A Stroke Of Magic (8 page)

“Miranda said she needed to be raised in pure love. She said it was of the utmost importance I find my soul mate before my baby is born. It could be she’s this happy because this picture represents the best-case scenario, assuming I can find him.”

But what would the results be if I couldn’t? Prickles of unease popped up, coating my skin from head to toe. I didn’t know the answer to that question. I stared at my daughter again, taking in her smile, the happiness in her gaze, and at that second I knew something I hadn’t known before: I would do anything—
anything
—to ascertain this image became reality.

“I think I need to find him,” I whispered. Once again, I ran my fingers over the sketch, wishing I could turn the picture of him around by force of will so I could see his eyes. Were they gentle? Kind? I wanted to know. I wanted to know so badly that it startled me.

“How are you going to find a faceless man?” my grandmother asked.

This was another question for which I didn’t have an answer. At least, not right away; but as I stared at the drawing, searching for something, anything I could use to identify him, I found it. My answer
and
the identifying mark.

“He has a scar.” I pointed to the jagged mark on his right shoulder. “See it? It’s not that large, but it’s there.”

“Let me see that.” Grandma Verda reached for the sketchpad.

I gave it to her. Then I stood and paced, working out the kinks in my legs from sitting so long.

“You’re right! It’s definitely a scar. Or a birthmark. It’s hard to tell for sure.”

She passed the sketchbook on to my sister, who said, “Hmm, I think it’s a birthmark. But Grandma’s right; it could be either.”

Elizabeth then gave it to Chloe, who barely looked before returning it. “Would more magic work? Can’t you bake a new batch of cupcakes, Elizabeth? But wish for Alice to draw the
face
of her soul mate.”

“We can definitely try. I’m just not sure how successful we’ll be. I was pretty clear in this wish, and that’s what we got. Of course, Alice should be able to use her magic for this too.”

Grandma Verda crossed her arms. “There’s no need. The back of that man could be Ethan Gallagher. The body looks about the right size, and he has dark hair, just like Ethan.” She pointed at me. “All you have to do is get a look at him without his shirt on.”

“That’s it, huh? How am I supposed to do that?” And yes, I realized that the chance of Ethan being the man I’d drawn was slim to none, but I also knew that until I ruled him out Grandma Verda would be of no help. In fact, she’d be a hindrance.

Her faded blue eyes sparkled. “Well, dear, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

While I’m sure she meant to reassure me, coming from Grandma Verda, that statement did anything but. Her ideas tended to fall on the wild and wacky side of things. “I’ll figure it out. Just don’t do anything. Okay?”

She huffed. “What do you think I’d do?”

Knowing her? Take him to lunch again and ask him to remove his shirt.

My eyes fell on the sketch again. I noticed something I hadn’t before. While I couldn’t see his face, I
could
see his left hand. It was outstretched, as if he were about to grab another fistful of sand to add to the sand castle. Adorning his ring finger was a wide band, most definitely a wedding band.

Did that mean, if I found him, there was a wedding in my future?

The butterfly wings came back then, and it felt as if my daughter were dancing a jig, they were that strong. A shiver rippled from the bottom of my neck all the way down the length of my back. Call me crazy, but I’m fairly sure my daughter was giving me her approval.

Tilting my head, I looked at Chloe, then Grandma Verda, and then, finally, my sister. “Let’s figure this out. We have close to five months.”

Chloe clapped her hands. “This is going to be
so
much fun!”

Finding my soul mate through magic and a scar on his shoulder. Yeah. Sure.
Fun.

My alarm blared way too early on Monday morning, and I groaned. Slamming the obnoxious noise off, I yawned, curled up in bed, knees to chest, and tried to wake up. The night before hadn’t passed in blissful slumber. Rather, it had been a night spent thinking about my daughter, magic, and soul mates, and wondering exactly how my life had turned into an episode of
Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
Or maybe
Mission: Impossible
was more like it.

I sat up in bed. Definitely
Mission: Impossible.
Because after a night of thinking, tossing, turning, and thinking some more, finding the man I’d drawn certainly didn’t feel like a cakewalk. Bleary-eyed, I headed for the bathroom to begin my morning routine. My stomach forced a nasty morning-sickness routine instead.

It did it again after I finished my shower. And again after I tried to eat some dry toast. Thinking my nausea would pass—or at least lighten—I took to the couch, one eye on the clock. I didn’t have to leave for another thirty minutes, so maybe, just maybe, I’d be lucky and this feeling would go away.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen, and thirty minutes later the nausea was even worse than before. I debated about what to do: go to work, since I was still such a new employee; or stay home because I didn’t really think I’d be able to get much work done in my current condition. Another rush of nausea answered my question, so I called in and left a message on Ethan’s voice mail.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled off my too-tight-at-the-waistband work pants and searched through my drawers for something more comfortable to wear. Finally, I settled on a pair of extra-large pajama bottoms and a long, loose T-shirt. Well, it used to be loose. Now it sort of hitched up slightly at my waist, clinging around my midsection.

After brewing a cup of tea, I grabbed my sketchpad and pencil from the dining room table and plopped down on the couch. Placing the pad on the cushion, I sipped my tea, my eyes taking in the drawing again. It really was a heartwarming picture, and so totally not the type of art I tended to create. While I’d done my fair share of portraits and scenic paintings over the years—mostly because they sold pretty well—I liked bolder, more abstract artwork.

But this? The finer details blew me away. My hands itched to add color to the picture, to put some blue in the water, a touch of pink in my daughter’s cheeks and on her lips, a dash of red on the dog’s lolling tongue—not so much coloring between the lines as adding depth to certain areas. But not now. I didn’t feel well enough to do the work justice; and besides, there was something else I wanted to try.

I sipped a little more tea, hoping the warmth would ease the ongoing churning in my stomach. Setting the mug down, I picked up the pencil and the pad. Turning to a clean sheet of paper, I closed my eyes and brought back everything I’d learned about the magic. About the wishes. Elizabeth had said I should be able to use my magic to do this, so why not give it a try?

What did I want to accomplish? That was easy to answer. I wanted to see the face of the man I’d drawn. But somehow, I didn’t think wishing it in that way would do the trick, so instead I said, “I wish I could draw the beach-scene picture from another angle, so I can see the man’s face more clearly.”

I put pencil to paper. I waited for the magical zing I’d felt during each of the other instances I’d cast a wish that came true. But this time nothing happened. No shivers, trembles, swirling rooms, or anything else. Frustration zipped through me, and without thought, I said, “Oh, come on. This isn’t fair, Miranda! You give me a warning, and I’m trying to do what you want, but this is silly. I need to know who the guy is, don’t I? Help me out a little.”

Suddenly, the magic was there. It zapped into my body like a bolt of lightning, only it didn’t hurt. It was more like a sharp buzz of electricity. My hand gripped the pencil tighter. I began to draw. This time, the strokes were broad, the scene rapidly appearing before my eyes. Barely a few minutes had passed before I realized I
wasn’t
drawing the same scene as before.

No sand met a water’s edge. There wasn’t a dog, a sand castle, or a toy bucket. Instead, the scene before me was of a woman in a wooden rocking chair holding a baby. Not a newborn, either, though probably no older than a few months. At first, I thought I was drawing myself, rocking my daughter to sleep, but as the woman’s features became clearer, I realized it wasn’t my face that stared back but another, older face. And I didn’t recognize her.

The child—and I assumed she was my child—had her cheek pressed against the woman’s chest. The woman’s arms were wrapped around the tot, holding her snugly. Her expression was one of peace, and the child’s was one of sleepiness—from what I could see, anyway. When my hand finally stopped moving, the ripple of magic seeped away, and it was just me again, sitting on my couch, holding a pencil.

I looked at this new image, trying to make sense of what I saw. There were no indicators of time or place, just the rocking chair, the woman, and the baby. And while I
thought
the child had to be my daughter, I couldn’t see enough of her face to be absolutely sure. Who was this woman holding her? Where was I?

Fear took hold of me, and I dropped the pencil in surprise. If the other picture, the one from the previous night, was the best-case scenario like I’d guessed, did that mean this one was the worst-case scenario? Meaning someone else was raising my child? If so, why? What happened to me? I stared closer at the baby, trying to determine for sure if she was my daughter or not. I flipped the page to the other drawing, so I could compare the two, but the original sketch depicted a child years older than the one in the second drawing.

But really, it had to be her. Who else?

Before I could give it any further thought, my phone rang. I reached over to the coffee table and grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Is this Alice Raymond?” a voice chirped in my ear.

The perkiness of the caller should have tipped me off to her identity. It didn’t. “Yes, this is she.”

“Alice! This is Shelby. Shelby Harris. We saw each other a few days ago at the doctor’s office, remember?”

I held back a sigh. “Of course I remember.”

“Doesn’t life do funny things? Imagine running into each other after all these years. Your mom was nice enough to give me your number. I hope that’s okay!” Before I could reply, Shelby continued. “Anyway, I was wondering if we could get together soon and catch up? None of my girlfriends are pregnant, and I’d love to have someone to talk about everything with.”

I didn’t say anything, because the last thing I wanted was to hang with Shelby or chat about our mutual belly bulges. Yes, she seemed nice enough now. I got that. But for one thing, I didn’t want to upset Chloe. And for another, other than pregnancy, I didn’t see how I’d have much in common with Shelby. Especially now.

“Things aren’t that great at the moment. Can we catch up another time?”

“Oh. Sure. If that’s what you want…” She broke off, a twinge of disappointment evident.

Again, just like in the doctor’s office, I felt like a heel. “I’m home sick today. This nausea isn’t going away and I can barely function, let alone have a conversation and make any sort of sense.”

“Isn’t it terrible? I’ve had the same problem, but I’m carrying twins.”

“Oh. Wow. Well, I’m not. I’m just sick all the freaking time.”

“Have you tried Preggie Pops? Or one of the other brands? They’ve helped me a lot.”

“Not yet. They really work?”

“They’re not the be-all, end-all, but they do make a difference.” She stopped talking, and I heard her take a deep breath. “Since you’re home today, and I have nothing going on, I could bring you a bag of them. Maybe they’ll help. And we could catch up a little.”

I hesitated. “I’m in my pajamas and don’t feel like changing. Maybe another time?”

She giggled. “Don’t be silly. I don’t care if you’re in your pj’s. And I don’t have to stay long.”

Checking the time, I saw that I had hours before there was any chance of Chloe showing up, and it was nice of Shelby to offer. And I did feel miserable. “If you really don’t mind, that would be great.”

I told her where I lived and she rang off, presumably to pick up some Preggie Pops and come right over. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I didn’t see how spending an hour or so with Shelby was going to hurt anything. Chloe would understand.

At least, I thought she would.

Ha. Actually, that was a lie. Chloe would definitely not understand, but she loved me, so she’d get over it.

My place still resembled a disaster zone, with all my art supplies strewn around, so I took a few minutes to straighten up. Then, after one more curious peek at the new drawing, I closed the sketchpad. I put that and the pencil on my coffee table, and went to put on some real clothes, because no matter what Shelby said, I was not greeting her in my pajamas.

Nearly an hour later, my doorbell rang. Then I did something I never thought I would do in a million years; I opened my door and invited Shelby Harris née Whitaker, aka crazy-cheerleader-man-stealing-self-involved-twit, into my home. Weird, how things change.

Weirder still, she gave me a hug as if we were long-lost friends, finally reunited. Because I didn’t know what else to do, I hugged her back. Dressed in crisp white pants and a collared, short-sleeved yellow shirt that stretched tightly over her abdomen, she looked like one of those perfect models on the covers of pregnancy and baby magazines. But even so, her expertly applied makeup didn’t hide her fatigue, and when she advanced farther into the entryway, her movements were slow and awkward.

“It was really nice of you to offer to come over,” I said, leading the way into the living room. I pointed to the couch. “Why don’t you relax and I’ll get you something to drink. If you’d like something?”

She immediately crossed to the sofa and sat down. I tried not to stare at her stomach, but it was kind of difficult to miss, it being huge and all. “I’d love some ice water, if you don’t mind. I’m always so warm.”

“No problem.” In the kitchen, I pulled out two glasses, filled them with ice and water, then returned to my guest. “Here you go.”

She accepted the glass. I took the chair across from her, and tried to think of something to say. Nothing came to me, so I relied on the most obvious topic. “So. Um. When are you due?”

Grimacing, she placed her free hand on her stomach. “Not soon enough. My official due date is mid-July, but twins tend to come about a month early. So probably next month sometime. What about you?”

“September. It seems so far away. Are you ready? I mean, twins! Were you surprised?”

“We were relieved, actually. I didn’t conceive easily.” She hesitated and then leaned forward. “We spent a lot of money to have these babies, and I don’t think we’d ever be able to do that again. It will take us years to get out of debt. So we’re happy we’re having two. But no, we’re not ready.”

“I haven’t even started.” My admission startled me, but somehow, hanging with Shelby wasn’t nearly as horrible as I’d expected. “Right now, my extra bedroom is my art studio, but I’m going to have to turn it into the baby’s room. I’m thinking about painting a nursery scene on the wall.”

“I wish I were that creative. Or my husband.” She laughed. “Grant has been meaning to paint the nursery forever, but he still hasn’t gotten around to it.”

I almost offered to paint a scene for her but held my tongue. Right or wrong, it seemed traitorous to Chloe. “It sounds like you’re really happy.”

“I am! What about you? How’s the father-to-be?”

“He’s not involved,” I said quickly. “I, ah, prefer not to discuss that. Or him.”

“I’m so sorry,” Shelby said. “I can’t imagine going through this without Grant. Most of my friends…” She broke off, sipped her water, and then set the glass down on the end table. “They’re not at the same place in their lives, and they’re not sure how to handle this.” She gestured to her stomach. “So…well, they’ve kind of vanished. And Grant has to work so many hours, I’m alone a lot. That’s why I wanted to see you.”

“But we were never really friends,” I remarked. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s nice to chat, but it’s a little confusing.” Though, based on what she’d just said, her behavior made a lot more sense.

“You were really nice to me once, a long time ago. I’ve never forgotten it. When I saw you at Dr. Layton’s…well, I thought maybe…” She stopped speaking and twisted her fingers together.

“Maybe what?” Even as I asked, I tried to remember when I had been really nice to Shelby.

“I don’t know. I’d hoped we might be able to be friends now.”

“Oh. The thing is—” My stomach gurgled and nausea climbed the back of my throat. In one quick move, I set my glass down and slapped my hand over my mouth. Jumping up, I ran from the room, hoping like hell I’d make it to the restroom in time.

When I finally returned, some ten minutes later, I said, “I’m so sorry. It comes in waves, and normally I can deal with it. Today has been bad.”

Understanding gleamed in her gaze. “Don’t even think about it. I get it, believe me.” She opened her purse and pulled out a bag. “I should have given this to you right away, but I was so happy to see you, I forgot. They didn’t have Preggie Pops, but this brand works really well too.”

I accepted the bag and opened it. Inside was a package of lollipops. The words on the outside of the package promised they would “Stop queasiness in its tracks.” Choosing one, I unwrapped it and stuck it in my mouth. “Thanks,” I said, talking around it.

“No problem. Hey, do you mind if I put my feet up? My ankles are hideously swollen.” Pink blossomed on Shelby’s cheeks, as if the admission embarrassed her. “I promised my husband I’d keep them up as much as possible. He worries.”

Even as I said, “Go ahead,” and “Isn’t that sweet?” jealousy whipped into me. Mere minutes earlier, I’d felt a little sorry for her, because of her vanishing friends. But now? The pang of envy grew stronger. What would it be like to have a husband hover around, making sure you were okay, worrying about you, taking care of you? If he were the right guy? It would be wonderful.