A Stroke Of Magic Part 7

Chloe rushed to get the pad and pencil, while Grandma Verda and Elizabeth perched in the chairs across from me. Elizabeth smiled faintly in my direction, probably to rea.s.sure me. Call me bratty, but I didn't return the gesture. Grandma Verda clasped her hands together and jiggled in her seat, bits of glitter from her sparkly lavender s.h.i.+rt landing on my table.

"We weren't sure if you'd want pencils or charcoals or if you'd want to paint or whatever." Chloe placed my requested items in front of me. "So I brought everything out. Sorry about that."

"Not a big deal." I glanced at Elizabeth, who still watched me intently. "So, all I do is eat this and then instantly it should begin? Just like that?"

"Ideally," she replied.

"Ideally?"

"You know, that whole magic-is-unpredictable thing," Chloe interjected. "We hope it's right away, though. Don't we?"

She'd certainly taken to all of this nice and easily. Too bad she wasn't truly a member of the family, or I'd pa.s.s the magic on to her in a second. If I even could. "Okay. Here goes nothing."

I picked the paper off the cupcake and then tore a small chunk from the bottom. Popping the bite in my mouth, I somehow expected that this time I'd notice a difference in the taste, with magic as an extra ingredient. But no, it tasted like any other chocolate cupcake my sister ever baked: moist, flavorful, but completely normal.

The first bite went down easily, so I took another. And another. The entire time I ate, Chloe hovered next to me, while Grandma Verda and Elizabeth stayed seated, eyes never leaving my face. After I swallowed the last bite, I brushed crumbs off my hands and stood. "I need some milk."

"Do you feel any different?" Chloe asked. "Can you tell if the magic is working?"

"Are you ready to draw your soul mate?" asked Grandma Verda.

"Give her a few minutes, girls. Geesh." That voice of reason, which I oh-so-appreciated, came from my sister. Bless her heart.

In the kitchen, milk in hand, I leaned against the wall. Did I feel any different? No. I didn't. Did that mean the magic hadn't taken hold? Most of me hoped that was the case, but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a small part that had wanted this scheme to work. After all, even with the weird c.r.a.p going on, I was still a woman who'd once been a little girl, who'd once had dreams about finding her real, true love. But there was no prince in s.h.i.+ning armor waiting around the bend for me; Troy had taught me that.

I put my gla.s.s in the sink and went to give them the bad news. Returning to my chair, I clasped my hands together and said, "Okay, guys. I don't feel any different at all, so I'm pretty sure nothing's happened. Can we forget this? Please?"

"You have to try," Chloe said. "Like with the juice the other day. Give it a chance, at least."

"She's right, Alice. All you've done is eat the cupcake. I don't think you'll feel anything until the magic begins to work, which probably won't happen until you begin to draw," said Elizabeth. "If nothing happens then, we'll know."

For once, my grandmother didn't say a word. And I wanted her opinion. "What do you think, Grandma?"

"I think you're the only one who can decide." Her steady gaze met mine. "But if you don't try, won't you always wonder?"

I couldn't argue with that, so I nodded. "Okay, then. I guess I'll give it a go."

My palms were damp-probably from nerves-so I rubbed them on my pants before opening my sketchbook to a clean page. Curiously, as soon as my fingers took their normal position around the pencil, everything relaxed inside of me. What was there to be nervous about, though? It wasn't like this was going to work. Inhaling a short, quick breath, I put pencil to paper, not even sure what I was going to draw.

I didn't have any image in mind. Not a face, or a place, or anything at all. Closing my eyes, I tried to picture the person, the man, I was supposed to draw. Still nothing.

"It's not happening."

"Give it a little longer," my grandmother said. "Don't think too hard about it."

Trying to follow her advice, I cleared my thoughts. Instead of attempting to see an image, I focused on not seeing anything, on not hearing anything. But nope, that didn't work either. A few years back, I'd taken a meditation cla.s.s with Chloe. Let's just say I hadn't excelled. It seemed this wasn't going to go any better than that twelve-week course, because I couldn't stop thinking about what I was supposed to be doing, which was drawing the face of a man I was meant to be with. And because I couldn't stop thinking about that, I couldn't think of anything else.

Because I wanted this over with, I decided to give them the show they were after. Only I'd have to fake it, because this magic thing? It so wasn't happening. But I needed a man to draw, and after a minute, I had the perfect one.

Elizabeth's boyfriend, Nate.

Besides, my sister had given me this gift I didn't want, so I owed her one. I'd do this just to tease her. She'd probably freak out, but once I told her it was a joke, maybe everyone would forget this ridiculous idea and leave me alone.

I thought of Nate, remembering his features. Normally I didn't like drawing people without at least a picture of them in front of me, but I figured I'd be able to get a close enough representation based on memory alone.

"Oh! I'm feeling something," I fibbed. "I think it's working!" My lips quirked and I fought to stop myself from breaking into laughter.

Chloe squealed. My grandmother hushed her. Putting pencil to paper, I began to draw.

In a millisecond, everything changed. Tingles sped down my arms into my hands, and just like that I was drawing a picture that wasn't Nate. I didn't have any other image in mind, so I saw what the others saw, as it came to be on the paper in front of me.

My hand moved quickly, drawing lines, shading them in, moving on to another area of the page to do the same. The tingles increased, sort of like when your arm falls asleep and you get that numb but not quite numb feeling. That was exactly what it felt like, except it affected my entire body.

As weird as this was, I also knew I had the power to stop. That if I wanted to drop the pencil, I could. But something I couldn't explain pulled at me, pushed at me, and I felt as if I had to finish this drawing. That nothing else mattered at that moment but completing the picture in front of me.

So, I drew. And drew. And finally, after I don't know how much time, the image began to make sense. Sand met a water's edge; a pile of seash.e.l.ls and a toy bucket with a shovel came into view. After that, a dog with big, floppy ears and a sideways grin. I have to admit, that made me chuckle. Here I was, supposedly drawing my soul mate, and a dog stared up at me from the page. Cute as he was, I doubted he was my forever after.

But then my hand drew the image of a little girl. And I recognized her from the vision I'd had with Miranda. This was my child. My daughter. Garbed in a sundress, she sat on one side of the dog, her hands digging into the sand, building the beginnings of a sand castle.

My heart raced and my breath caught in my throat. My daughter. I had a picture of my daughter before she was even born. How many people could say that?

My hand continued to move, but every part of me remained focused on the child. Her smile was wide, open, and carefree. She looked healthy and well taken care of. Which meant I hadn't screwed up too badly yet. Yay for that.

When I heard Chloe gasp, I realized I was finally drawing the form of a man. My attention switched to him, and I waited with bated breath as my hand continued to move, continued to shade, continued to draw. All my prior arguments flew out the window. Because, guess what? I wanted to see his face.

If this man was truly my soul mate, then h.e.l.l yes, I wanted to see his face. My hand moved faster, so fast that my arm began to cramp. My fingers gripped the pencil tighter, sending another spasm through my arm. Ignoring the ache, I waited for the image to be finished.

And then, finally, it was. I dropped the pencil on the table. It landed with a soft clack before rolling off, soundlessly hitting the floor below.

"Oh, no," Chloe whispered.

"What?" Grandma Verda stood and then walked over to us. "Well, that's not good."

"It can't be that bad." Elizabeth followed in Grandma Verda's footsteps, stopping on the other side of me. She bent forward, the movement causing her hair to cover her eyes. Pus.h.i.+ng it away, she sighed. "All right, that sucks."

Disappointment I hadn't expected brushed against me, drowning out my antic.i.p.ation. I ran my fingers over the drawing I'd just completed, and let out a sigh of my own. Maybe this man in front of me, put on paper by my own hands, really was my soul mate, but I'd never know who he was. At least, not based on this image. He knelt on the other side of the sand castle, across from my daughter, but all I could see was his backside. From the soles of his bare feet past the edges of his swim trunks, up to his bare back, to the-yep-back of his head. Not one part of his face showed.

"He must be nice, this man. I mean, he's building a sand castle with someone else's child, so he must be a good man, right?" I muttered.

"How do you know she isn't his child?" Chloe asked.

"Because she's my daughter. I saw her last night, when I was with Miranda."

"Oh!" My grandmother squeezed my shoulder. "She's beautiful."

Tears filled my eyes. I pushed them away. "Yes, she is. And she looks happy."

Elizabeth spoke softly over my right shoulder. "Of course she does. You'll be a terrific mother."

Maybe. But what if this man, whose face I couldn't see, was part of the reason why my daughter looked so happy? I heard Miranda's warning again, and the part about my daughter needing the guidance of one particular man reverberated inside of me. As quick as I'd been to laugh at the idea of finding my soul mate, this changed things.

"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, a.s.suming I can find him."

But what would the results be if I couldn't? p.r.i.c.kles 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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 rea.s.sure 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 s.h.i.+rt.

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 b.u.t.terfly wings came back then, and it felt as if my daughter were dancing a jig, they were that strong. A s.h.i.+ver 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.

Chapter Six.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s-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-s.h.i.+rt. 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 cus.h.i.+on, 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+vers, 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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. "h.e.l.lo?"

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

The perkiness of the caller should have tipped me off to her ident.i.ty. 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?"