Daddy Warlock (12 page)

He began pacing, a difficult task in such a crowded apartment. Vases, magazine racks, umbrella stands and chair legs kept conspiring to bang his shins.

“Well, get her back!” said Aunt Cynda. “Under your protection.”

“She doesn't even believe in magic. She certainly doesn't believe in me,” he muttered.

“Make her believe! You can do it, if anyone can. You're the only one in the family with any
real
talent.”

It went against Chance's instincts to take a direct approach. He was as likely to antagonize Tara as to persuade her. But what choice did he have?

T
ARA EMERGED
from the dentist's office onto a side street in Westwood to discover that it was raining.

Los Angeles rarely got much rain after the middle of April, and it was now the beginning of May. Yet the drizzle was thickening into a downpour.

The interview had been a mess, with the dentist trying to talk to her in between fitting a crown and filling a cavity. He wanted a receptionist with experience in the medical field, and despite the fact that Tara was more than qualified to make appointments and handle billing, he hadn't seemed impressed.

She had another interview scheduled a few blocks away in an hour. There was no time to go home for lunch, but she couldn't justify paying the steep prices at one of the trendy eateries in this upscale area near U.C.L.A.

With a sigh, Tara decided to duck into a restaurant nearby and nurse a cup of tea as long as possible. If she were lucky, the rain might let up before her next interview.

Staring out the open door of the professional building, she watched passing students laugh as the rain soaked their long hair. Had she ever been that carefree?

Having a child had changed everything. Not that she would trade Harry for all the freedom in the world, but Tara wished she didn't always have to struggle so hard. And right now she wished she had an umbrella.

Deciding she'd lurked in the entranceway long enough, she stepped out onto the sidewalk. Before more than a few drops could pelt her hair, however, an umbrella appeared in her hand as if by magic.

It didn't exactly appear; rather, it floated there from across the street, or so it seemed to Tara. She'd only caught an impression of movement from the corner of her eye, and she knew that impression couldn't be accurate.

The umbrella was an attractive shade of dark blue, with an ivory handle. The construction was sturdy, and the panels already unfurled.

If someone had thrown it toward her, it would have spun around and landed after only a few feet. Nor was there a strong wind that might have carried it in her direction.

From beneath its protection, she peered about for the owner. She saw him at once, standing on the sidewalk opposite, in front of a bookshop.

Chance Powers gave her a lopsided grin, mischief sparkling in his silver eyes. A gust of rain-laced wind ruffled his dark hair, but he didn't appear to notice.

He looked solid and safe, standing there in his camelhair raincoat and dark slacks. An impulse twitched at Tara, to cross the street and nestle into the shelter of those broad shoulders and strong arms.

Behind him in the display window, she noticed posters advertising New Age books. The banner read Put A Little Magic In Your Life.

It seemed the man had the power to conjure shop windows to suit his purpose, and to levitate umbrellas. She could almost believe the rain itself had been summoned at his command.

What was she thinking? This wasn't sorcery but trickery.
Tara stared accusingly at the umbrella, but there were no strings attached. Not the literal kind, anyway.

But Chance hadn't stumbled into her path by accident. He was too busy a man to be wandering around Westwood in the middle of the day.

He must have tracked her down, probably to try to talk her into letting him see Harry. Well, it wouldn't work.

As for the umbrella, she hadn't figured out how he had transported it across the street, but if he didn't find a similar means of snatching it back, she was going to keep it. Until the rain stopped, anyway.

The streets in Westwood ran at sharp angles to each other, which made for jumbled traffic but interesting visuals. Now that she had an umbrella, Tara decided to walk two blocks to a café near the accounting office where she had her second appointment. She enjoyed walking in the rain, as long as it didn't require getting soaked.

As she ambled down the street, Chance loitered in front of the bookstore, taking an interest in the contents of the window. Tara hoped he was giving up on her, but she doubted it.

Sure enough, a minute later he began strolling on a parallel course, past boutiques and jewelry stores. His stride had a jaunty spring to it, as if he were a young adventurer in Paris to seek his fortune.

Tara had never been to France, but she imagined the City of Lights might look like this in the rain. The clear colors of shops and passersby blurred into an Impressionist canvas, brightened by a hint of sunlight sifting through the clouds.

As she waited at a signal, she saw Chance stop before a flower stand and purchase a splash of scarlet. She wondered if he were going to waft it, too, her way, but instead
he stuck the carnation into the top buttonhole of his raincoat.

The pedestrian light shifted to the symbol for Walk, and Tara was about to step from the curb when a car gunned its way around the corner, swishing through a pool of water. Off balance, she struggled to hold her place on the sidewalk, and only too late saw the spray fanning toward her.

In the instant before it hit, she knew she was going to be drenched. With no time to change, she would arrive at her job interview looking like a drowned rat.

With a splat, the water struck. Tara blinked. She'd been anticipating the slushy sensation so sharply that her skin went cold, but she wasn't wet.

Water dripped in midair, as if spattered across a sheet of Plexiglas. Around her, people stared at the rectangular blur directly in front of her, until it trembled and vanished.

Across the street, Chance inclined his head as if taking a bow. She had the impression he was tipping his hat, except that he wasn't wearing one.

Tara decided her hunger pangs must be getting the better of her. She should have planned ahead and brought a sandwich, but this morning she'd been too nervous to have an appetite.

In the next block, she spotted the café with its rainbow awning. Grateful for the refuge, Tara hurried inside, furling her umbrella.

A waiter seated her near the window and handed her an embossed menu. Around her, women in stylish dresses and men in casually elegant suits were filling up the tables.

Examining the offerings, Tara felt her heart sink. She'd almost convinced herself to splurge a little, but even the
simplest sandwich cost enough to feed her and Harry for several days.

As if that weren't frustrating enough, a dessert cart sat nearby, piled with pastries, cheesecake, mousse cake, carrot cake, flan and an immense cream puff topped with chocolate sauce and a cherry. Tara was willing to guess each slice cost as much as a sandwich, or close to it.

Reining in her yearnings, she resolutely ordered tea. The waiter ran down a list of varieties, caffeinated and decaf. She chose regular Earl Gray, a cup of which was priced as high as a kids' meal at a hamburger joint.

At least she had a view of the street, Tara reflected, which meant she didn't have to watch everyone else eating. Besides, she reminded herself, she would indulge in a hearty peanut butter sandwich when she got home.

The heavy outer door whispered open and a man paused there, surveying the interior. Chance. If he expected to join her, Tara was going to give him a good tongue lashing. A quiet one, of course, in view of their surroundings.

But he sat halfway. across the room, at a small table beneath a reproduction of a Renoir painting. Giving Tara a brief nod, he examined the menu with a pained air.

She didn't suppose he minded the prices, so she wondered why he was concerned. It embarrassed her, that his frown deepened when the waiter set a pot of tea and a cup in front of her and went away. Darn it, the man was perceptive enough to realize she couldn't afford the food, but she didn't want his pity.

Tara spooned a couple of sugar cubes into her tea. That ought to give her enough energy to get through the interview. The aromatic scent was soothing, too, although the liquid was still too hot to drink.

Resting her chin on her palm, she gazed out the window.
The first flush of rain had washed away a layer of accumulated dust, and the storefronts gleamed. Even the young people hurrying by looked well scrubbed.

The table shifted, as if something had been set on it. Glancing down, Tara caught her breath.

In front of her sat the giant cream puff, cherry and all. As she stared, a slice of carrot cake sailed in her direction from the dessert cart.

Tara caught it in midair, noticing the confused glances of other diners. She wondered how much they had seen.

Turning in her seat, she leveled a disapproving stare at Chance. Oblivious, he handed a credit card to the waiter and nodded in her direction.

It seemed tacky to put everything back. Tara's indecision turned to amusement as a saucer of flan floated to take its place beside the carrot cake.

This time she fixed Chance with another quelling look. He smiled with the mock innocence of a child caught with one hand in the cookie jar but on the verge of improvising a brilliant excuse.

Tara couldn't stop herself from lifting a fork and sampling the cream puff. Then, because people were watching, she assumed a blasé expression and tasted the flan, as well.

There wasn't much she could do to foil Chance's sport, not without creating a scene. Besides, it took all Tara's self-restraint to take dainty bites instead of stuffing herself.

She didn't know how he'd arranged these tricks. Since his father owned a special-effects business, he must have plenty of technology to draw on, although the way he'd stopped the puddle from splashing her was truly amazing.

Well, if she ever needed a magician for a party, she
might hire him. Other than that, she decided as she finished the flan and launched into the carrot cake, Mr. Chance Powers had gone to all this trouble for nothing:

Rather than move Harry back to his old school or to the one closest to Denise, Tara decided to give him another chance at the school near Chance's house. It was a bit of a drive, but he missed his friend, Al, and the other kids.

The principal didn't look happy to see Harry again that Monday, when his suspension ended. She gave a wistful glance out her window at the denuded bush, which was struggling to put forth a few feeble buds, then signed the papers to reinstate him.

However, Harry's teacher, Mrs. Reed, smiled through the open doorway when she saw him approaching the classroom, which reassured Tara. Except for the incident with the fork at his old school, and the latest hassle concerning the fire engine, her son had no history of behavioral problems.

“I promise I won't mess around anymore,” Harry said as she. double-checked his backpack to make sure it included his lunch. “But can't I see Chance once in a while?”

“Absolutely not”. Tara flicked a graham cracker crumb from his cheek. No matter how careful she was to wash her son's face, food seemed to hide in the pores and reappear later.

The little boy sighed. “Okay.” Then, spying someone over her shoulder, he called, “Hi, Sammi! I'm back!”

A ponytailed girl hurried up, brimming with the latest news about which child had been beaned by a softball and who had a new baby sister. She and Harry disappeared into the room.

Adjusting her purse strap on her shoulder, Tara returned to her car. The appointment at the accounting firm hadn't yielded any results, and she needed to photocopy more résumés today.

She hated looking for work. The worst part was the sense of futility as ad after ad and interview after interview led nowhere.

The rest of the day dragged. Tara checked with employment agencies and called the personnel departments of several large companies. She had to struggle to keep her tone brisk and professional, and to hide her growing anxiety.

At two-thirty she left to go collect her son. Normally, she would have arranged for afterschool care, but now she couldn't afford it.

Today, Tara discovered as she hunted for a parking space in the crowded lot, was Field Day, a special event at the school. The children took fitness tests and competed in a mock Olympics.

Also, according to a flyer she found crumpled on the ground, the children were applying mathematics to measuring their jumps, and being assigned to read about great sports figures. It seemed like a creative idea, and it obviously appealed to the parents, many of whom had come to watch.

As she joined the crowd observing through a chainlink fence around the athletic field, Tara spotted a heavyset figure in a dark suit. Even from behind, the white
blaze in his black hair identified him as Raymond Powers.

What was Chance's father doing here? She supposed it was natural to want to see his grandson, but she doubted Raymond had interrupted his day out of fond indulgence.

Chance had warned that his father might try to exploit Harry's supposed talents. She wished she could laugh off Raymond's interest, but no one with sense would take the man lightly.

Deluded he might be about this magic nonsense, but unlike Chance, he had no scruples about his conduct. Also unlike Chance, he might decide to use his money to fight her for custody. She would have to be careful that what she said gave him no grounds to declare her unfit.

“Mr. Powers?” She came up from behind and had the satisfaction of seeing him start. “What a surprise!”

He swung around, assuming a broad smile. “It's not every day I get to meet my grandchild.”

“Harry doesn't know yet,” she said.

He drew. her away from the knot of parents so they could speak privately. “You haven't told him about his father and grandfather?”

“Chance wasn't around for most of his life,” she said. “I thought the news might come as a shock. Also, I don't know yet what role your son can and will play. The last thing I want is for Harry to get attached to him and then be disappointed.”

It was close enough to the truth, she thought. And it would sound reasonable in a court of law, a lot more reasonable than a declaration that a man who believed in sorcery wasn't fit to be around his son.

“He's quite a good little soccer player.” Raymond indicated the field, where a game was in the final stages.

“They're playing kickball.”

“Whatever.” Steely eyes regarded her. “Despite my son's failings, I would like to provide for my grandchild. And get close to him. It must be difficult for you, working and raising the boy alone. I could make things a lot easier.”

You mean bribe me to turn him over.
Tara bit her lip. She had to gauge her words carefully.

“I've done all right so far,” she said. “I really couldn't accept any help. It's my responsibility to provide for my son.”

“You're making this difficult.” From the way his hands balled into fists, Raymond Powers had grown tired of the verbal fencing.

“Making what difficult?” she asked.

“The boy has gifts.” The man dropped his pretense of grandfatherly warmth. “Gifts that need to be developed. By keeping him from his father's family, you're denying him his birthright.”

“What birthright would that be?” Tara challenged. “Are we talking about uprighting tipped wineglasses, or—what is it you wanted Chance to do in your business negotiations? Mind reading? Or was that mind control?”

“Nobody's proposing any such thing for Harry,” Raymond huffed. “Not at this age, anyway.”

“Mind control doesn't exist, at least not without drugs and torture,” Tara snapped, grateful that the distant shouts of the players kept her words from reaching the other parents. “As for accepting your help, no responsible mother would let you anywhere near her child.”

Fury washed across Raymond's face. “Your son is descended from a great family. I have no idea what abilities
he has inherited, but if you possessed even a little imagination, you wouldn't dismiss our claims so easily. You have no right to deny me access to him. We'll see what a judge says about—”

As he spoke, he stepped forward, his body bristling with menace and one hand extended as if to shake her. Then, in midsentence, Raymond froze.

A disbelieving expression crossed his face as his hand stuck en route to gripping her arm, half flexed so that it formed a claw. His body leaned toward her at a threatening angle, but it was obvious he couldn't move.

Tara's first thought was that he'd suffered a stroke. Then, just beyond him, she saw Harry.

The boy stood braced, eyes narrowing as he glared at his grandfather. His mouth trembled, not with fear but with determination.

He blinked, and Raymond straightened, then froze again as Harry regained his concentration. Tara wanted to deny what she was seeing, but unless this were a prearranged charade, her son was controlling the older man.

Harry didn't look as if he were playing tricks. He looked very, very angry, and in his eyes she saw both the boy she knew and the man he would someday become.

He had flown to his mother's rescue. Doing so had revealed, to her and to Raymond, exactly how powerful her son could be.

“I'm all right,” she said.

Harry let out a long breath. Raymond stepped back, stunned.

Other parents and children hurried past them. A few regarded Tara oddly, but with all the distractions, she didn't think anyone had grasped what was happening.

“You should tell him the truth,” Raymond said.

“I can see that I'll have to”. She watched him coldly until the man, after one last glance at Harry, strode away.

“Who was that?” asked Harry.

She couldn't say the words
your grandfather.
It would be too abrupt. “Chance's father.”

“Chance doesn't like his father, does he?”

“Oh, he mentioned that, did he?” Tara slipped one arm around her son's shoulder. “So who won the game?”

“We did!” The boy gave a happy skip: “Al kicked the ball! Not real hard, but not too bad, either. And he did it all by himself.”

This time, Tara understood what he meant. A lot of things made sense now: the fork turning in midair, the fireman believing the school was ablaze, even the water that splashed into an invisible barrier as she crossed the street in Westwood.

They made sense, but it alarmed her to think what kind of sense. She was going to have to consider this matter at length.

She was also going to have to find a way to tell Harry about his father. Raymond had left her no choice.

H
IS ATTEMPT TO IMPRESS
Tara with his magic last week had failed miserably, Chance reflected as he sat eating a pita sandwich made with leftover tabbouleh salad and hummus.

Rajeev no longer had time to cook. Staring through the kitchen window into the twilight, Chance could see why.

Across the courtyard stalked a matador, executing a paso doble with the dancer portraying his scarlet cape, who was of course his sister. The ritual of the performance turned them into figures from a life-and-death drama.

Chance wondered how he would have reacted while interviewing housekeepers if, instead of the pleasant, courteous young man who had presented himself, he had encountered this glowering figure covered with the dust of a Spanish corrida.

In the dance, Rajeev was as fierce as his alter ego was easygoing. Vareena, that feisty figure who brooked no arguments in real life, yielded with grace.

Why couldn't Tara yield a little, too? Not that Chance wanted to change her, but he wished he could find the key that would open her eyes to the truth.

“Master?” said the house, which had been reprogrammed.

“Yes?”

“O esteemed one, o revered figure—”

“Sarcasm?” said Chance. “From a computer?”

“I have analyzed the responses of the Tara person,” said the tenor voice. “I like her attitude.”

“If I wanted a house with attitude, I wouldn't have reprogrammed you,” he said. “Let's go back to the way you used to be.”

“I shall make adjustments,” said the computer. “Perhaps your esteemed self would be interested to know that the Tara person is approaching the front door, according to my sensors.”

Chance bolted from his seat. “Well, let her in!”

“Does she know today's password is ‘cockroaches'?”

The doorbell rang. “Never mind,” he called as he hurried down the hall. “I'll let her in myself.”

As he opened the door, Chance registered the fact that Tara was alone. He also noticed how uneasy she looked, as if it had taken all her courage to approach him.

“Please come in.” He held the door wide.

“Raymond knows about his grandson and he wasted
no time trying to get his hands on him.” She didn't budge from the front step. “I told Harry the truth about you today. He's anxious to move back in, and I'm willing to consider it, on one condition.”

It took a moment to absorb so much information. Chance's joy at seeing her and learning that he might soon have his family back was mitigated by the news about his father.

He should have expected as much from Raymond. The man's first thought on learning he had a grandson had apparently been not paternal but predatory.

“What condition?” He didn't care; he just wanted her and Harry to come home. But obviously she cared, very much.

“No magic,” she said.

“No magic?”

“The only thing you will teach my son is how
not
to control other people,” she said. “And you can't do that hocus-pocus stuff yourself, either. Not so much as a salt shaker flying from one end of the table to the other. You know as well as I do that Harry will follow your example.”

She didn't understand what was involved, Chance thought “We need to discuss this. It isn't a simple matter. Please come in.”

As she hesitated, he feared for a moment that she might leave. Then she followed him across the living room and through the courtyard, where Rajeev and Vareena, in the throes of their practice, ignored them. Chance had to pull Tara out of the way at one point or she might have been trampled.

“They certainly take this seriously,” she observed as the two of them entered the office.

“A bit too seriously, I'm afraid.” Not in the mood to sit, Chance leaned against his desk.

“I hope they win a trophy or they'll be devastated.” She folded herself onto the couch with a hint of coltishness that he found endearing. Tara's light brown hair had acquired russet highlights, no doubt courtesy of her hairdresser girlfriend, but the frank olive eyes and expressive mouth were so familiar, they made him ache.

“I hope they don't forget to have fun.” He indicated his wet bar. “Would you like something?”

“Got any cream-puff pastry or carrot cake?” she asked. “They were delicious, by the way. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Would you settle for cream soda?” At her nod, he filled two glasses with ice and poured the soft drinks, glad to have something to do.

“Raymond showed up at school this afternoon,” she said. “I won't go into detail, but your father made a threatening movement toward me and Harry froze him. It was like that game children play, where they turn into statues, but this was real.”

“Your son is amazing.” He handed her a glass. “I mean, our son.”

Slipping off her shoes, Tara curled on the couch. The instinctive action revealed, to Chance, how much she had come to think of this place as home, and he felt himself warming. “I've been struggling with these concepts all afternoon. Magic can't possibly exist, yet I saw it.”

“It's rare,” he conceded.

“I don't see how this is possible.” Tara clinked her ice cubes moodily. “If people have such powers, why aren't they better known? Why haven't they been studied and evaluated?”