Magic and the Modern Girl (34 page)

“Even if. But I’ve got to tell you—Will’s a lot of fun. He’s a good man, Jane.”

“I know.”

And he was. The best I’d ever dated. Even if he would never, ever understand the secret part of me, the inner part of me, the witch.

My growing bond with Gran and Clara stressed the importance of community, the importance of sharing. Half a dozen times, I caught myself starting to tell Will about a spell that they had worked, about a moment when the familiars mirrored something so precisely, so perfectly, that it seemed as if all of us had created something entirely new. Entirely fresh. Entirely different.

Entirely beyond his realm of understanding.

He always listened. He always expressed enthusiasm or concern or quiet, steady support—whatever I needed most at the moment. But I knew that he did not truly get it. He couldn’t. He’d never felt magic sparking through him, never known the heady thrum of that energy, the steady
being
of magic filling him, carrying him away.

But Melissa was right. I could make the decision later.

As if running a witches’ commune and balancing the first true reciprocated love of my life wasn’t enough, I had Gran to worry about. She had decided to scuttle all of her wedding plans.

Clara argued with her. I argued with her. Even Nuri squawked a rebuke.

Gran insisted that it was unseemly. That we couldn’t throw the party of the century if Neko had—God forbid—died. And we wouldn’t throw the party with him missing.

“Gran,” I argued in the fifteenth round of our debate. “He
isn’t
dead. I’d know it. Or David would.”

“We’ll wait till he comes back, then.”

I forced myself to keep a gentle tone. “He might never come back, Gran. You can’t put your life on hold for him.” Words of wisdom I’d do well to listen to myself. I hurried on to the one true weapon I had in my arsenal. “What will Uncle George think? This is his wedding, too.”

In the end, we compromised. Gran’s long years of service with Concert Opera let her cancel her reservation at the performance hall without any penalty. We decided that the Peabridge auditorium would do just as well for the ceremony; the reference room—already equipped with substantial tables and plenty of chairs—would be fine for the reception.

We canceled the band and the caterers. A taped collection of Pavarotti arias would do as well as the dozen live performers Gran had contemplated. We’d make do with deli trays from the local grocery store. In a moment of Neko-worthy inspiration, we realized that we could sell off the pounds and pounds of orange Jordan almonds during the weeks leading up to Halloween, marketing them to library patrons from the Peabridge’s coffee bar as “Halloween Treats.” They went like hotcakes—I liked to think that we were providing the hot autumn hostess gift in Georgetown that year.

In her newly abstemious mood, Gran decided that a floor-length veil was overkill; in fact, she ditched her entire white wedding gown completely. She had a lovely gabardine suit, its graceful evergreen skirt and jacket perfect for presiding over Concert Opera board meetings—or an autumn evening wedding. The hairdressers, with their sweeping updos, were deemed unnecessary, as well. Besides, Clara had never agreed to wear anything other than a gauze skirt and a peasant blouse, her hair neatly brushed for the occasion.

Melissa was still on board with the wedding cake, but plans for the marzipan monstrosity were set aside. In Neko’s honor, we went with plain white cake, covered in lots and lots of buttercream. We laid in a couple of cases of champagne, for toasts.

Even the matchbooks weren’t a total loss. We decided to hand them out with the votive candles, little gifts for everyone who attended. Individualized opera CDs mercifully became a thing of the past.

The funny thing was, no one really noticed how much the plans were scaled back. Gran was disappointed at first, giving up the party of her dreams, but she truly believed that she was doing the right thing, in support of Neko, wherever he was. Uncle George was actually relieved—I could see smiles take over from the vague air of puzzlement that he’d been sporting for the past several weeks.

The only thing that survived the wedding purge wholly intact was my dress. Orange and silver, now in commemoration of Neko. As I pulled it on over my head, I had to admit that he’d done a stunning job with the alterations. The neckline still plunged, but it no longer gapped in an embarrassing way. The butt-bow would always be a bit much, but what sort of maid of honor would I be, in a dress that I could conceive of wearing anywhere else?

The sash and bow glittered in the moonlight as I walked from my cottage to the Peabridge. It was Halloween night. Samhain. The importance of the Witches’ Sabbath seemed emphasized by the full moon that sat heavy in the sky overhead. Once in a blue moon…

I knew from my colonial research that a blue moon was a farmer’s term, a reference to a second full moon in a month. They only coincided rarely with Halloween—five or six times a century—and the night of Gran’s wedding, in a streak of witchy luck. Not that any of the guests would know or care.

Will and Rob had agreed to serve as ushers, helping the guests to their seats in the Peabridge auditorium. The notion of “friend of the bride” and “friend of the groom” was meaningless when the bride and groom had been dating for two and a half decades. People ended up sitting with friends and enjoying themselves. We’d planned on starting at eight o’clock, a quiet evening wedding, but people arrived late, victims of Halloween and the riotous street celebration that took over the core of Georgetown’s commercial streets.

My library assistant, Kit, served as wedding coordinator for the evening. She made sure that the key participants were ready on time, that all the men’s suits were tugged into alignment, that all the women had rubbed traces of lipstick off their teeth. Relying on the Peabridge’s new sound system (a recent gift from Mr. Potter—fitting, even though he had not known how it would be used when he made the donation), Kit played Handel’s “Ombra mai fu” for the processional.

With Mr. Potter serving as best man and as my escort, I walked down the auditorium aisle, holding a nosegay of sweetheart roses that matched Gran’s own simple bouquet. Mr. Potter whispered a kiss against my cheek at the foot of the aisle, and then we both turned to watch Gran enter.

David walked beside her, offering his arm with all the formal gravity of a warder. He shortened his stride to match her own, managing to balance concern for her welfare with the recognition that this was her evening, her moment to be the center of attention for all the assembled guests. When he brought her to my side, he completed a short, formal bow. Unplanned, Gran raised her fingers to his cheek, thanking him as if he were a Boy Scout who had helped her across a particularly busy street. Flaunting custom, he whispered back up the aisle, taking a seat near the back of the auditorium.

I could feel Gran trembling beside me—nearly overwhelmed by excitement and the exhaustion of our nightly magical study. I leaned close and whispered, “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, dear.” She actually patted my arm, as if
I
were the one who needed comfort. “I’m perfectly fine.” She looked across the aisle and found Uncle George’s eyes. He was standing, straight and proud, a single sweetheart rose tucked into his buttonhole. The phrase “he only had eyes for her” was created for that moment. I somehow suspected that Uncle George would have dragged Gran down to City Hall just about any time in the past two and a half decades, if she would have agreed.

Judge Anderson, a member of the Concert Opera board, did the formal honors. The civil ceremony was simple and straightforward, delivered with all the solemnity a wedding deserved. Nevertheless, the judge started by taking a few minutes to deliver some personal words to Gran and Uncle George.

“Sarah, George, I’ve known you now for nearly twenty years. Together, we’ve seen pearl fishers and bohemians, emperors and queens. But rarely have we seen two people who love each other with the steady, simple love the two of you share.”

As the judge went on, I looked out over the assembled guests. Most were nodding at the various operatic references. A few were leaning over to whisper to friends, obviously noting some remembered detail from productions past.

Clara sat in the front row, Majom beside her. My mother had stepped up to the plate in a major way; she had given her familiar a Rubik’s Cube to keep him occupied and relatively quiet. He was twisting the block methodically, a frown puckering his forehead. I figured we’d have at least five minutes before he realized he could peel off the stickers and reattach them to any face of the cube, completing the puzzle in an unconventional flash.

As I watched Clara, I tried not to be frustrated by her attire. The gauze skirt, I’d been expecting. The peasant blouse was a given. But she had insisted on wearing her pink kunzite jewelry. She had long advocated that the crystal meant unconditional mother love; I could still remember her lecturing me on the stone while poor Gran was collapsing on a bench at the Natural History Museum, victim of undiagnosed pneumonia. Clara wore a silver pendant, with a faceted trillion cut stone reflecting the auditorium’s subdued light.

Unconditional mother love. From the mother who was leaving for Arizona in a week.

Clara had not wavered from her plan to return to Sedona. She had mentioned it endlessly during the past several weeks, taking every opportunity to tell Gran and me that she was tired during our training sessions, that she had stayed up late packing, that she had gotten up early to take some books to the library for their annual sale. She mentioned Goodwill, Salvation Army and a dozen other charities, all of which seemed were reaping a healthy benefit from my mother’s decision to run away. She even told Majom that he would love the red rock box canyon just outside of town. She was definitely leaving, definitely abandoning me. Again.

I’d asked myself why a dozen times. I’d tried to decide if she was leaving because she really missed Sedona, or if she was leaving because she couldn’t stand being around me. I thought that maybe—just maybe—she was staging this whole thing so that Gran and I would beg her to stay.

But I took my cues from Gran. Gran, who simply smiled and nodded as Clara talked about packing. Gran, who merely agreed that Majom would love playing outdoors in the Southwest. Gran, who had made her peace with Clara’s broken family bonds decades before.

I tried, anyway. More often than not, I found myself bitter, angry, more resentful than I’d been at any time since Clara decided to turn my life upside down by returning.

More to the immediate point, I couldn’t imagine how we could find Neko, once Clara had skipped town. Gran and I would work together, of course. Under ordinary circumstances—whatever
those
were where magic was concerned—my power had been jump-started enough that I could work with Gran, that we could bolster each other’s astral force. But with Nuri as our only familiar…I wasn’t sure that we could do anything without Clara and Majom tied into our community.

Of course Clara hadn’t considered our needs in the slightest. She’d made up her mind to leave back in August, and nothing that happened had changed her thinking. I didn’t know why I was surprised. She hadn’t thought of me twenty-three years ago, when she ran away the first time. Why would anything be different now?

I shifted from foot to foot, trying to ignore my orange-dyed slippers, which didn’t quite fit. I could feel a pinch across my toes, where the silver bows attached. I’d worn them as a silent salute to Neko, but I already regretted the nostalgic urge. Black ballet slippers would have been a better memorial. Commemoration. He wasn’t dead. Missing, but not dead.

Judge Anderson was saying, “So many of our operas use images of food, of feasts, to explain the richness of love.”

I looked out over the rest of the crowd, determined not to dwell on Clara, not to let my bitterness taint this evening for Gran and Uncle George. Melissa was sitting in the front row, as well, on the opposite side from Clara. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her in a dress, but she had donned a navy velvet jumper for the occasion. Her cheeks were flushed, as if she were still warming up from her walk from the bakery.

Rob sat beside her. The guy was clearly smitten. He listened to the judge, laughing at the appropriate times, nodding judiciously. But his every motion was attuned to my best friend. He seemed
aware
of where she was, what she was doing. Even sitting in the auditorium chairs, he seemed to be waiting for her.

I thought about all those years of horrible first dates, all the stories that Melissa had shared. She had kept Gran in stitches so many times, relating disaster after disaster. It would be patronizing for me to say that I was proud of her. I was happy for her. Pleased for her. She deserved the guy she finally got.

Thinking of guys, I had to look at Will. His glasses were tilted on his nose, and his curly hair was doing its best to impersonate a rat’s nest. He’d put on a dark suit for the occasion. He’d teased me all afternoon, saying that with his black and my orange, we made the perfect Halloween couple. He’d sweetened the teasing with a couple of fun-size Snickers bars, so I didn’t complain too loudly.

I couldn’t help but think what I had been doing a year ago, how I had stood against the Washington Coven.

I had to look at David.

He had taken a seat toward the back of the room. He was clearly trying to step back from this family event, trying to remove himself from his role as warder for all three of us witchy women. Even from the podium, I could see the glint of his flawless white shirt, and I knew that his charcoal suit would be perfect.

I could see—could feel—his eyes meet mine across the room.

I wasn’t certain, though, what he was saying, what he was thinking. Was he also remembering that other Halloween night, a year ago? Was he thinking of the magic I had worked, strong and powerful, with my now-missing familiar at my side? Was he remembering my humiliation in front of a group of women who had never had my best interests at heart, even when they had pretended to reach out to me?