By Magic Alone Read online

  Verda was an odd duck, though, so the possibility existed that I was wrong and she’d somehow be upset. That was one of my reasons for dragging my heels. But not the only reason. Not even close. The larger part of my reluctance rested with Scot and the picture he’d drawn of me. Try as I might, I couldn’t deny the validity of that picture. Or at least the validity of a small portion of it. So now the mere thought of going through Verda’s paperwork gave me an odd, achy sensation deep inside.

  Somehow, though, the compulsion to follow through remained strong. Pressing, even. Which was the crux of my dilemma.

  I clicked the button of the pen I held. Once. Twice. I reached a hand out toward the envelope and then yanked it back. Slid the envelope closer and fingered the flap. Yes? No? Oh, hell. I didn’t have a clue. I picked the envelope up, felt the weight of it in my hands, and cursed again. “Make a decision, Julia,” I muttered.

  Closing my eyes, I fought to find some balance, a little distance. I weighed the pros and cons along with the possible positive and negative results of whatever action I took. What finally pushed me forward was a combination of three things: my strong curiosity, Leslie . . . and strangely the same thing that had originally held me back. Scot.

  He already believed ice ran through my veins. He already saw me in a way that would likely never change, and I was going to have to pretend to date him, to ignore my stupid, irrational desire for him and try to work some matchmaking magic for Leslie. That was a lot. It involved dealing with other people’s emotions, something I wasn’t particularly good at. Besides, if I was going to change Verda’s mind about me and Scot, convince her that Leslie was the better match, wouldn’t it help to know how Verda did things? And if the process somehow helped me with Introductions . . . well, that was incidental.

  I unfastened the flap of the envelope. Tipping the package carefully to the side, I spilled the contents—a thick stack of papers and a book of some sort—out onto the glass surface of the coffee table. A breath wheezed out of my chest and I sniffed, not surprised to smell the lingering aroma of roses, but a whisper of apprehension trickled down my spine and caused me to let go of the envelope so that it fluttered to the floor.

  Weird, really, how one experience can forever change your tastes. Before the other night, roses were just another flower; I neither liked nor disliked them. Now they were akin to food I’d eaten right before coming down with the flu. To this day, I cannot stomach even a spoonful of cream of potato soup. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d also never look at a rose the same way again.

  Scooting forward from my spot on the sofa, I grabbed the sheaf of papers and moved them closer, ignoring the book for now. I’d start at page one and work my way though, one sentence, one question at a time.

  The initial page was a basic introduction letter, welcoming the client to Magical Matchups and explaining the importance of fully answering every question within the packet. I had a similar letter, both on my company Web site and in our welcome folder, so I only gave this a passing perusal. So far so good.

  The remaining pages were partitioned off into six separate sections with binder clips. Each segment was printed on a different color paper. Probably for no other reason than to signify a change of focus to the client, but I had to admit it was a smart, if simple, idea. This first page, the section printed on light green paper, began with basic questions such as name, birth date, address, phone number, and the like. I entered in the appropriate information and flipped to the next.

  Education. This was a piece of cake, too. But my pen stalled at the career questions. Hm. No way was I putting down that I owned a dating service. But I didn’t want to completely lie either. I scrawled in “Customer service rep” and continued. Hey, I dealt with people and tried to solve their problems. Relationship problems. Close enough, thank you very much.

  Next came a series of inquiries related to my career, covering everything from how well I liked what I did to my favorite and least favorite aspects of my job. A medical questionnaire followed, one that reminded me of new-patient registration forms at a doctor’s office. Kind of odd, and not something I included in my client workup at Introductions, but I supposed I understood the reasoning.

  With the green section completed, I moved on to the lilac pages. These questions reminded me of the Myers-Briggs personality assessment, but with a broader scope. The personality-focused questions I understood, and I used something comparable at Introductions, but why Verda deemed it important to know if I liked dogs, preferred one make/model car over another, was a morning person, or listened to music in my car was beyond me. I rushed through, circled the appropriate responses, and moved to section three.

  One glance at the sky blue paper forced a groan. In front of me were short essays depicting a specific scenario that at the end asked “What would you do?” Ugh. My reactions to any given situation weren’t set in stone. Nor, in my opinion, were other people’s. Still, I powered through, and in nearly every case, gave whatever response floated first into my brain.

  The next bunch of papers—pink, by the way—was the thickest of the entire group. Ah! These were the relationship questions. These were the ones that would likely give the real scoop on how Verda matched her clientele.

  I read. Then I shook my head, turned the page, and read more. I did the same with the next two before flicking back to the beginning.

  “Okay, then,” I whispered.

  Initially there were three pages asking questions about my last few relationships. Twenty questions per relationship, per page. This isn’t what bewildered me. After all, good logic states that folks tend to choose the same type of person from one relationship to another. Introductions also delved into its clients’ dating histories, just not this deeply. But what did shock me was her rating system for men. Depending on how I answered each of the relationship questions, there was a handy little key that ranked my exes by fruit.

  Seriously, fruit.

  Verda’s highest-ranking fruit—er, man—was a pomegranate, followed by kiwi, going all the way down to—naturally?—a lemon. An average man was described as an apple, while the fellow who ranked just above average was an orange. Just below? A pear. In between pear and lemon we had the plum. Which, if you followed along with Verda’s concept, made a weird sort of sense. You know, plums become prunes.

  But, come on. Fruits? Really? I reread the key and the descriptions, trying to work this bizarre revelation in with the whole magic/fairy-godmother thing. Honestly, it flat-out didn’t compute. But then, not that I’d admit it out loud, my curiosity got the better of me and I whipped through the questions with superhuman speed.

  I’d only had two serious relationships over the past ten years. One of them had lasted almost two years, and the other just over one. But I’d also dated a guy in college, so I added him to the mix to give me the total of three past relationships Verda asked for. I resisted checking the key until I was completely finished. Once the totals were tallied, I discovered that my dating habits—if Verda was to be believed, of course—were all over the place.

  My college boyfriend was an orange, which apparently meant he fell in line slightly ahead of those average apples, often making good marriage material but sometimes becoming too preoccupied with themselves and backsliding easily. And not just to the average level, but all the way down to a lemon. Ouch.

  The two-year guy was a pear, so not only hadn’t I learned anything with Mr. Orange, but I then went on to choose a guy who was two levels beneath the orange, going by Verda’s scale. Lovely. Just lovely.

  Finally, the most recent man in my life was described as . . . oh, wow . . . a kiwi? Second to the top, kiwis were described as self-starters and high achievers. They were also—supposedly—caring and attentive lovers with the right partner. Kiwis, it seemed, were keepers. Only, for a reason I couldn’t quite remember, I’d let my kiwi go. A kiwi my parents had hooked me up with, by the way.

  Jameson wove his way into my brain then. He was probably a freaking po
megranate.

  I shoved that thought away. Fast.

  The rest of the pink section was a series of intense questions that pretty much encompassed every relationship in my entire life. There were questions about my father and mother, siblings (if applicable), friends, pets, and on and on it went. I was sweating by the time I finished. But I wasn’t done. The red segment was next: pages and pages devoted to my romantic wishes, hopes, and fantasies.

  Yay, right? Not so much. Especially because there were a dozen or so fairy-tale questions tossed in, like “What was your favorite fairy tale as a child?” My answer: none. “Which fairytale heroine do you most identify with?” My answer: none. “If you could become any fairy-tale heroine, who would you be?” My answer: yep, you got it, none. This was obviously where Kara and Leslie came up with all the talk about Snow White, Aurora, and Belle the other day, but that didn’t mean I wanted to dip into their madness. I was Julia Collins, not a fairy-tale princess, period and end of story.

  The last bit of paperwork centered on my relationship goals for the future. Huh. What were my relationship goals? I posed this same question to every one of my clients, but I’d never answered it for myself. I supposed that someday, settling down with an appropriate man wouldn’t be a horrible thing. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of children or a white picket fence or a dog or two. But not now. Not for a while.

  My fingers tightened around the pen. What should I write? Finally, I gave up and put a huge, fat question mark as my answer, then moved on.

  The final page was the confidentiality agreement Leslie and Kara had spoken of. Hm, she should have had me sign this before handing everything over. Really, I was within my rights not to sign, but there was no reason not to, so I did.

  Done! Good grief, was Verda thorough. I’d always worried that my entry process at Introductions was too long. Now I worried it wasn’t detailed enough. Fruity men aside, was this Verda’s secret? There’s a lot to say about digging beneath the surface to draw a person out. She’d dug all the way to China and back. Twice.

  My head ached from the intense concentration, and a solid state of bemusement settled in, mucking everything up. Also, though, a hint of frustration existed below the surface. Because as crazy as this process was, I’d expected more. A lot more. I’d expected . . . magic.

  Oh, not the wand-waving, spell-casting, fantastical type of magic. But something that felt like magic, especially given my friends’ raves. I wanted something that would clearly distinguish her business from mine. I should’ve been pleased. Our methods at this stage, while they varied hugely in complexity, were similar enough at their core to not raise any major red flags. But the disappointment hung on.

  Gathering the papers together, I shoved them back in the envelope. My gaze landed on the book I’d ignored earlier. What was it? A volume of love poetry, perhaps? Knowing Verda and the questions I’d just gone through, I figured that was likely the case. Or maybe a collection of fairy tales. My hand slid across the top of the book, the leather binding soft as if it had been rubbed with lotion.

  There weren’t any words etched onto the cover. As I picked up the book, something—call it a hunch—sped my pulse and sent a chain of trembles through my body. I turned the book in my hands, checking the spine, but that was also blank. My shivers increased and goose bumps dotted my arms. When I opened the book, there, written on the first page in spidery handwriting, was

  All happily-ever-after endings have a beginning.

  Use this journal to capture those hopes, wishes, and fantasies that

  are truest of heart, purest of soul.

  The magic of your happily-ever-after begins here.

  This is my gift to you,

  —Verda

  I stared at the message for so long that my eyes stung, and the writing itself seemed to glitter and twinkle as if made up of millions of tiny diamonds. Ridiculous! I squeezed my eyes shut, held them that way for a minute, and then opened them again. The weird sparkle I thought I’d seen was gone, but the urge to touch the words pressed into my consciousness, overshadowing all else.

  My fingers hesitated above the script. The compulsion grew stronger, and a strange sensation overtook me. It was as if another hand covered mine, guiding it, and without conscious thought, my fingers brushed the writing. The page, which should have felt cool and smooth, warmed beneath my touch. My hand moved across the message, and each letter, word, and sentence seemed to take physical form and melt into my fingertips.

  Electricity sizzled at my toes and wove its way up me until my entire body vibrated with energy. The beat of my heart echoed in my ears, and the writing once again began to glow. Heat, like the sun of a hot summer day, radiated through every muscle until my skin flushed with warmth. In one fast, jerky movement, I removed my hand, dropped the book, and jumped away from the sofa.

  I stared at the journal, now closed and lying on the floor, trying to find a rational, practical, not-freaky explanation for what had just occurred. The energy within me flashed once, twice, three times before draining away. My breathing erupted in raspy, short gasps of air that had me backing up another step.

  “What the hell was that?” I shrieked.

  Naturally, there was no response. I was alone, after all. But my throat tightened as the scent of roses infused my awareness.

  I’d been wrong. I hadn’t walked through the wardrobe. No, I’d fallen down the freaking rabbit hole.

  Chapter Seven

  I arrived at Magical Matchups exactly on time for my meeting with Verda. After the out-and-out weirdness in my living room, I’d given serious consideration to canceling the appointment, burning the journal, and wiping my hands of the entire mess once and for all. In the end, though, I couldn’t.

  Not because of Scot’s threat or my difficulties with Introductions. Nope. My reasoning had very little to do with those and a lot more to do with Leslie. While I sincerely doubted my ability to alter anything with Scot, I had to try. For her sake.

  As for me . . . well, I had a few choice questions for Verda. Namely, what the hell was up with the sparkly writing in the journal, and why had I felt as if I’d been zapped with lightning after touching it? I really, really hoped she’d offer up some good answers. Ones I could believe. Otherwise, I’d be dialing the nearest mental-health professional for an appointment and a straitjacket fitting.

  Verda met me at the door with a gleam of anticipation in her faded blue eyes. “There you are!” she said, gesturing for me to come in. “Right on time. Punctuality is an excellent trait, Julia.”

  Nodding because I agreed with her—I hated being late for anything, even Wednesday dinners—I followed her inside.

  Despite my distress, my lips twitched in amusement. Verda wore stretchy—not quite spandex but a close cousin—orange leggings and a bright yellow and orange polka-dotted tunic that fell an inch or so above her knee. Yellow beaded necklaces in varying lengths, along with white high-top sneakers laced in tangerine loopy bows, completed her ensemble. A touch of youthful pink dotted her cheeks.

  Evidently, Verda wasn’t afraid of color. I was oddly jealous and instantly promised myself I’d pick up a few upbeat outfits for work. Oh, nothing in her psychedelic-rainbow range of upbeat. But perhaps I could extend beyond my standard black, brown, and blue.

  She locked the door behind us and led me to a room I’d yet to see. A tiny amount of stress vanished when the only scent in the air was that of Verda’s perfume. Which, thankfully, held more fruity tones than floral. I’d had quite enough of roses.

  The space was far more a sitting room than an office, but it was lovely. A sofa upholstered with flowered fabric—cabbage roses, naturally—rested like a queen in the middle of the room. Two chairs covered in the same fabric angled on either side, giving the impression of cozy comfort, like you might find at a bed-and-breakfast. What really caught my attention, though, was the large framed painting on the back wall. The scene was that of a window, looking out into a very realistic flower garden. It was pa
inted with such intricacy, such attention to detail, that I couldn’t help but stare.

  “What a gorgeous painting,” I murmured, entranced enough that I stepped in for a closer look. “I can nearly believe that’s a real window with a real garden just beyond.”

  “My granddaughter is an artist. She painted that specifically for me.” Verda’s voice held pride laced with melancholy. “That was the view outside of my bedroom window when I was growing up. Alice captured every detail perfectly.”

  I’d seen window paintings before, but nothing so vivid or realistic. Certainly nothing so beautiful. “Did she have a photo to work from?”

  “No, dear,” Verda said, a twinge of sadness evident. “I don’t have many photographs left from my childhood.”

  “Oh. That’s . . . I’m sorry.” Maybe my parents and I weren’t always on the same wavelength, but they’d photographed nearly every aspect of my life. Too much so, maybe. “So . . . um . . . Alice painted this from what? Your description? That’s amazing.”

  “Well, Alice is quite talented. She has a gift, you see.” Verda walked over to the painting and laid her hand on its surface. More of a caress than a simple touch. “This is the view I saw every morning when I woke, from the time I was a little girl to the day I married. Sometimes when I stand this way and stare, I can feel that girl. She’s still here, you know. Buried underneath all of these wrinkles.”

  For an eerie half second I could almost imagine the girl of whom Verda spoke—a much younger version of the woman who now stood in front of me, with light blue eyes and smooth ivory skin and the vitality of youth. One blink and the image vanished, but Verda stayed lost in the picture, in her memories.

  My burning need to ask questions about the journal faded into the background. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—interrupt this moment, so I retreated to the sofa to wait her out.