Your Magic Touch

Your Magic Touch

By

Kathy Carmichael

Comedy Shorts
Novella

In this gothic spoof, three elderly wizards must make a successful love match or they will be sent to the Olde Majiks Home. Their last attempt at matchmaking failed miserably and their magic is rusty. Are they supposed to forward a match between tabloid reporter Frannie Fielding and the mysterious Sinclair Haliday? Or is Frannie to be matched up with Sinclair’s wealthy cousin, Harrison Haliday? If the wizards get it wrong, their dreaded fate will be sealed, as will Frannie’s.

Something was seriously wrong.

Sinclair Haliday squinted in the early morning sun before sliding on a pair of dark glasses. Newport Harbor seemed unusually calm, and seabirds circled the skies above the docks. Over the hubbub of people eating breakfast, the highpitched clank of riggings hitting sailboat beams carried pleasantly over bay waters. Glancing at his aunt and uncle too-casually consuming omelets, he wondered what the hell catastrophe had happened now.

Like the family mansion, the way the family dealt with misfortune had been handed down from generation to generation. The grim expression on his uncle’s face brought back painful memories from early childhood, after the death of Sinclair’s parents.  His uncle had been just as grave back then.

In order to avoid unpleasant scenes, the Haliday family always discussed explosive family issues in public. The severity of the scandal dictated the site for these exchanges. Minor issues were dealt with over dinner in restaurants. Moderate episodes were discussed during afternoons at the Art Museum. Major catastrophes called for lunch at the Yacht Club.

Sinclair couldn’t fight a sense of foreboding. This was the first time he recalled his family ever deciding to meet over
breakfast
at the Yacht Club.

The situation must be dire indeed.

Their usual fourth, his aunt and uncle’s only child, Harrison, was noticeably absent. Generally he was the reason why family scene-avoidances took place at all, so this  was ominous. Had something happened to him?

“Where is Harrison?”

Aunt Jean dabbed jelly onto a slice of white toast. “He’s gone
underground
.”

At least he was still alive to go underground. Then what the hell had he done this time? Previously Harrison’s pranks had rated no more than lunch at the Yacht Club, and more commonly, an afternoon stroll at the Museum.

Sinclair had looked forward to spending time at home this summer. He’d recently realized something was lacking in his life and he craved a connection with what little remained of his family.

Only six months apart in age, Harrison and Sinclair had been best friends and partners in crime during their youth, and they were genuinely fond of each other. Aunt Jean and Uncle James had always expected Sinclair to look after their only child, and it wasn’t too much of a hardship, except for some of Harrison’s more flea-brained escapades.

Once they’d finished college, Sinclair had gone on to attain his PhD and had buckled down to earn his keep. Harrison, on the other hand, still depended upon his parents to support him. His pranks and antics had escalated, and so had the trouble following in his wake.

Good looking, charming and son of enormous wealth, Harrison might be more responsible if his parents or Sinclair stopped bailing him out, if he were forced to face the consequences of his actions.

Evidently, he was now in serious trouble. Sinclair asked, “How bad is it?”

“Nothing that a little bonus can’t take care of,” replied his uncle. Bonus, in family slang, meant a payoff. “The amount is inconsequential.”

Never before had his uncle described
any
amount of money as inconsequential. Sinclair’s polo shirt stuck to his chest as he leaned forward in his chair. He wasn’t sure whether the sudden feeling of heat came from the sunshine or the sledgehammer tipoff that Harrison’s trouble was far worse than usual.

His aunt laid down her fork. “We’re going on a cruise.”

That came as a surprise. “When do you leave?”

“In the morning,” replied his uncle.

Only last week they’d talked on the phone about Sinclair spending the summer at home rather than at the university where he served as faculty as well as conducting the majority of his research projects. A cruise hadn’t been in the works then.

It was time for them to give him the straight facts. “What’s Harrison up to now?”

Aunt Jean lowered her voice the way she always did when she wanted to avoid answering. “Normally, I wouldn’t leave. But we have an obligation to maintain our standing in Newport.”

Sinclair’s brow shot up. What she meant was a major scandal was brewing and they were getting out of Dodge, just like Harrison.

Uncle James added, “We need you to remain at Haliday Hall.”

“Why? If neither of you nor Harrison will be here—” Sinclair took a sip of coffee.

“We’re being blackmailed.”

At the word blackmail, he nearly choked. “What’s going on?”

“You know how talented Harrison is,” Aunt Jean said. “I’ve always regretted he didn’t pursue thespian training, and I was delighted when he began a career in the film industry.”

Uncle James shot her a censuring look. “He’s no longer exploring that career. His movie will not be produced.”

So, Uncle James had cut off the funding. More and more interesting, yet Sinclair still didn’t have a full picture of what had happened. “I must be missing something. Where does the blackmail come in?”

“I ordered the destruction of all copies of the film,” Uncle James said. “I don’t know how it happened, but one copy fell into the wrong hands.”

“We have to get it back.” Aunt Jean’s tone rose, and for a moment Sinclair wondered if the family tradition of avoiding a scene would end here and now.

She took a deep breath that seemed to restore her surface aplomb. “We need you, Sinclair.”

He smothered a sigh. Of course they needed him. They always needed him when it came to cleaning up. “So, was Harrison’s performance really
bad
in this movie?”

“Of course not. I’m sure it is along the lines of the typical
art nouveau
film.”

Uncle James cleared his throat. “It was his choice of genre that’s the problem.”

Genre choice? Oh hell, surely Harrison hadn’t— “What was the name of this
art
film
?”

“
The Playboy and the Bimbos
.”

Harrison had.

Sinclair struggled not to laugh. His cousin had made a porno flick. He bit the inside of his cheek.

In the past, Harrison would at least have let Sinclair in on the joke, if not invited him to take part. So this was how far he and Harrison had grown apart.

Sinclair wouldn’t have condoned the film, of course, but his inner reformed-scoundrel would have enjoyed being in on Harrison’s antics.

However, Harrison was more than old enough to clean up his own messes. “You don’t have to give in to blackmail. There’s another option.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Uncle James.

“Tell the extortionist to go to hell.”

“It would destroy poor Harrison’s life, not to mention our status—”

Sinclair sighed. “Harrison will never straighten out his life until you stop fixing things for him.”

Aunt Jean would have none of that. “He promised that once this is over—”

“He has promised that more times than I can count.”

“His letter said he means it this time.”

Sinclair’s jaw clenched. “Right.”

Aunt Jean’s eyes widened. “What will it take to convince you to help? Some kind of sign from above?”

Just at that moment, a glittery object fell from the sky, gouging Sinclair’s forearm. Damn. He glanced up and noted a white dove before he stooped to retrieve the projectile. It was a gold-plated pen with the initials FF engraved on it.

What on earth? When had birds started carrying pens and using them as weapons against unsuspecting diners?

He rubbed his forearm, then wiggled the pen at his aunt and uncle. “I suppose you expect me to take this as a sign?”

“So, now you’re a ghost hunter?”

“Sorta.” Frannie Fielding chewed the pen in her mouth, oblivious to Boston’s heavy morning rush hour traffic. Her foster father, Dan, was driving her to Boston’s South Station on her way to a journalism assignment. She shot him a fond grin. “I’m the person following the actual ghost hunters around and writing a story on them.”

He shook his head. “When I think of your education, it seems like a waste.”

Frannie stuck her pen behind her right ear, the ear farthest from Dan’s field of vision, suddenly remembering that she was trying to keep Dan from noticing she had the wrong pen.

A few days earlier, she’d been innocently eating a sack lunch on the park bench outside her office when some disgusting white bird had swooped down. At first she’d thought he was simply dive-bombing her. But he kept at it until he’d stolen the shiny pen from behind her ear. Dan and Marge had given it to her as a college graduation gift and she treasured it. She was hoping Dan wouldn’t notice before she could replace it.

Doves were supposed to symbolize peace, but the one who’d stolen her pen had left her with anything but a peaceful conscience.

As nonchalantly as possible, she slipped the pen from behind her ear and tucked both it and her notebook into her pocket.

Although it wasn’t exactly an argument, Dan nagged her about her education frequently—and the fact he considered her job beneath her.