Their first conversation established that both had kept tabs on one another. She knew he had been in Portland. He knew she had been engaged to Roger. The viewer was given a quick history of Andy as a third generation law officer, and of the Halliwell sisters as recently reconnecting and returning to the home in which they grew up.

  Having the introductory niceties out of the way quickly (no long, drawn-out past history conversations necessary here), the Prue and Andy story arc began at the end of the season’s first episode when Andy stopped by to invite Prue out to dinner, asking her when she hesitated if she was afraid of “having too good a time, stirring up old memories, rekindling the old flame.”

  The romance novel convention of the old flame as hero enables the storyteller to bypass a lot of the awkward moments that naturally occur between two strangers getting to know one another amidst the rush of sexually charged hormones. It also allows for the characters to reach a deeper emotional connection that much sooner.

  The beginning of the second episode found Prue sneaking out of Andy’s bed. Once she was home with her sisters, we discovered that the couple had slept together at the end of the date, their first since high school, even though Prue had wanted to take things slowly. As amazing as things were between her and Andy, she wished it hadn’t happened.

  Andy called her later and tried to allay her misgivings. He told her he hadn’t meant for what happened to happen. Aware as we were that they had known each other a long time, it wasn’t hard to believe they were unable to help themselves. He wanted to talk, but Prue put him off. And the viewers got the first inkling that all would not be well in this reunion romance.

  When they went out to lunch later in the episode, Andy told her that he wasn’t sorry they made love. Prue, however, was—not because she didn’t enjoy it but, not having seen him in seven years, picking back up where they left off seemed as if they were rushing things. She didn’t want to rush, what with her life having grown so complicated. “We had sex. Doesn’t mean we have to elope,” Andy protested.

  He then suggested they pretend like their night in bed never happened—that they count it as part of their old relationship, enabling them to slow down and start over, because they’d been given a second chance that he didn’t want to blow. All Prue could do was agree to think it over. Her internal conflict had come into play (will she or won’t she tell him that she’s a witch?), tossing up a roadblock she would have to overcome before allowing herself the relationship.

  The subtext of their past, however, continued to play close to the surface. During the episode “Thank You for not Morphing,” when the Halliwell sisters’ father reappears after a twenty-year absence, Prue listed for Andy several things she wished she could tell her father that he missed out on by no
t being around—one of those items being her prom. At the reminder, Andy replied, “Didn’t we miss that, too?” Yet he encouraged her to talk to her father. He even told her he’d drop her off at the restaurant where Piper and Phoebe were dining with Victor.

  Andy was there for Prue. A shoulder for her to lean on. An ear for her to bend. For her birthday, he wanted to take her away for a spa weekend. To be with her. Away. Together . . . again. Andy’s potential as a romance hero was classic. He was thoughtful, sexy, fun to be with—he was one of a few good men. But Prue’s secret didn’t allow her the luxury of making the leap into commitment. She had to think about it. And when she blew up after finding out that Andy was divorced, he challenged her on the very secret she was keeping from him.

  Yet he continued to court her. He called to do no more than hear her voice in “Dream Sorcerer.” When in that same episode she was injured in a car accident, he showed up at her bedside with cheeseburgers, fries and a single red rose. They argued over videos for an at-home date, then argued over the constant interruptions to the dates they were never able to finish. Their bond continued to deepen as they shared their frustrations—Andy’s that they never had time together, and Prue’s that she couldn’t share the truth. That frustration finally culminated in Andy walking out after Prue broke the same date three times.

  He told her that he loved her and went on to say that it was obvious one of them was more interested in the relationship than the other. He admitted being hurt by her lack of trust and stressed that he’d done all he knew how to do to assure her that he was there for her, but he no longer knew if he could deal with her continually putting him off.

  When Prue cast her truth spell in order to find out how he would feel were he to discover the truth of her identity as a witch, he told her he honestly didn’t know if it was a truth he could accept. When pressed, he told her it wasn’t a future he’d envisioned having, and Prue broke it off entirely. Once their relationship was over, Andy could no longer overlook Prue as a suspect in several unsolved and ongoing cases. Even his partner, Inspector Morris, wondered if Andy’s personal feelings for Prue hadn’t been getting in the way of his seeing her “secret life of crime.”

  When called to help the innocent young witch Max, Prue visited with the distraught father of the missing boy, listening while he told her how his recently deceased wife kept her identity as a witch from him. His feelings mirrored much of what Prue had heard from Andy. Max’s father said that such a family secret would have been easier to accept had he known it sooner. When Prue countered that perhaps the man’s wife was afraid he wouldn’t accept her and love her, we heard the echo of her own insecurities about her relationship with Andy.

  We also saw the truth and the depth of Andy’s feelings when he thought Prue had died in “Which Prue Is It Anyway?” Though they were no longer dating, he was devastated to think he had lost her. Once Andy finally learned of Prue’s powers, he was still not certain how he felt—though he wasn’t the least bit happy to find out she had based their break-up on his response while under her truth spell.

  Later, however, he told her that, magic or no, a minute, month or year, nothing would change. One day, he wanted a normal life—a twocar garage and a screaming kid, a white picket fence but no demons. And so came the end of their relationship . . . or so we thought. When he turned in his badge instead of revealing the truth about the Halliwell sisters to the department’s Internal Affairs division, we saw that he was unable to write Prue out of his life entirely, sacrificing his career rather than giving away her secret.

  The most telling events in Prue and Andy’s relationship occurred during the first season’s final episode, “Déjà Vu All Over Again.” The demon posing as Inspector Rodriguez was out to prove himself by killing the three Halliwell sisters. Rodriguez was mentored by Tempus, the devil’s sorcerer who could manipulate time and did so, resetting the day each time Rodriguez failed to succeed in his mission. The first time the day occurred, Phoebe was struck with a premonition of Andy’s death. Prue went to warn him, telling him she didn’t want anything to happen because of how much she still cared for him.

  When the day arrived for the second time and Prue went to Andy, she told him that she loved him—a fact he admitted not knowing. A fact that left him shaken. The third time the day rolled around, she told him she would die if anything happened to him and they admitted their love to each other. It was the fantasy of being given a second or third chance to make things right, even while destiny meant they wouldn’t be allowed to be together, that made the episode so emotionally compelling. And the sacrifice Andy made in the end, giving his life for Prue, spoke volumes about their love.

  At the end of the first season, though none of the Halliwell sisters had found a soul mate (at least not one existing on a worldly plane, or one who was alive), they had come to realize there was more to life than the hot sex and temporary relationships they’d experienced diving into the dating pool. They’d each come away with an understanding of the challenges involved when mixing romance and witchcraft, challenges made all the more difficult by the secret they kept.

  More importantly, the three had settled into their roles as sibling supporters, protectors, nurturers and friends. They’d shared the truth of their lot with family members from the past who’d taught them about themselves and about their powers. Through love lost, love found, love sacrificed and love denied, the sisters recognized that the greatest power of all was, indeed, love.

  Saving the world may not have been their career choice, but they had accepted it as their calling—even if it meant true romance would have to wait. And with love on their side, how could they fail?

  Alison Kent was a born reader, but was married with children before she decided she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. She found a home at Harlequin when she accepted an invitation issued by her editor live on the “Isn’t It Romantic?” episode of CBS 48 Hours. She now writes for both Harlequin Blaze and Kensington Brava, penning stories she believes in—fantasies that show readers the way love was meant to be. She lives in Texas with her hero, four vagabond kids and a dog named Smith. And she actually manages to write in the midst of all that madness.

  “WITCH-LIT”—A SEASON OF ROMANCE

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  CATHERINE SPANGLER

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  Season four will always be for many of us the season that approached greatness. Phoebe as Queen of Hell alone was worth the price of admission. Catherine Spangler thinks she knows why this year was such a bright one: Taken as a whole, it was a great romance novel.

  AS I WAS RE-WATCHING a number of Charmed episodes, I was struck by a startling realization (similar, I’m sure, to being hit with one of Piper’s scatter spells). The stunning, magical revelation: The fourth season of Charmed had all the elements of a contemporary romance novel. Yep—romance, enhanced by the Power of Three.

  The other seasons of Charmed have not followed this genre pattern so closely, although they had romantic elements, including Piper and Leo’s courtship and marriage, various boyfriends for Prue and Paige and the on-again/off-again romance between Phoebe and Cole. The episodes in other seasons have tended to be more situational and plot-driven, with the focus on the paranormal elements that ultimately define Charmed. But season four was the TV equivalent of a romance novel.

  I can just hear the “intellectual” viewers, those who watch (and read) fantasy and science fiction, those who are fans of horror, perhaps a few mystery and suspense thriller fans—and who knows, maybe some western fans (after all, Charmed has good guys and bad guys and shoot-’em-ups in the form of fireball battles)—protesting my statement. I can guess exactly what a number of these viewers, the ones with preconceived ideas about romance, are saying: “I don’t read those kinds of books, or watch shows about that.” (Yeah, yeah, I hear it all the time.) They’re screaming their denial, possibly even holding up crosses and garlic to ward off this ideology (trust me, I’ve seen this, too), aghast at the thought that Cha
rmed could parallel a romance novel. They’re insisting Charmed is a paranormal show about magic and witches and Whitelighters and Avatars and demons and good versus evil—that it is not a romantic series.

  “Ha! You’re wrong!” I say, gleefully taking on the challenge of defining current-day romance as it applies to fiction and translates to screen and television. Yes, Charmed has all of the cool elements above, but that doesn’t mean the fourth season wasn’t primarily a romance. Who would know better than a romance writer (moi!) what elements make up a romance? So my quest is to bewitch you Charmers into accepting my claim. (And be warned—never underestimate the determination of a woman who fiercely believes in the magical power of love!)

  The New Romance—Chick-Lit

  To understand how a sophisticated, magic-based show like Charmed compares to a romance requires a look at today’s romance. Entering the twenty-first century, romances have veered away from the outdated stereotypical image of women as helpless and dependent on men for fulfillment and happiness. Contemporary romances are innovative and creative, with strong, autonomous heroines. In addition, there’s the new romance offshoot called chick-lit. Chick-lit has become the ultimate expression of today’s heroine, a.k.a. the contemporary woman: sexy, sassy, carving her own way, without needing a man to define her or to assure her happiness. She is in charge of her own destiny. Chick-lit focuses on a woman finding her place in today’s society, and often includes romantic/sexual relationships (which is why chick-lit is considered an alternative version of romance). HBO’s Sex in the City is an excellent example of the TV equivalent of chick-lit.