A Stroke Of Magic Part 17

"A modeling job," the blond beefcake said, nodding to the form in front of him. "There were a bunch of us here earlier, but the old lady sent away everyone who didn't have scars or birthmarks on their backs."

"Oh. I see." And I did. Way too clearly. "So, what are you filling out?"

"It's a part resume, part medical history, part IQ test thing." Then, lowering his voice, he pointed to one of the questions. "Who was the sixteenth president of the United States? The choices are Abraham Lincoln or John Adams."

"It must be a trick question, because the sixteenth president of the United States was George Was.h.i.+ngton," I whispered. I expected him to laugh. Truly, I did. So when he drew a very straight line underneath the other two choices and wrote in George Was.h.i.+ngton's name and then circled it, I didn't know if I should feel badly or laugh.

One of the other guys looked up. With rich auburn hair, bespectacled green eyes, and a splash of freckles on his cheeks, he appeared intelligent, friendly, and more than a little of the apple-pie variety of cute.

He frowned at me. "That's mean."

"I didn't think he'd believe me. It was meant to be a joke," I shot back.

"What? It's not George Was.h.i.+ngton?" the blond guy asked. "Why'd you tell me that?"

I sighed. "I was teasing. It's Abraham Lincoln."

He glared at me doubtfully. "Are you teasing again?"

"Alice! Come here!" Grandma Verda screeched.

"No. I'm not. I swear. Just mark it. You'll get that question right." Though maybe not many others. Not that it made a lick of difference, because I was having no part in whatever scheme Grandma Verda had set up.

Deciding it was time to find out exactly what that scheme was, I strode to my bedroom to find her perched on the edge of my bed with my sketchpad open next to her. Yep-to that drawing. She'd brought my sixth dining room chair into the room, and it sat at the far end of the bed. And in that chair sat another man, also without his s.h.i.+rt on. And, of course, he was seated so that his bare back faced my grandmother. I watched in partial disbelief, partial respect, and partial annoyance as, with a fancy digital camera I'd never seen, she snapped a few more pictures. For one, she got so close to the poor man's back that she could have counted his hairs. Of which, I'm sad to say, he had plenty.

"Okay. Thank you, Will. We're finished."

Standing, he pulled on his T-s.h.i.+rt. "When will you be making a decision?"

"Oh, I'm not really sure. But we'll contact you either way. Just be sure to leave your application, completely filled out, on the dresser there." She pointed. I followed her finger and gasped. The stack of forms sitting on the dresser was huge. Really huge.

Will did as she asked, and then left the room. Me? I reminded myself that my grandmother had the best intentions, and only half shrieked, "What are you doing?"

"Come here, Alice. Take a look at the pictures I have so far."

"No! How many men have you paraded through my bedroom today?"

"If you'd come here and look at the photos, you'd be able to see for yourself. There're a couple who I think match your drawing, dear. Most don't. But I figured it didn't hurt to get the photos so you'd have a bigger pool to choose from."

"Um. Grandma? If the scar doesn't match, why does it matter how large the pool is?"

Wait a minute. Oh my G.o.d; she'd done it. She'd dragged me into this conversation.

Blithely ignoring me, my grandmother continued, "I also made them fill out paperwork, so you'll know something about them before you set up any dates. I think it will be quite useful."

Yes. Useful. Sure. "Please explain to me how you accomplished this," I said, fighting to remain calm.

She clapped her hands. "Oh, it was simple. I put an ad in the paper, asking for artist's models, and ran it all last week. I got so many responses! I had to stagger their appointments. I've been doing this since Monday afternoon, after leaving Enchanted Expressions."

"You've been bringing strangers into my home since Monday?"

She sniffed. "Yes! All for you. Unfortunately, most of them I had to send home, because the newspaper neglected to print my ad correctly. It was supposed to say 'scar or birthmark on right shoulder' in the description, but they left out the 'right shoulder' part."

"And how did you get so many of them to apply?"

"I think the bonus did the trick," she said, still browsing through photos.

"And what is the bonus?" I knew I shouldn't ask.

"Just money." She sighed and shook her head-I wasn't sure if it was at me, the bonus, or the picture she perused. "A lot of money for a job like this. But only one bonus for one person. Oh, and only if he's your soul mate. Of course, I didn't say that part."

I had more questions. So. Many. More. But I gave myself a minute to be sure I really wanted to know the answers.

Deciding full disclosure was for the best, I said, "Okay. Let's start at the beginning. Why did you decide to place this ad? Did you find out something about Ethan that you haven't shared with me?"

Her light blue eyes skittered to me and then back to the camera. "I don't know anything for sure."

"But you know something? What is it?"

"I still think it could be him. I just wanted to give you more possible soul mates to choose from. You do have a time limit, you know. Your baby won't wait to be born."

"Quit evading the question. What new information do you have that shows it might not be Ethan?" And yes, this question was one I didn't really want answered. But I needed to know, like it or not.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. It's not a big deal. I was telling him about all the sc.r.a.pes you used to get into as a child. Climbing trees, falling off your bike, that sort of stuff."

"Go on."

"And I asked him if he'd ever injured himself as a child. Anything that would leave a scar, for instance."

A small amount of relief slid in. It didn't sound as if she'd actually seen his bare shoulder. "And?"

Wrinkling her nose, she laid her camera down in front of her. "The only scar he has is on his leg. At least, that's what he said. He was playing one day when he was young, and he knocked a gla.s.s vase over. He fell on the broken pieces and ended up with ten st.i.tches. Can you imagine?"

"So you know for sure he doesn't have a scar on his shoulder?" It was as if someone had punched me in the gut; the agony was that strong, that sudden. "Why didn't you tell me this immediately?"

"Because he might have a birthmark there. Or something else." She shrugged. "He might even have a scar there he doesn't know about. It's not like we look at the backs of our own shoulders every day." And then, in an obvious move to prove her statement, she crooked her neck at an awkward angle, trying to see her own shoulder. "See? It's nearly impossible."

"Nice try, Grandma." But she was right about the birthmark part-it was still a possibility. Picking up my drawing, I peered closely. Yeah. It could definitely be a birthmark.

I pretended I didn't hear the little voice in my head. The one insisting it resembled a scar far more than a birthmark. "If he's still in the running, why all these men? Why the ad?"

"When I'm done here, I'm going to have all these pictures printed, and then I'll label them. Each man will have his own file with his application and photos! Then, you, Elizabeth, and I can go through each and figure out the men who match the best."

"You really don't think it's Ethan, do you?" I whispered.

Finally, she looked at me. "Oh, honey, I don't know. But we need to have a backup plan."

Before I could respond, the auburn-haired model stuck his head in. "I've finished filling everything out. What's next?"

My grandmother's face lit up. "Well, come right in here then." She held out her hand for his paperwork. He gave it to her, and she glanced at it. "h.e.l.lo, Aaron. Take a seat in that chair, with your back to me, and we'll get this finished nice and quick."

I let her do her thing and left the room. Cloistering myself in my art studio, soon to be my daughter's bedroom, I pushed my disappointment away. Well, I tried to. But it wasn't that easy. I tried to convince myself that all hope wasn't lost. That Grandma Verda could be wrong. Or, if she wasn't, that just because Ethan didn't have a scar on his shoulder didn't mean anything. He could still be "the one."

With a heavy spirit, I hung up the phone. I'd spent the last hour in a heart-to-heart chat with my sister, and for the first time since she and her boyfriend Nate had gotten together, an air of trouble stirred in their relations.h.i.+p. Well, I didn't think so, but she did. Or rather, she worried there might be trouble. Apparently Nate had a new partner at work-a very young, beautiful, and blonde female cop.

Elizabeth said she was fine, but I'd heard the undercurrents in her voice that told me she was concerned. You couldn't find a much better guy than Nate. He was about as good as they got. So, I was fairly sure the blame for her discomfort didn't rest with him, but came from her experiences with her ex-husband and his blonde and willing receptionist. Also, my sister's feelings were natural. After all, she and Nate had only been together for a few months, so she was bound to cross this bridge eventually. But that didn't make the crossing any less of a struggle.

Sighing, I tried to push her fears out of my mind so I could focus on the picture I'd been attempting to draw. " 'Your magic, your powers, will give you the answers as you need them,' " I murmured, repeating the last bit of advice I'd received from Miranda.

Okay, then. So why-no matter what I tried-did I continue to come up blank? "d.a.m.n it! I just want to know what's going to happen."

A spark zapped into me. It began at my toes, rus.h.i.+ng up my body at lightning speed, pulsating through my arms, and then, with an electrifying tingle, it zapped straight into my fingertips. Tiny sparkles of light danced from my fingers to the pencil, like a miniature display of fireworks. They grew and grew until the sparkles bobbed in the air, the light of them blinking like a thousand fire-flies on a summer night.

In that moment, I felt the magic like I never had before. It was inside of me. It was all around me. It was me. The energy continued to flow, the strength of it so great, I nearly dropped the pencil in surprise. But I held on, captivated by what was happening, enthralled by the very power. My hand trembled, and the pencil began to move.

Just like before, no image met my mind's eye, but without me having the slightest inkling of what I was creating, the magic took control. No hesitation existed in my strokes; they were solid and sure, and they swept across the page, creating the barest of outlines. Two people, a man and a woman, took shape. They stood at the front of a wide room. Candles and flowers filled the s.p.a.ce around them. I drew more quickly, the pencil going from broad strokes to small, fine ones, filling in details throughout. From the stained-gla.s.s windows, to the wooden pews filled with people, to the flickering flames on the candles. A flower here, a pair of hands clasped there, and a crying baby all came into view. Oh! My parents were there too, in the front pew.

A wedding. The scene coming to life in front of me, created by my own hand, was that of a wedding. More details were added, and then, finally, the pencil moved to the couple about to walk back down the aisle, hand in hand. My breath caught in my chest. Was this it? Had I finally found the key to my soul mate's ident.i.ty?

The bride's dress was traditional, with plenty of lace and pearls. This surprised me, because I am not a lace kind of girl, but the picture had to be of me. Who else? I continued to draw, continued to shade. s.h.i.+vers coated my skin. My eyes watered and I needed to blink, but I refused to, too afraid that the magic would stop and the bride and the groom's ident.i.ties wouldn't be completed. I had to finish this.

My heart raced and I swallowed, trying to calm myself. My baby danced inside of me, and I laughed. Through all of this, the magic swirled, the colors increasing in vividness around me, the lights growing brighter. And then, when I began drawing the faces of the couple, my movements slowed. I pulled air deep into my chest and then huffed it out, my eyes never leaving the page, the couple before me.

When the last line was drawn, the final detail sketched in, and there was no shading left to be completed, the magic whooshed out of me as quickly as it had come. The colors disappeared, the lights dimmed, and everything returned to normal. My hand shuddered to a stop and I dropped the pencil. My wrist ached; the muscles in my arm were tight, taut. I rubbed, first at my wrist and then at my arm, trying to ease the soreness that had come from drawing so fast.

All the while, I stared at the picture, taking it in, trying to understand why I'd drawn this specific image. I pushed a breath out. I sucked another back in. I tried to feel nothing but happiness, but a shroud of disappointment existed, heavy and unrelenting, and I couldn't quite erase it. Envy churned inside of me. Maybe that made me a bad sister, but I couldn't help it and I couldn't stop it.

For the picture wasn't of me. Though, on closer appraisal of the wedding, I was there too-at the far end of the first pew, holding a baby who was likely my daughter. A man sat next to me, but only his arm, swung over my shoulders, could be seen. The bride and groom were smiling. Love shone brilliant and clear in their eyes.

No, it wasn't me. It was my sister and Nate, on their wedding day. Which, apparently, was going to happen sometime in the next year, based on the age of my daughter. I peered closer at the drawing, trying to gather as much information as possible, but honestly-as far as my dilemma went-there wasn't much to see. An arm, a hand, the ridge of his shoulder, the edge of his watch peeking out from beneath his sleeve. Not enough of anything. Nothing distinctive. But then my eyes landed on his hand again, his left hand. And, a.s.suming it was the same man from the first drawing, in this representation the wedding ring was absent.

Interesting, but completely unhelpful.

My doorbell rang, and I hesitantly set the sketchpad down and went to answer. It was Chloe, and while I was happy-no, thrilled-to see her, my heart still ached.

"I don't like things like this," she confessed, standing barely inside my door.

"I don't either. I've called Kyle four times, though. He's not calling me back. So, if you're here to get mad at me again, please don't. I can't take it tonight."

She tucked a strand of red hair behind one ear. "I've been an emotional, whiny witch. I'm sorry." A slight pause. "None of this is your fault."

"Well, I haven't exactly been calm and serene. And it's not your fault, either."

Her lips tipped up into a faint smile. "Okay. So. Where does that leave us?"

"We're friends, Chloe. Nothing has changed." And in the snap of a finger, the tension between us lessened. "Come on in."

She did, and her eyes swept the room and then me. "There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"Nate and Elizabeth are getting married." I led the way into the dining room, plopping myself into the chair I'd just vacated.

"Wow! That's great news! Why do you look so down about it?" She settled next to me.

"I'm happy for them, but I thought I was drawing my wedding." I shoved the sketchbook toward her and then let her in on what had just occurred, not leaving anything out. "It doesn't make any sense!"

Chloe's eyes clouded. "You're right. It doesn't. Almost as if something is blocking you. Or someone. Is that possible?"

I thought about it for a minute. "No. I don't think that's it. It's more like I don't know the rules, or am missing some critical component." Another thought wove into my brain. "You know that first drawing? I don't think that was me at all."

"What do you mean?"

"That one was Elizabeth's magic, not mine. I'd bet money on it." Glancing down at the wedding picture, I continued, "And this one was my magic. The difference in the two, as far as what I experienced, is huge."

"So what does that mean?"

"I don't know." Suddenly I remembered the other drawing: the one with the older woman rocking my daughter. Grabbing the sketchbook, I flipped to that page. "This one was different too. No colors or lights, just the static electricity stuff."

"Let me see that." Chloe pulled the drawing to her and dipped her head forward. "Who's the woman? And what were you doing, or wis.h.i.+ng, when you drew this?"

Shrugging, I said, "No clue about the woman. It was the day after you all were here, right after I found out everything. I wished to draw the beach scene from a different perspective, thinking I might be able to see the man's face. Nothing happened. So I sort of yelled at Miranda, and that's when I drew it."

Chloe's green eyes rounded. "She was here?"

"No. Or, if she was, I didn't see her. But I was frustrated..."

"What did you yell? Do you remember?"

"Um. Let me think." Hesitating, I brought back the moment. "I stayed home from work because I didn't feel well. I don't remember all of it, but I know I asked her to help me."

A sizzle of excitement whipped through Chloe's body. "And you drew this then? Right away?"

"Yep." I shuddered. "This picture scares me. I've been trying to forget about it."

"Scares you how?"

"That's my daughter." I pointed to the picture of the child. "And I have no idea who that woman rocking her is. So it makes me believe that this picture is what will happen if I don't find my soul mate. That someone else will raise her. And that makes me afraid of what will happen to me."

Chloe paled. "Yeah, that is scary. I didn't even think of that. I was thinking that maybe this woman, whoever she is, knows who your soul mate is."

I tried that idea on for size, then shook my head. "I don't think so." Out of nowhere, I thought of Beatrice, my child's other grandmother. "Oh my G.o.d. Maybe I do know who she is."

"Who?"

Forcing myself to chill, I caught Chloe up to speed on Missy, Troy, and the fact that his mother had requested a meeting-which I'd agreed to. Whereas before I'd been fairly ambivalent about the meeting, now I felt real anxiety. "So, if it turns out this woman is Beatrice Bellamy, then what?"

"Well, maybe your hunch is correct and Beatrice would raise your daughter if you don't find your soul mate, but maybe it isn't. The picture still might mean she knows the ident.i.ty of your man."

"It's not Troy. I'm positive of that." The very notion sent a wave of nausea through me. "No. It's not him."