~ ~ ~
Hand clutching her pendant, Nat strode swiftly down a street she didn’t know, in a neighborhood she’d never been to before. Seeking… something.
After a session of moonlit yoga in the wee hours of the morning, delightfully interrupted by her husband, she’d been indulging in a morning of lazy sleep. And then her pendant had gone nuts, a frantic beacon that had yanked her out of bed and into the car, trying to follow the mangled directions of a rock that clearly didn’t understand motorized vehicles couldn’t fly.
She was close now. And whatever curses she might want to rain on her hapless pendant, it had gotten her close. That much she could tell.
She didn’t often wish for magic, but mind powers would have been really useful right about now.
And then her pendant exhaled, its sense of impending crisis fading away on the release of breath. Cripes. She had a bad case of yoga brain. Rocks didn’t breathe—but the urgent beat in her palm was almost gone.
Nat paused a moment, trying to get a better read. Her pendant still thrummed. All right. Time to find Elsie and whatever in this neighborhood of cookie-cutter suburbia was chasing her. But she probably didn’t need to call in cops, witches, or the Sullivan family SWAT team.
She began to move again and then crashed to a halt as realization hit. Add a few million dollars, and this was exactly the kind of proper sameness her own parents lived in. Elsie had gone to see her mother.
Now Nat didn’t need the pendant’s pounding alert to feel sick to her stomach. She remembered all too well the day she’d gone to confront the demons of her childhood—and left with machine-gun holes in her soul.
Beautiful yellow dresses and siren-red shoes didn’t protect against bullets.
Nat’s eyes ranged more desperately now, cursing her pedant’s ill-timed quiet. Then a flash of color caught her eye and gladdened her astonished heart. Elsie, flying down a distant street on Gertrude Geronimo. Smiling.
Then Nat’s heart beat harder—and she somehow knew that the smiles came through tears. She stepped into the street, waving, fingers of her other hand still wrapped around her pendant. Whatever magic was hers to use, she willed it to catch Elsie’s attention.
When Gertrude turned and headed in her direction, she breathed a deep sigh of gratitude.
“I didn’t expect you here.” The bicycle wobbled as Elsie jerked to a halt, face streaming with tears—and oddly happy. “Sorry—I’m a bit of a mess, I think.”
Nat reached out a hand, gently wiping tears. “My pendant paged me. It seemed to think you might want some company.”
Elsie tilted her head and swiped at her face. “Maybe I do.” She swung off her bike and began pushing on Gertrude’s handlebars. “Do you mind if we walk? I think I need to get out of here.” She looked around, shuddering. “It’s all the same. Why did I never realize that growing up?”
Nat smiled, hearing the wobbles—and sure now that there were no life-threatening bullet holes. “No Gertrudes here. That’s a supremely cool frog, by the way.”
Elsie grinned, still sniffling. “It was ugly and brown when I found it. Aervyn helped me turn it the right color.”
The mental image of a four-year-old and the once-proper Elsie pouring lime-green love into a mud-colored plastic frog was one Nat tucked away to treasure. Sometimes transformation came in the most unexpected ways.
Elsie patted her frog’s head, giggling at the squeaky belch. “I think the frog was the last straw for my mom.” She ran a hand gently down Gertrude’s pink and sparkly stem. “I came to blast her, Nat. To hit her with all the pain of living this many years believing I was the child she wanted me to be.”
Nat’s heart ached. “I know. I made that same journey once.”
Elsie’s eyes widened. “I mostly didn’t do it. I couldn’t. She was wrong in so many ways, and for so many reasons. But she loves me.” She exhaled in a sharp blast. “So I showed her Gertrude instead. And invited her to come visit me sometime.” Her eyes twinkled. “The Arts District will totally freak her out. Lizard will, too.”
From anger to forgiveness to active reaching. In one morning.
It was a breathtaking journey. Nat reached for the handlebars, stopping Gertrude, and hoped Elsie could read the immense respect in her eyes. “It has taken me fifteen years, Elsie. Fifteen years, and I haven’t traveled as far with my mother as you did this morning.”
Emotion flooded Elsie’s eyes. Shock. Pride. And then finally pain—and an ocean of empathy. She reached for Nat’s hands, fingers whisper gentle. Her voice, however, was edged in steel. “Then she must not love you enough to make the trip worth it.”
Nat felt the great, gaping slice in her soul as the last dark roots of hate and fear were lopped off by Elsie’s sharp, bright words. The lacking, the reason why she couldn’t reach her mother—didn’t live in her.
She clung to her student’s shoulders, racked with great, gulping sobs. Sometimes truth was the most brutal weapon of all. And the greatest gift.
Now she knew why her pendant had rung. It had rung for her.
~ ~ ~
She would be an uber-professional realtor if it killed her. She’d even worn a damned suit. Lizard squirmed, ready to hate Josh just for that. Why people with lots of money chose to wear the most stupidly uncomfortable clothes on the planet was a complete mystery.
Then she spied Josh coming down the street. In jeans with holes in the knees. Fine—maybe not all rich people were totally stupid.
Then again, he was buying a house with a big kitchen and he couldn’t cook. That was a point in the pretty-dumb column. She had some nice single-boy condo listings with a microwave and takeout menus tattooed on the wall.
Her pendant vibrated in warning. It seemed to like Josh.
Yup. It was going to be an entirely craptastic day. She pasted a cheery smile on her face and went to greet her client. “Good morning. Ready to be a homeowner?” Cripes, that sounded like something from the worst of the realtor-training videos.
Josh, however, just grinned. “I am. I think my hotel room’s giving me hives.”
Ha. He never spent any time there. The neighbors had been feeding him all week—she had her sources. “When are you moving in your stuff?”
“Already did.” He waved in the general direction of the front porch, where a couple of duffle bags, three boxes, and a really ugly chair were sitting. “I didn’t have much.”
That was an understatement. “You sleep on the floor?”
“Not usually.” He grinned, and headed up the walkway. “I’m going shopping after I dance around the living room a couple of times. Want to come?”
No. The professional-realtor thing drew a firm line at having anything to do with the client after they owned the house. A fruit basket, maybe. Or a Christmas card.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Liar, liar, pants on fire. He had an empty house and an unlimited budget. It would be the best shopping trip ever.
She was so not going. He did funny things to her insides, and made her want to believe they lived in a universe where Planet Lizard and Planet Josh didn’t implode on contact. He might like her new window dressing—but what lay underneath just didn’t mix with guys like Joshua Hennessey.
He thought she could help him pick out a new TV. She could tell him several places to pick up a fenced one for cheap. Different planets.
She got the lockbox pieces off the front door handle—just in time to see her totally hip-and-cool client leap across the threshold with a warrior yell and turn a cartwheel down the hallway. A really good cartwheel. Then he ran up the stairs and slid down the banister, practically landing in her lap. “Sorry. Damn, that’s fast. I’ll have to put a crash-pad at the bottom, or something.” He grinned. “Wanna try it?”
There were forty-three reasons that was a bad idea. She went with the obvious one and looked down at her skirt in disgust. “I don’t think I dressed right.” Yup. Suits sucked.
Josh laughed. “I guess that rules out cartwheels down t
he hallway too.”
Nope. Basic klutziness ruled those out. Lizard tried to remember the whole realtor thing. “So you’ve signed all the paperwork, but we should do a quick last inspection. Make sure they didn’t leave holes in the walls or anything.”
“Holes can be fixed.” He raised an eyebrow. “Are you always so grumpy when you do key delivery?”
“No.” That was usually Lauren’s job. Or at least one they did together, where Lizard could kind of skulk in the background. She’d expected the same thing to happen today, until she’d arrived at the office to a pile of paperwork, keys, and a note that said “Good luck.”
Josh grinned. “I’m special then, huh? What do I have to do to get you to stop making faces at me?”
Crap. Scowling was totally not professional. She tried the realtor-video fake smile again, and then snorted as he pulled his shirt up over his face.
He shook his head as he came back out. “Quit doing that—it’s totally creepy.”
This so wasn’t going like she’d planned. “I’ll go so you can move in your boxes.”
He snagged her hand. “Does that mean you’re not going shopping with me?”
It was a big, fat line in the sand. And she was a big girl who knew which side she belonged on. “I can’t. Got stuff to do.”
His face didn’t so much as flicker out of casual-guy mode—but his mind was keenly disappointed. “Maybe one day soon. I’ll probably be shopping for weeks.”
“Maybe.” Screw professional. Lizard muttered something under her breath and got the hell out of the house of the guy she needed to stay really, really far away from.
Chapter 20
Jennie sat in her darkroom, poring over old negatives. She would never forget the pictures that had made her famous or kept her that way, the professional persona of Jenvieve Adams, world-renowned photographer. But sometimes it was fun—or oddly disconcerting—to paddle around in the quietly forgotten waters of the other thousands of pictures.
Usually it was a journey that kept her up late at night. Today she’d come in at high noon, trying to find the patience to wait quietly for her students’ journeys to unfold.
A few reports had drifted in.
Jamie had gotten a text from Nat, who was apparently with Elsie, walking back from some suburb in outer Mongolia. Jennie grinned as she recalled the dour tone of his text—Jamie wasn’t fond of either the suburbs or missing pregnant wives.
Lizard had gone to deliver keys to Josh—and never come back. Lauren wanted to put out a witch APB, but for the moment, Jennie had held her off. Her pendant had stopped its furious pounding.
It felt like the eye of the storm.
Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking. Time to email Vero.
~ ~ ~
Vero read Jennie’s email and smiled. No opera singer was afraid of storms. The greatest of life’s moments were the ones infused with the most passion—and passion wasn’t always easy.
Ah, but it was always grand.
It was why she had loved the stage so much—a chance to sink her soul into a storm of feeling, to fill and drain and fill again, and then to walk away with a lightness of being that only came from visiting the depths of despair, tragedy, and love unrequited.
Much less messy than doing all those things in real life, although she’d given that a fair try in her lifetime as well.
She wondered which of those things was driving Elsie today, and turning Melvin white with the strain of waiting. In him, passion ran deep and still—but it ran. Oh, it ran. So long it had taken her to figure that out, but he loved with a completeness very few hearts could match.
Light footsteps in the hall told her Elsie had arrived. The swirl of yellow coming through the door pleased Vero greatly—until she saw that the eyes didn’t match the dress.
Oh, dear. “Hello, my love. You look glorious today. Such a dress shouldn’t come with a sad heart.”
“My heart’s been bouncing around quite a bit this morning. I was hoping if I put on the dress, I’d find the happiness to match it.”
Elsie’s lopsided smile tugged on her heartstrings. “Tell me about your day, sweetheart, and we’ll see if we can find music to match it.”
“I went to see my mother.”
Six words that nearly stopped Vero’s heart. And she gave them the only response she could. Silent respect.
“It wasn’t what I expected,” said Elsie softly. “I went in all scared and angry fire—and then I remembered that she loves me, and I can live as I choose now, and… well, I left.” She spun around. “I felt good when I left. I thought it would bring me some kind of peace, but now I just feel empty. Like there’s a hole where the happiness should be. Like something was stolen.”
It was one of the most honest looks in the mirror Vero had ever heard, by a heart not used to looking. And it gave Vero what she needed.
Briskly, she stood up and went to the piano. “It’s not happiness you need. It’s a good rant.” She looked up into Elsie’s shocked eyes. “You’ve journeyed from adult to child and back today, my sweet, and it’s a bold and generous thing you’ve done. But the woman didn’t get a chance to be angry for the child—and she needs one.”
She reached for Elsie’s hands and dug for words that would make more sense to her rational pupil. The words of one of her more stormy maestros came back to her. He’d been a student of psychological motivations. “What are the stages of grief, my darling?”
“Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.” Elsie’s therapist training answered automatically.
“Indeed,” said Vero, well pleased. “And today you traveled from denial to acceptance, all in one fell swoop.”
“I don’t understand,” said Elsie, eyes beginning to fire. “Isn’t that a good thing? How do I get on with the rest of my life without accepting?”
“Acceptance is a very good thing.” Vero wondered how far to go. “But you’re Italian, my love. You need a good rage to be completely, fully done. It’s why all the best operatic dramas are Italian. The Germans know depression, the Russians excel at despair and bargaining. But the Italians have perfected the full-blown temper tantrum.”
Elsie’s body stiffened. “I’m not a child.”
“I know you’re not.” Vero walked over to her beloved Victrola and carefully slid on one of her most cherished records. She needed her hands free for this next bit. Turning, she reached out to her wary student. “But trust me on this—you’re never too old for a tantrum.”
She closed her eyes as the first strains of the aria flooded the room. “I’ll sing. You follow my actions and let the music carry you.”
Vero swept her arms, passion in every fiber of her soul, and started to sing. It was the music of a woman scorned, never properly loved, never understood. The unvanquished temper of one who had just learned the truth—and despised it. Vero became the woman raging, not just with her voice, but with every cell of her being. And waited for her student to follow.
She wasn’t surprised when Elsie’s first moves were small and wooden. When the first waved fist wouldn’t have scared a mouse and the chest heaved not an inch. Patiently, Vero raged, fists and voice, face and feet, every inch the woman spurned. She felt the cleansing burn of anger steaming in her veins, pulled by the imperious notes of musical perfection.
And she watched, proud, as Elsie was called to the roots of her Italian blood. It was her hands that woke up first, expressive and vivid, pulling her arms along for the ride. Then color rose in her cheeks, eyes snapping with fire unleashed. And finally, her heart joined, an angry tumble of fire and magic and streaming passion. She even managed a passable rendition of a very difficult aria, notes spurred by a beautiful fury.
It was a tantrum worthy of the greatest of divas. Vero was mightily impressed.
When it finished, Elsie’s eyes blazed in glory.
And gratitude.
~ ~ ~
––––––––––––––
To: jennie.adams@b
ythelight.com
From: Vero Liantro
Subject: Watch for the tempest.
––––––––––––––
Lovely Jennie,
I believe I’ve just taught our Elsie the value of a hotly passionate rage. It occurs to me I probably shouldn’t send her back out into the world without giving you a bit of a warning.
Her mind walks ahead of her heart—ready to forgive, to grow up and be the woman she is meant to be. Her soul needs more time to grieve, to be sad for what is lost, and to rage at the unfairness of it all. Music set her anger loose today, and it’s a gorgeous temper she has.
Not that we should be surprised—she is both Italian and fire witch.
Melvin says that if I am impressed by her passion, the rest of the world should cower in fear. I believe he exaggerates.
He is, however, worried again—and it’s not Elsie that concerns him now. Her wave has crested for now, or so he says. It is our other witch he seeks, holding his pendant and gazing off into the distance. I wonder if his heart is young enough to do this twice in one day.
Perhaps someone could go check in on Lizard and lay our interfering hearts to rest.
All our love,
Vero
~ ~ ~
It was written down. Lizard clutched her poetry journal in her hand and tried not to puke. If she didn’t hand it in today, there was no point in going back to class.
She’d written it. One lousy poem with clothes, intended for possible public consumption. But damned if the first set of eyes on it were going to be some professor geek who didn’t even really know her. There was only one person who’d earned that right.
And she was standing here waiting for his bus.
He pulled up to the curb, right on time, as always. Lizard was fairly convinced the man had traffic magic—the kind that zapped small, annoying traffic jams and moved buses through the time-space continuum. She held up a brown paper bag. “Got biscuits today, with some of Caro’s special homemade grape jelly.”
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