Your Magic or Mine? (11 page)

“Yes, twelve is out of the question. You’ll be traveling from the end of the semester straight into the next school year,” Antonia agreed. “So, how many?”

“No more than six,” Forscher said.

“Let’s say five and keep the sixth for a fallback,” Gloriana said. “Ed’s the type who will say one or two more than we do because he likes to negotiate everything.”

“You’re right,” Forscher replied, “and let’s spread it across the whole country. How about Boston?”

They discussed the merits of each city on the list with the help of her parents, who had been to and knew practitioners in all of them. They finally decided on five cities: Boston, Atlanta, Chicago, Denver, San Francisco, with Washington, D.C., for a negotiating giveaway. The tour would start the second Saturday in June and go straight through the month and into July with no breaks. Luckily the Fourth of July fell in the middle of the week, and they wouldn’t have to skip a weekend. The actual order of travel would depend on the availability of the halls.

Forscher consulted his calendar on the PDA and nodded his head. “Yes, that schedule should accomplish our purposes and Ed’s. I’d like to get it pinned down quickly, before he makes HeatherRidge reservations he can’t cancel.”

“Then let’s call him,” Gloriana said. “I have all his numbers.” She flipped open a file.

Her father fetched the phone from his corner desk and set it to speaker mode. Gloriana dialed.

“Ed Hearst,” the editor said when he answered.

“Hi, Ed, this is Gloriana Morgan. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday. I have Marcus Forscher with me, and we’d like to make a proposition about the debate plans.”

“Okay, I was planning on calling the HeatherRidges on Monday, so let’s hear it.”

“We suggest visiting five cities,” Forscher said before Gloriana could continue. She didn’t care particularly for his assuming control of their presentation, but she kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t about to give Ed the idea they weren’t together in their thinking.

Forscher read off the list of cities and the proposed timetable. “The tour must be over by the middle of July. Later than that interferes substantially with our individual plans and is completely unacceptable, not to mention possibly detrimental to our careers.”

“Only five cities?” Ed asked, and she thought she could hear a twinge of exasperation in his voice.

“That’s correct,” Forscher said. “Such a schedule will allow you and the councils to assess if the project is worth continuing. Our participation should not be necessary after those meetings.” He looked at Gloriana and raised his eyebrows. “Do you have anything to add?”

“No, I think you’ve covered the salient points.” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. She suppressed a smile; Forscher could certainly sound stuffy in his polysyllabic way. On the other hand, he also sounded like he wouldn’t give an inch.

“Five cities is simply not enough,” Ed countered. “The demand is too great and the subject too broad for only a few meetings to satisfy it.”

“That may be,” Gloriana jumped in before Forscher could. “But we will have done our part by drawing everyone’s attention to the discussion. Ed, magic education is a huge topic, and our future methodologies won’t be settled in five or fifteen or fifty meetings. Every single practitioner should take part. We have no interest in being the spokespeople for either extreme, and neither of us likes being caught in the middle.”

“That’s why we need you,” Ed said, “because you’re not on the extremes. Besides, you’re both articulate speakers and you think fast on your feet. At the moment, you’re the only ones who can keep the discussion focused. Marcus, you want people to experiment with your formula and to offer more precise casting methods, even for low-level spells. Gloriana, you want to keep magic practice individualistic and open to the myriad of abilities across the practitioner spectrum. Isn’t that so?”

“Damn, he’s good,” she muttered to herself and smiled in admiration of Ed’s negotiating abilities to go right to what they most cared about. She, however, wasn’t going to give in to him.

When she looked across the table, the mathematician had a distracted expression on his face. He blinked and focused when she raised five fingers in front of him and mouthed the words, “Five only.” He nodded and held up his five fingers.

“That may be so,” he said to the phone, “but we still have obligations to fulfill to the university and others. We will be happy to submit another article or two for the journal. That, however, will be the extent of our contribution. Five cities, Ed, no more.”

“I can’t talk you into six?” the editor wheedled. “It’s only one more.”

“No,” she and Forscher answered simultaneously.

“I’ll need at least two articles, one to run before we start, and the other when we’re done. They should be joint articles, too.”

“Let’s leave the issue of a single joint article or concurrent ones up to us,” Gloriana said. The thought of actually sitting down and writing an article with the man, spending so much time in close proximity, made shivers run up her spine. They were cooperating at the moment because they had the same overall purpose—limit the mess. While trying to write the thing, all they would do was argue, she was certain. More time wasted in the process.

She didn’t explain her reasoning, but it appeared she didn’t have to because Forscher nodded and said, “We’ll take care of it.”

“All right,” Ed grumbled and was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his enthusiasm had returned. “This setup can work. I’ll e-mail you with the article deadlines and the dates for the five cities as soon as I have them on Monday. These debates will be good for all of us, especially the general practitioner community, you’ll see.”

She and Forscher said good-bye to Ed, and she punched the button to hang up.

“That’s that,” Forscher said, putting up his PDA with finality. “I think we have what we asked for.”

“And it’s time for lunch. Marcus, there’s a powder room across the hall if you’d like to wash up. Oh, Glori,” Antonia said as she rose and pointed toward the door, “you didn’t tell me we had another guest.”

Everyone looked in the direction of her finger. Two grinning basenjis sat on their haunches and yodeled in greeting.

While he washed his hands before lunch, Marcus used the time to calm himself. He’d been so relieved to see Samson again, he’d almost grabbed the hound and given him a big hug.

Not that he’d had the chance, however. Samson had immediately fawned all over Morgan, even flopping over and presenting his belly for scratching, something he seldom did, even for his master.

Of course, Delilah had checked him out—in a thoroughly ladylike manner. She’d said hello and leaned into his petting, even given his hand a lick.

All the while, Morgan had knelt by his dog and grinned, an “I told you so” look on her face.

At least the negotiations had gone well. They’d gotten what they wanted out of Ed. Morgan was right—they didn’t need to write articles together. Not only could he not see them agreeing on their approach, he wasn’t sure he could hide his attraction during an extended period of time alone together.

For the present he simply had to eat lunch, make pleasant conversation with her very nice parents, work out a few more details with her, and he could take Samson and go home.

He walked out into the entry hall and looked around. The Morgans may not have attempted a true historic preservation, but the house was handsome with its dark oak floors and pastel plaster walls. He peered into the large living room. No real Victorian period pieces there to speak of, simply comfortable-looking furniture. Although not to his more austere and contemporary taste, of course, it was nice just the same. Similar to that in Morgan’s house. The place was also neat. The daughter must not have inherited her mother’s housekeeping gene.

He turned to the dining room on the other side of the entry. His mother would like the room. The Queen Anne dining table, chairs, and buffet were beautiful and elegant, especially when combined with the crystal chandelier. The table was not set, so they must be eating elsewhere. He heard voices in the kitchen and headed in that direction.

He came through the kitchen door in time to see Antonia hold out a dog biscuit to Samson. Before he could open his mouth to ask her not to give the dog a treat, Morgan spoke softly from directly behind him.

“It’s all right. I have a deal with Mother. Only one doggy cookie for Delilah a day. Mother’s a sucker for a hungry animal, no matter the species. She’ll try to stuff you, too.” She walked around him before he could answer her.

Antonia noticed him as Samson took the treat politely from her hand. “Have a seat right over there, Marcus,” she said, pointing to a chair at the circular table set into another bay. “Is iced tea all right with you? We have soft drinks, milk, beer, and wine also.”

“Tea is fine.” He sat, put his napkin in his lap, and used the opportunity to look around. The large kitchen was a cheery place, with white, glass-doored cabinets and maple countertops, pots of herbs growing on the windowsills, and polished copper pots hanging from the rack over the island in the middle. He was surprised to realize how comfortable he felt, despite the fact that he had never eaten in any kitchen except his own; his parents were dining-room people.

Alaric brought over the bread he had been slicing and put it on the table, went back to the counter for a platter of tomato slices, green leaves, and light yellow slabs of cheese, and sat down next to him. Morgan poured tea into ice-filled glasses, added a sprig of mint to each, and placed the glasses at each setting. She took the chair across the table from him.

Antonia came to the table with a big bowl, which she placed on the mat in front of her plate. “We’re having chicken salad, Marcus, I hope you like it. The bowl’s heavy, so if you’d all pass your plates, I’ll serve the first helping.”

“I’m sure it will be delicious,” he murmured as he watched Antonia plop two large spoonfuls of salad on his plate. Morgan had been correct—her mother was trying to stuff him.

“The tomatoes and basil are straight out of our greenhouses, and, everyone, tell me what you think of the cheese. I’m trying a new brand,” Antonia continued.

“Oh, good,” Morgan said, “you made my favorite brown bread, Daddy.”

“There’s another loaf if you want it,” he answered passing the plate to her.

Everyone concentrated on serving themselves as the bread and tomatoes went around the table.

Marcus scrutinized the mound of chicken salad in front of him. It didn’t look like what he was used to. The dish had more than simply chicken, celery, mayo, and hard-cooked eggs. There were those flat snow peas he’d always found tasteless, and some cut-up white bits he couldn’t identify, along with black olives, sliced carrots, chopped red bell peppers, and little green flecks of herbs. A faint whiff of mustard came to him also.

Not his usual fare of a hamburger and fries. He mentally sighed. He’d have to be a good guest and eat it all, no matter how it tasted. He loaded up his fork and took a bite.

Flavors exploded in his mouth and melded together in a sensation crunchy and creamy, piquant and smooth, cool and warm all at the same time.

He swallowed quickly and took another bite. The second was even better than the first.

He chewed, swallowed, and smiled widely at his hostess. “Antonia, I misspoke when I said I was sure it would be delicious. This is beyond delicious. It’s absolutely great. How do you make it taste so good?”

“Welcome to eating at Chez Antonia,” Morgan said in a low voice from across the table.

“Thank you, Marcus. It’s my magic, of course,” Antonia answered with a smile and a wink. “Don’t forget to have some tomatoes.”

The meal passed in a gastronomic blur for Marcus, to the point that he hardly heard and barely participated in the discussion about their plans for the farm—something about building a restaurant and offering cooking classes. He ate not only what Antonia had originally served, but another helping besides. The chewy, warm brown bread and the tomato dish, drizzled with olive oil, were perfect compliments.

“I must admit,” he said as he used the bread to sop up the last of the salad, “I haven’t eaten this well in ages.”

“Do you cook for yourself much?” Antonia asked.

“No, only simple meals,” he answered. “Steak, hamburgers, scrambled eggs, that sort of thing.”

“Your parents didn’t teach you, or you don’t care for it?”

“No, my mother doesn’t cook much, my father not at all. We had a cook and housekeeper when I was very small. When I was school age, I went to boarding school and was home only on vacations. We often traveled during the summers.” He went on to tell them about his parents, their professions, their university, his calling them by their first names—a departure from his usual reticence, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Antonia and Alaric did seem interested and asked more questions. Morgan didn’t speak, only drank her tea and flicked glances at him from time to time. He concluded by saying, “The traveling was very educational. Judith and Stefan always made sure I met some of the most prominent scholars in whatever my interest was at the time.”

“See, Mother, we always told you how much better educated we’d have been if you and Daddy hadn’t made us kids work the farm during the summer,” Morgan said with a smirk. Then she added with an overly sad face, “I was a grown woman before I saw Disney World.”

“Poor baby,” Antonia said and patted her hand in mock commiseration.

“Marcus, don’t listen to her laments,” Alaric said. “Glori, you’ll give him the idea y’all were indentured servants. Besides, if you hadn’t been working with your mother, we wouldn’t have discovered your talents at an early age. That not only gave you a head start on progressing through your spell levels, it allowed you to complete your degrees in record time.”

“Okay, Daddy.” She rolled her eyes. “I lived it, remember?”

“Besides,” he continued in a serious tone, “times were tough. We needed the cheap labor. I do wish y’all hadn’t eaten us out of house and home, though. We would have shown a profit sooner.”