If Wishes Were Magic Read online

  If Wishes Were Magic

  By

  Barbara Baldwin

  Kindle 978-1-77145-823-8

  Print ISBN 978-1-77145-821-4

  Copyright 2015 by Barbara Baldwin

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2015

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  Chapter 1

  Chanti drove her Lexus along the winding road, taking note of the late autumn foliage, the harvest decorations still adorning porches and around mailboxes. Pretty soon, snowmen and Santa Clauses would replace fall leaves and scarecrows. No one in town wanted to be the last to get their decorations out, so almost like magic, they would all appear at the same time. She frowned, thinking so many things in her life were as predictable as the Hattiesville decorating. Lately, that predictability was leaving her unsettled. Wasn’t there supposed to be more to life?

  She turned the corner onto the two-mile private drive that led to her house. She took a deep breath as the house came into view, consciously making herself relax. Things were great, so why was she so anxious?

  Coming home always made her smile, and regardless of her previous thoughts, she could now feel the corners of her mouth lift. The house had belonged to her parents and it was two tall stories with pillars at the front porch steps. The wings were each a single story and curved almost in a semicircle, like arms spreading wide to welcome her home. When she was young, riding up front in the limo with George while her father rode in back with his cell phone and computer, she had told George the house talked to her.

  “You don’t say,” George would reply good-naturedly. “And what might the grand lady be chatting about today?”

  “She’s happy to see us – see how her arms are open wide for us?”

  “Mmmm,” was all he would say, always agreeing with her.

  “And she says Wilma has made us the bestest dinner, and, oh look George, she’s wearing a beautiful hat today!”

  Chanti remembered that day, much like today, when the weather had turned cold but there was still a late afternoon sun slanting across the lawn. She slowed to a stop in the drive, just before it began to circle around the fountain to the front door. The lady was once again wearing a hat and she smiled at the memory.

  The trees that surrounded the house on three sides and shaded it on the hottest days were in full fall array, their colors every shade of yellow to brown, orange to red. Even though it was late November, the weather had been mild until recently, so the trees had only just turned. The way the huge oaks and maples towered over the house had always made it look like they were crowning it, or in the case of a six year old’s imagination, making a hat for the house-lady to wear.

  She noticed there were a few stray branches sticking out at odd angles, and thought perhaps George should trim them.

  No, George was too old to be climbing the house to the roof to get at the trees. Besides, she thought whimsically, they looked like feathers, giving the grand lady a ta-ta haughty look.

  She closed the door to the car, a genuine smile on her face at last. Being home always did that, whether she had been at her office in Chicago or on one of the many whirlwind tours of Europe where her cosmetic line had launched this past year.

  The front chandelier flickered on as Chanti opened the door, dropping her keys in the tray on the side table and her briefcase on the matching antique chair. She shuffled through the mail, nothing catching her interest but knowing she had to go through it every day or it would be overwhelming. Besides, it was the end of the month and there were bills to pay. She knew she could just let Nelson handle the household accounts as he did her business, but she preferred knowing where her money went. And she didn’t want any one else knowing what it took to keep this house up. If it weren’t for the memories, she should probably sell it and move to a condo in the city, if for no other reason than proximity to work.

  “Hi, sweet pea. You’re home early,” Wilma called to her from the kitchen.

  Chanti smiled. Wilma and her husband, George, were just two more reasons to keep the house, even if the maintenance overwhelmed her at times. They were long past retirement age, and her father had left them well off when he died, but they refused to leave Red Rock Quay. Said they would leave when she did, but where would they go? She couldn’t see George in a retirement home, and Wilma would just try to take over management of the kitchen. So there you had it. She was thirty-two years old and stuck with still being called sweet pea.

  Chanti walked through the gigantic dining room, used only on occasion when she was forced to have dinner parties, and pushed the swinging door open to the kitchen, warm and fragrant as always. She reached above the counter to one of the glass-fronted cupboards, pulling out two wine glasses. Getting the bottle of white wine from the fridge, she poured herself and Wilma a glass.

  “And how was your day, dear?” she asked facetiously as she sat on one of the bar stools, reaching over to place a wine glass near Wilma, who stirred something delicious smelling on the stove.

  She considered her housekeeper and her husband friends rather than employees. They ate together in the cozy kitchen instead of the cold, formal dining room. Chanti still helped clean up and dry dishes and Wilma still scolded her if she talked with her mouth full.

  “I’ve been better,” Wilma answered her question.

  “Your shoulder again?” Chanti asked, getting up to go around the cooking island to help.

  “You just sit down and drink your wine.” Wilma waved a spoon at her. “You worked hard all day.”

  Chanti snorted. “Sitting at my desk on a computer and talking on the phone is not hard work. Did you ever call Merry Maids housecleaning service to get someone to help around here?”

  “Those young girls don’t know how to clean. I’ve told you that before, now just leave it. George helps out more than enough.”

  “George is older than you and both of you should have retired years ago.”

  Wilma narrowed her eyes at Chanti, and she knew it was a losing argument. The same argument they had almost weekly.

  George came in and gave his wife a hug, a wet smacking kiss on the cheek, and pinched her butt.

  Wilma swatted at him and Chanti laughed. She wondered sometimes if there was anyone out there for her like Wilma had George, but she quickly squelched the thought. She had too much money for most men to actually love her, and she had too much education and business savvy for the rest. Any song about “a good ole boy’s girl” was never going to be sung to her. She’d have to content herself with the occasional affair, usually while traveling. That way, she didn’t have to worry about some guy stalking her when he found out she was rich.

  “Frost in the air,” George commented as he helped set the table for three in the window nook.

  “Hmm?” Chanti set aside her daydreams. “Well, since it’s the end of November and we live outside of Chicago by Lake Michigan, I would say frost is always a possibility.”

  “You always were a smart one,” George responded.

  Smarty-pants, rich bitch--Chanti had been called both and more throughout her life although she knew George didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. She couldn’t help it if her family had been well off and now her cosmetics company was skyrocketing into prominence. She frowned, twirling her wine glass by the stem. She should be happy; delighted; ecstatic. Her newest line, Chantilly Frost, was set to launch in the Chicago area with major advertising on television
and in all the area newspapers -- the Sun-Times, Tribune, and Chicago Magazine. She had even purchased space on the new internet format -- Digital City Chicago.

  So why was she suddenly so bored with her life?

  “I’m going to Charlie’s,” she said suddenly, getting up from the table and leaving without another word.

  * * *

  AJ glanced around the dim interior of the bar. It was early evening, just barely past quitting time, but already the place was packed. Men in jeans and flannel shirts, women in pants and sweaters all joined to bring the volume of the place to one decibel below deafening. It appeared that Charlie’s was a place for the working man; not the executive, stuffed shirt, martini and cosmopolitan types that frequented the bars in the city. Of course, some people considered Hattiesville part of Chicago since it sat right at the end of the Metra commuter rail line, but for the residents, like his friend Charlie, the small town was an entity of its own and they liked it that way.

  He took a swig of beer, letting the cool malt slide down his throat, wishing he were back in Texas where he belonged. Unfortunately, business had brought him north, and for a while at least, his address was the America Inn two blocks over. Charlie had offered him the use of his spare room, but AJ kept odd hours and didn’t want to be in a position to have to carry on polite conversation over a dinner table. Even with his college roommate and long time friend, Charlie Brown.

  He started to speak with Charlie when the door opened, letting in a blast of cold November air. Wishing again for Texas, he shivered and thought about moving further down the bar, away from the portal to the North Pole. Instead, his gaze went to the latest arrival and he forgot all about being cold.

  A tumble of long blonde hair fell around her shoulders when she pulled off a brightly striped stocking cap. Knee high boots clicked against the wood floor as she ate up the distance to the bar. She pulled off her mittens, stuffed them into her hat and snagged the buttons of her leather coat as she hopped onto the bar stool right next to him. As she tugged her coat off, AJ couldn’t help but admire the way her sweater curved snuggly over a great figure.

  “Allow me, ma’am.” He reached for the back of her coat to help her and touched the nape of her neck. Perhaps it was the static electricity from her leather and wool, but AJ could have sworn he felt a current pass between them.

  “Oh, God, Charlie. Tell me he didn’t just call me ma’am,” she groaned, talking to the bartender but turning her head to gaze at him, her green eyes twinkling and her full, dark pink lips curved in a smile. He just knew if he kissed her, she’d taste like champagne.

  Even though he was pretty sure she was teasing, he felt the need to defend himself. “Where I come from, it’s only polite to call females over the age…uh, grown women, that is, ma’am. At least until we’re properly introduced.” Since she apparently knew Charlie, AJ glanced that way, hoping his friend would take the hint.

  She narrowed her gaze at his near slip about age, but then shrugged it off. “Around here, only school teachers, the minister’s wife and your grandma would be called that. And all of them are well over the age of…uh…” She mimicked him, but let the rest of the sentence trail off.

  “Hey, Tilly, give the guy a break.” Charlie grinned as he took down a wine glass and poured her a drink.

  He knew her all right, AJ thought, and she must be a regular if he also knew her drink without asking. He watched as she wrinkled her nose and pursed lusciously glossed lips.

  “We are not in third grade any more, Charlie. I have no braids for you to pull, and you do not call me that awful name.”

  “Why not, you call me Charlie.”

  “You would rather I call you Alfred?”

  AJ spewed a mouthful of beer across the bar as he burst out laughing. “That’s why you always signed your name A. Charles Brown?”

  “Better than Andrew Jackson, you damned cowboy,” Charlie shot right back. It had been a continuing argument their four years as college roommates. They had called each other cowboy and city slicker, but had forged a bond stronger than he had with his brothers.

  “Who’s your friend?” the woman asked, her gaze running appreciatively up, then back down AJ and he could feel himself respond.

  “AJ,” he introduced himself. “And I take it your real name isn’t Tilly?” He stuck out his hand.

  “Chanti,” she replied as she slid her slim hand into his. The slight jolt he had felt when helping her with her coat turned to a bolt of electricity, shooting from her fingers up his arm.

  “Chant-Tilly,” he put the two pieces together. “As in Chantilly Lace, a pretty face?” It was a favorite old country song. From the warmth and energy in her handshake, some instinct told him she would be like so many of the other songs on his truck radio – good woman and good loving.

  Charlie snorted. “More like Chantilly—”

  “Just Chanti,” she said.

  When he released her hand, reluctantly, she casually placed it on the arm he had bent to the bar. “Ignore Charlie. He gets mad because the girls are always on this side of the bar.” She took a sip of wine. “Want to dance?” She swung her legs around to face him, her knees bumping his hip.

  When she smiled at him, the sun came out on this cold northland and AJ thought maybe his time here in Hattiesville might have an upside after all. As he put an arm around her waist and swung her into the rhythm of the music, she looped both arms around his neck and snuggled closer. Oh, yeah, a dance was just the beginning.

  * * *

  Chanti knew she was living dangerously. Not in being at Charlie’s, for it was the neighborhood of her childhood and regardless of how times had changed, some things had not. The bar had belonged to Charlie’s uncle, and now Charlie. She lived in her parents’ house, and Marvin over there playing pool, had been a plumber assistant with his dad and now ran the business.

  No, the danger lay in the stranger with the soft southern drawl, faded jeans and boots who kept her swirling around the dance floor, pausing in-between jukebox songs just long enough to swallow some beer. He had chucked quarters into the machine, rapidly punching numbers before she had a chance to review the song labels, and now she knew why. All the songs he’d picked were slow dances, and every slow dance brought them closer and closer.

  “How long have you known Charlie?” he asked now, slowing his steps until they were simply rocking to and fro.

  “Forever,” she murmured the response, more interested in the way his dark hair curled behind his ears and along his nape. She slid one hand along his shoulder until her fingers touched the silky locks. No short buzz cut for this cowboy, she thought, and yet the style suited him.

  “Your accent says Texas and Charlie called you a cowboy. Do you really have cows?” She twirled a finger, capturing a lock and tugging ever so slightly.

  “There’s a romantic song on the jukebox, I have a beautiful woman in my arms and she wants to talk livestock?” He gave a dramatic sigh. “I must be losing my touch.”

  Chanti felt his hand slide slightly south to pull her hips closer to his. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Did you date?” he asked and she knew he was really asking if she and Charlie had slept together.

  “Charlie?” She made a face.

  He responded by turning her in a sweeping circle and she squealed as she clung to his neck. When he slowed, she tilted back to capture his gaze. She had gathered AJ and Charlie were friends, and most men didn’t poach, especially on friends. So AJ must be interested. Normally she would tell a man her personal life was none of his business, but in this case, he got the truth. Because she was interested, too.

  “When he finally grew up and quit pulling my braids, yeah, we dated, but decided we were better off as friends.”

  “Friends? Men and women are business associates or lovers, not friends.”

  Chanti stopped dead in her tracks, her hands dropping to her sides. “You have got to be kidding me.” She stared in amazement, then turned and walked
away from him to the bar where she’d left her glass of wine. He was only a step or two behind her.

  “What did I say?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

  “Charlie, your friend is a moron.”

  Charlie shrugged. “I know, but what can I say?” When Chanti heard AJ give a whispered help me out here, Charlie added, “I suppose he gave you the friends or lovers speech?”

  She narrowed her gaze at him. “Yeah, and you’d better not tell me you believe that crap.” She and Charlie were friends and he knew all her secrets.

  “You have to remember he’s from Texas, where they protect their women and horses with equal fervor.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw AJ drop his head to his hands. “You’re not helping here,” he said in a strangled voice.

  Chanti laughed, she just couldn’t help it. She liked Charlie’s friend; in fact there was chemistry between them she had never felt before. She wasn’t normally one to pick up guys at a bar. To say the least it was a dangerous proposition in this day and age, even at Charlie’s small hometown place. But there had been a just right feel to his arms around her when they danced and an unfamiliar but exciting sizzle when he had nuzzled the side of her neck.

  She watched as he downed the last of his beer, his throat muscles contracting as he swallowed. Her stomach pitched as she wondered what he would taste like if she licked a path down his throat or sank her teeth into the skin right where his crew neck sweater circled his thick neck. But then he tossed some bills on the counter and stood up.

  “Gotta go,” he said to Charlie but Chanti wondered if there was a little hesitancy in his voice. Did he want her to ask him to stay? Usually men came on to her and she was in control of the situation, determining whether the relationship advanced or was nipped in the bud. She wasn’t sure how to go about this turn of the tables. How embarrassing if she asked and he said no.