By Magic Alone

by Tracy Madison

  “My daughter likes you, Julia,” Ethan said from across the room. “She doesn’t normally take to new people so quickly.”

  “Oh . . . I don’t have a lot of experience with kids.” I knelt down so I was roughly the same height as Rose. “Hello,” I said. “I’m Julia.”

  Smooth, baby-soft hands touched my cheeks before moving to my hair. “Up!”

  “She wants you to pick her up.” Scot offered the information easily enough, but I had the suspicion that he didn’t like the idea all that well. I wasn’t so sure I did, either. Kids scared the crap out of me. At least kids this small.

  But going back to the “If it irritates Scot, I’m going to do it” plan, I pushed my misgivings aside and pulled Rose into my arms. Standing, I tried to hold her on my hip the same way Alice had. But Rose wasn’t having any of that. She twisted her entire body toward me, and I had to work really fast to alter my hold so she didn’t go crashing to the floor.

  Her hands found my cheeks again. She patted them twice, gave a hearty eye-stinging yank to my hair, and then nestled her head against my chest with a satisfied sigh. I am not a corny person. I do not cry at movies, no matter how sad. But this—the simple trust that this little girl placed in me—wrapped a thick, fuzzy blanket around my heart.

  I settled my chin on top of her head. “Aren’t you sweet,” I whispered.

  “Sweet,” Rose burbled, as if in agreement.

  I made the mistake of looking at Scot. He had the hard-edged, egg-cracking jaw thing going on again. His eyes, though, weren’t hard. Or cold. Or condescending. They were soft. Misty, even. As if he was seeing me for the first time in his life. And—here’s the real kicker—as if he liked what he saw.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  I grimaced at the bowl set before me. “Potato soup?”

  “Irish potato soup,” Verda clarified. “Alice used Ethan’s grandmother’s recipe. In fact, tonight’s entire dinner is Irish. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “Oh, yes,” I murmured even as my stomach cramped. “Marvelous.”

  “Something wrong?” Scot shoveled a spoonful of flu-inducing soup in his mouth. Okay, that wasn’t fair. But damn, of all the soups in the world to be served, Alice had chosen the only one that made me sick. If I believed in signs, I’d take this as a bad one.

  “No. Nothing wrong at all.” I sat between Scot and Joe at an incredibly large mahogany dining room table. Antique, probably old English. With both leaves inserted, the thing was easily fourteen feet long. While it held all of us, there wasn’t much elbow room. “Smells delicious!” I lied.

  The chatter in the room died as folks got to the business of eating. I tried on three separate occasions to take a bite, but my gag reflex kicked in before the spoon even got close to my lips. Deciding it was far better to appear rude than to spurt a mouthful of soup out on the table, I eventually gave up and waited for the next course.

  Joe tapped my shoulder. “If you’re saving room for the rest of dinner, I’ll finish that off for you.” He tossed me a lopsided grin and winked conspiratorially.

  Wow. I wouldn’t have been more relieved if a real, honest-to-God prince in shining armor had swept in to save me from the growling, hungry dragon. “Oh! Sure, Joe,” I said, pushing my bowl over. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Figured.” His blue-eyed gaze held a twinkle that reminded me of Verda.

  “So, Julia, tell us a little about yourself.” This came from Isobel, who was seated across from me. Uh-oh. For a while, I’d thought that maybe I was going to get off without being peppered with questions. Apparently not.

  “Um. Not much to tell. I work, have dinner with my parents every Wednesday, and hang out with my friends. That’s about it.”

  “You meet your parents for dinner every week?” Isobel asked.

  Scot squeezed my knee. I brushed his hand away. “Uh-huh. It’s a long standing tradition.” Ha. More like a long standing order. Well, I suppose that’s a sort of tradition.

  “What a wonderful daughter you are! I wish I could have a weekly dinner with my children.” Isobel sent The Look to each of her kids. Anyone who has a mother knows this look. “But they never seem to have the time.”

  Elizabeth, rather than responding to her mother’s guilt tactic, asked, “What line of work are you in, Julia?”

  “Customer service,” I responded. Thank goodness I’d gone through Verda’s paperwork. “I . . . ah . . . help people figure things out.”

  “Just think, dinner once a week with the kids. Wouldn’t that be nice, Marty?” Isobel asked her husband, obviously determined not to be diverted. “Wednesdays won’t work, but Tuesdays or Thursdays would.”

  Alice’s laughter drifted down the table. “Mom! You’re becoming more like Grandma Verda every day. If you want to see us more often, just say so. You don’t have to beat around the bush and trick us into anything.”

  “But once a week might be asking a bit much of the kids, Isobel. They have busy lives.” Marty patted his wife’s hand. “And Tuesdays are not good.”

  “Oh, hush. You just don’t want anything to interfere with your shows.” Isobel squared her shoulders. “All I’m saying is how nice it is that Julia cares enough about her family to make an effort to fit them into her busy life.”

  “She’s not that busy.” Scot squeezed my knee again. This time I kicked his shin.

  “I have a very full life!” Endless nights of watching television and reading magazines. Hm. “I think family is very, very important.” Hey, I did. Otherwise, I’d simply ignore my parents’ orders.

  Isobel sighed. “Yes, your parents are very lucky.”

  Scot, with his freaking hand on my knee again, squeezed even harder. “Julia, tell us more about your job,” he said. “What do you do all day?”

  When I got him alone, he was so in trouble. “I suppose you could say I’m sort of a counselor, even though that isn’t my job title.”

  “Really?” Scot drawled. “I didn’t realize you counseled people. That must be a very gratifying line of work. Did you go to school for that?”

  “Who cares about her job?” Joe cut in, deftly saving me from yet another uncomfortable moment and the murder of his big brother. I pretty much adored Joe by this point. “I’d rather hear about how you two lovebirds met.”

  “At Magical Matchups,” Verda said. “I matched them up! And they’re perfect for each other. They’re going to have beautiful children some day. Three boys.”

  Joe’s spoon clanked against his bowl. Alice choked on her water. Ethan rubbed her back while Elizabeth handed her a napkin.

  Isobel narrowed her gaze at Verda. “You can’t know that, Mother. Don’t start in on your mystical mumbo-jumbo stuff again. Not now.”

  Verda pumped her head up and down. “It isn’t mumbo jumbo, Isobel, and I do know it! Three boys. They’re going to be very important boys, too.”

  “Julia, can you help me bring the rest of the dishes out?” Alice interrupted in a high-pitched voice. She surprised everyone, not just me, as the noise level in the room dropped instantly. “I think everyone is done with their soup.”

  I nodded, happy to stop this conversation in its tracks. Three boys? Yeah, right. I’d be lucky if I had one child someday, and three was pushing the limits. Think about it: I was currently thirty-three. Even if I met the man I’d eventually marry tomorrow, there would be a minimum of two years from first date to walking down the aisle, likely more.

  One year to date. One year to plan the huge shindig of a wedding my parents would insist on. Possibly eighteen months, depending on the season and the venues that were available for the ceremony and reception. Add in a year of marriage before conceiving—assuming neither of us had any fertility issues—and I’d be around thirty-seven before my first child was born. And that all hinged on meeting the “right” guy within twenty-fours of now. So not likely.

  I followed Alice to the kitchen, but right before stepping through the swinging door I heard Isobel say, “I like he
r. Don’t you dare scare her off, Mother.”

  “I’m only telling the truth, Isobel. Why can’t you accept this? You’ve met Miranda . . .”

  Unfortunately, the door swung shut before I heard the rest of Verda’s statement. Again I wondered who Miranda was. A friend of Verda’s? But what did she have to do with anything? I shook off the questions and smiled at Alice. “What needs to go out?”

  Tucking her long, dark hair behind one ear, she frowned. “Let’s just give my mother and grandmother a few minutes to chill out, okay?”

  “Sure. If you think that’s best.”

  Alice busied herself with putting the finishing touches on her dinner. She’d prepared beef brisket with cabbage, another potato dish—not soup, though, so I’d be able to eat it—and a few other side dishes that seemed to be a mix of different vegetables.

  “You’ve gone to a lot of work,” I said, hoping to ease the suffocating silence.

  “Last time we were in Ireland, Ethan’s grandmother prepared this same meal. It made him happy, so I wanted to try to re-create it.” Again, Alice spoke in a low, calm manner, but that same chilly undercurrent remained from earlier.

  Normally, I don’t really care if random people like me, but Alice’s behavior was an irritant. I pressed my lips together, smothering the question burning to be asked, and gave myself a minute to consider the reasons I was so bothered. Her family impressed me. I was quickly coming to admire Verda. And Rose . . . well, that little girl had carved herself right into my heart. But none of that should explain why Alice’s like or dislike of me meant a damn.

  Finally, deciding that the past two days were to blame—and yes, I blamed pretty much everything on that—I said, “Okay. You don’t like me. How come?”

  In a Verda-like move, she settled her hands on her hips. “It isn’t you. I promise this has nothing to do with you or with who you are as a person.” Exhaling a noisy sigh, she shrugged. “I’m sure you’re a very nice woman . . .”

  “But?”

  “I shouldn’t say anything.” Again I heard the but she didn’t say. I didn’t fill it in for her though.

  Alice turned to pull a few large serving spoons out of a drawer. Then, as if making her decision, she faced me again. “My grandmother believes that if she doesn’t set Scot up with the right woman—”

  “Everyone is getting antsy out there,” Chloe said, stepping into the kitchen. “We should get the food out before Isobel and Grandma Verda start brawling. Wine, too. We definitely need wine. Lots of it.”

  “We’ll only be a second.” I prayed that Chloe would take the hint, so Alice and I could finish our conversation. “Alice was just telling me—”

  “That it’s time to serve the food,” Alice said, effectively cutting me off. Damn, damn, and damn again. “Everyone take a dish and let’s go feed the masses.”

  Impatience reared its ugly head, but I couldn’t really argue, so I nodded and grabbed a large bowl filled with spinach and tomatoes. Maybe I’d have a chance to get Alice alone again before the evening was over.

  Or maybe I’d force Scot to fill in some of the blanks.

  “Three glasses of wine,” Scot said after we were buckled into his SUV. Verda was going home with Vinny, so we were alone. “You drank three large glasses of wine with Elizabeth and Chloe?”

  “Something like that. Maybe four. Or five? I don’t have an actual count because Chloe kept filling the glass before it was empty.” I knew my limits, and I’d gone over them. “I cannot drive my car. So you get to drive me home or I get to call a taxi. I don’t really care which.”

  “You’re drunk,” Scot said. “I take you to meet my family and you get drunk.”

  “‘Drunk’ is a little harsh. Tipsy is more like it.’ I pointed out the window to Nate and Elizabeth, who had just exited Alice’s house. “Your brother-in-law is carrying your sister. And Ben had to propel Chloe to the car. They did this to me. Can’t blame me.”

  Besides which, I’d enjoyed myself. A lot. I liked Elizabeth and Chloe. They were charming, and while they’d shot a few odd glances at each other I couldn’t identify, they hadn’t once made me feel uncomfortable. I liked Joe, too. And I was pretty much a goner for Rose. Hell, I liked everyone—even Alice, though the jury was out on her feelings for me. She’d flat-out avoided me the rest of the evening. But still . . . so what if I’d had some wine?

  Scot’s lips—very fine lips, I might add—trembled in the makings of a grin. “Okay, Miss Lush. I’ll drive you home. But I’m not coming back in the morning to take you to your car.”

  “No reason to. Kara or Leslie will. Or if they can’t, you can drop me off there tomorrow night instead of at home. You know, after our date. I won’t put out at all.”

  “But baby,” Scot teased in a husky tenor. “I’ll buy you a nice dinner. Show you a good time. If you don’t put out, why should I bother?”

  “Huh? Oh!” A balmy flush stole over me. Yep. Too much wine. I tried to laugh off my embarrassment, but I’m sure I failed. “Put you out. Not put out. But if I were to put out, you’d have to show me more than a good time, buster. A simple dinner won’t cut it. No siree Bob.”

  “You’re trouble,” Scot murmured. He turned the ignition on and backed out of the driveway. “Crazy amounts of trouble.”

  “Yeah, and you’re a walk in the park,” I fired back.

  He laughed. “You surprise me, Julia. Look, I pushed you into this arrangement, and I know you don’t understand why. Let’s call a truce and just get through this the best we can. What do you say?”

  “I say you’re still an ass hat . . . but I like your family. So fine, a truce.” Besides, getting along with Scot would make this situation that much easier. It should, anyway.

  “Good.”

  Maybe it was our truce, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the whole getting-to-know-his-family bit, or maybe it was the gentle purr of the engine, or possibly it was a combination of all four, but I had a relaxed, comfortable, and—for better or for worse—loose-lipped hum taking control. “You looked at me funny earlier.”

  “Define funny.”

  “When I was holding Rose. You looked like a man who . . . ah . . . liked me.”

  “My opinion hasn’t changed.” The words were tough, but the tone lacked believability. To my tipsy ears, anyway. “I love my niece. What you saw were my feelings for her. They had nothing to do with you.”

  “Hm. Well, that’s good. Because I’m dating someone else. I’d hate for you to fall in love with me. That would kind of screw everything up.” Okay, well, I was about to be dating someone. Jameson. Not really a lie, even if it was only Sunday lunch. “And you should really think about giving Leslie another chance. She’s nothing like me. Doesn’t share my philosophies about love at all.” What else had Leslie said to say? Oh, yeah. “She’s changed, Scot.”

  “I told you last night, Leslie and I are over. We have been for a while.”

  “Because she cheated on you.”

  “I’d say that’s a damn good reason.” He slowed the SUV at a light. His thumb started tapping again. Nervous? About what? “I hope you’re right. I hope Leslie”—Scot’s voice cracked the tiniest amount—“doesn’t throw something potentially good away again.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about her?” I realized belatedly that bringing this specific topic up under the influence of alcohol wasn’t the greatest idea. My brain didn’t want to cooperate. Otherwise, why would I be relieved by his response instead of dismayed? I tried for one more push, anyway. “Why not take her out once more? Just to see?”

  “Because what’s done is done. Relationships aren’t a chalkboard. I can’t erase what happened, or how she threw it—” Breaking off, he cursed. “Never mind. I don’t want to discuss my relationships with any of the women I’ve dated, including Leslie.”

  I’d have to give more thought to the Leslie and Scot thing. I didn’t press any further, just stared out the window. Scot was also quiet. Before too long, we t
urned into my parking lot.

  “So, thanks. For tonight. I enjoyed meeting everyone. You have a nice family.” I shoved my door open. Then, remembering the scene that had touched me so profoundly, I said, “Really nice. They care about each other. They care a lot about you.”

  “I care a lot about them.” Scot nodded toward my building. “Think you can get to your place on your own, or do you need some help?”

  “Tipsy is not drunk, and I can walk just fine when I’m tipsy.”

  “Alrighty then, Julia. Have a good night and I’ll see you tomorrow. Seven.”

  “Yep. Casual. I remember.” He didn’t drive away until I’d entered the building, which proved he wasn’t a total ass hat. But damn if I hadn’t wanted him to come up with me.

  Stupidity. With a sigh that began at my toes, I unlocked my front door and let myself in. After the hours I’d spent in noise and bedlam, my apartment seemed way too quiet—absurdly quiet—so I flipped on the TV on my way to the bedroom. And then I saw the journal.

  It was still on the floor. I literally hadn’t touched the dang thing after dropping it. Verda’s words tickled my senses, and almost as if she were standing right in front of me, I heard her again. “Magic, Julia. You experienced magic.”

  For whatever reason, that statement didn’t seem as ridiculous now. I can’t explain the why of that or what I did next. Not in detail, anyway. Hard to put into words an action that doesn’t follow any rhyme or reason. But I grabbed the pen with one hand and the journal with the other and curled up on my sofa. My muscles buzzed with the memory of the energy, the fire that had roared through them earlier.

  Verda’s handwritten message and her question about wishes merged with everything else, and before I knew what I was doing, my hand flew across the first page of the journal. I didn’t think about what I was writing, because I wouldn’t have written it if I had. For one, I wouldn’t have had the courage. For two, I surely would’ve talked myself out of it. But the quiet moments with Scot, the softening in his gaze when I held Rose, and the effects of the wine created a nice, happy fuzz that allowed me to push past my mental barriers. I wrote,