Tempest and Tea Spells and magic and simple attraction Conclusion

It's exasperating. I finally find the girl of my dreams but then the universe seems to conspire to keep us apart. Every time I try to make contact with Sylvia, something thwarts my efforts. It's as if I'm being warded away by some invisible force or a malevolent entity is causing my arm to hurt or my leg to go lame. I feel I'm under some kind of curse

But finally, one Tuesday evening after work, I get my long-awaited opportunity. I spot Sylvia walking on the boardwalk chatting on her cell phone—probably making plans with Randall, I muse bitterly.

It's getting dark and the skies look threatening, but Sylvia keeps walking further and further, leaving me with no option but to follow her like a puppy.

But just as I'm about to approach her, the sky opens and it begins to pour. Sylvia has obviously come prepared with an umbrella, but I end up being thoroughly soaked to the skin.I trail her back to her apartment and forlornly watch her enter the brightly lit lobby and escape from the storm.

I see her from inside the lobby peering out. It serves me right to feel like a drowned rat because that's what I am—clinging tightly to the document valise containing photos exposing her two-timing fiance.

It no longer seems noble or even kind. I feel like a cheap blackmailer and sick at heart at my jealous game.

But something weird happens. At first there's a look of triumph on Sylvia's face, but it quickly changes when she sees my anguished expression.

“Jay—Jay Porter,” she calls out from the doorway, “Come in out of the rain.”

I lose no time hurrying up the stone steps to the lobby door, but just as my foot touches the top stair I slide and go down on my ankle.

I feel totally a fool, especially when she has to come out in the rain and help me hobble in to the shelter of the lobby.

“Are you all right?” she asks, alarmed by my injury.

“I don’t think I can put weight on this ankle,” I hiss. The pain's excruciating.

“I was going to let you sit in the lobby until the storm passed, but you better come up to my apartment. We’ll have to ice your ankle.”

Oh great!—just what I need—more cold.

“Th-thank you, Sylvia,” I manage to say through chattering teeth.

Once inside her apartment, she lights a fire, and gives me one of her bathrobes.

While I towel off in the bathroom, she puts my wet clothes in the dryer and makes us steaming mugs of tea.

So, here I am, sitting in her front room in her white hooded housecoat, my ankle propped up on a setae and wrapped in an ice pack.

Not exactly romantic.

But I gratefully sip at the tea. “Mm, this is delicious,” I murmur.

“It’s rum tea—made with real rum,” she smiles. “How’s your ankle?”

“Much better,” I smile back, thinking nothing could be better than being here with her by the fire—except, for wearing her housecoat, of course.

“You know, I feel guilty for the way I’ve treated you, Jay. You’re really quite a pleasant man, but you must know I ‘m seeing Nicholas Randall the author. We’re in a serious relationship.”

I exhale deeply. “You mean you see each other exclusively?”

“That’s right,” she answers brightly, “so you see, it wouldn’t be right to lead you on because I’m committed to Nicholas and he’s very committed to me.”

Are you sure about that? That’s what I want to say, but can’t. I stare at her lovely, trusting face and can’t hurt her—not the way Nicholas Randall does.

She makes small talk to fill the vacuum between us.

“So, you’re an actor, then—is that how you make your living?”

“It is, although I do other things such as paint and write.”

“Really? I’d like to see some samples of that.”

I open the valise and show her some watercolor sketches I made of the lake and boardwalk.

“These are lovely, Jay! The clouds and the water—you captured their very essence.”

I can see she's genuinely impressed and it makes me happy. If I can’t have her, at least she's caught a glimpse of my soul.

We talk a little longer but I sense she's tired and don't want to overstay my welcome. The dryer's clicked off, so I stand up, test my ankle and find I can walk on it.

She offers to call me a cab and I go into the bathroom to change, but when I return her face is pale and tear-stained.

“How could you, Jay?” she moans, holding up the 8×10 glossies.

“You went into my valise?” I croak.

“It fell when I reached for the phone—the photos scattered on the floor. Such a nice way to be informed of Nicholas’ betrayal. When were you planning to show me—on your way out?”

“No, Sylvia. I was going to show them to you, at first—I carried them with me for days—but I changed my mind. I couldn’t hurt you in that way.”

“I think you should go, Jay.”

I gather up my photos and sketches and sadly walk to the door. “I really am sorry, Sylvia. I didn’t want him to hurt you.”

She's crouched in a fetal position on the floor, clinging to a pillow and rocking—her tear-stained face turned away from me. I softly close the door behind me.

The next day I drop by the library hoping to see Sylvia, but she's not there. Frizzy is manning the desk in her absence.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask.

She smiles sadly. “I’m so sorry, Jay—I feel this is all my fault.”

“Your fault?” I ask incredulously. “Why would you say that?”

“I have a confession to make—I’m a witch.”

If she meant to impress me, it didn’t work.

“Ah,” I say sarcastically, “well that explains everything.”

“No, Jay—you don’t understand. I helped Sylvia avoid you.”

“You did? But I thought you wanted us to get together.”

“I do—it’s just back at the beginning, before I got to know you, Sylvia asked me to put a spell on you. She said you were some ‘menacing pervert’ who was stalking her. She gave me your picture and I made an image of you…and well, I taught her how to stick pins in it.”

“You taught Sylvia to use Voodoo on me?” I croaked.

“No—not on you, exactly—on this ‘pervert’ who was stalking her. But then I met you and found out you were really sweet—and you loved her. Since I knew Nicholas didn’t, I decided I had to protect you.”

I throw up my hands in exasperation.

“Great—just great! Not only does Sylvia despise me, but she wants to kill me.”

“Oh no—that will never happen—I made sure. I put a limiting spell on the effigy. She can only twist your arm, or make you limp.”

She looks down at my sore foot. “Oh dear, I’m sorry, Jay.”

I put my hand out and muss her frizzy curls. “Don’t worry, Frizz—that sore foot wasn’t caused by you. I twisted my ankle chasing Sylvia up some wet stone stairs.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. Perhaps, I could make a healing potion…”

“NO! No more witchcraft, Please! I don’t want anything muddying the waters.”

She shakes her head sagely.

“I told Sylvia not to trick you by making you stay out in the rain.”

“Wait a minute—how do you know about that?”

“I was talking to Sylvia on her cell phone. She knew the weather forecast and wanted to teach you a lesson, but I guess it back-fired on her.”

I sigh in despair, “Yeah, I suppose it did.”

Suddenly, Frizzy brightens. “I could put a spell on her, Jay.”

Her cute face looks so concerned; I have to smile in spite of myself. “Thanks, Frizz—but it just wouldn’t be right—I want to win her free and clear so I’ll know she’s really mine.”

A cloud passes over Frizzy’s features.

“Oh, oh dear…”

“What? You haven’t already bewitched her, have you?”

“Well…not exactly.”

This girl is making me a hysteric. My voice keeps going up.

“What exactly does, ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“It means, I’ve also been using a “warding off” spell to protect you.”

I feel all the air go out of me.

“Has it come to that?”

“Do you promise you’re not angry with me?”

I glower darkly at her, but she looks so damn shy and vulnerable, I know I can’t stay mad at her, despite her inanity.

I tweak her cute nose, “Okay, Frizz—we’re friends forever, regardless.”

She brightens and I chuck her softly under her chin. “Now, let me go and try to see Sylvia—if she’s willing to let me into her apartment, that is. At any rate, I’ll update you in the morning.”

Her eyes are huge and moist. “I hope you and Sylvia work it out, Jay—you’re perfect for her—she just doesn’t know it yet.”

“I know,” I chuckle, “that’s what I keep telling myself.”

All the way over to Sylvia’s building my thoughts are racing. What if she won’t answer or let me in? My fears mount as I stand in the foyer buzzing the intercom without any response. Finally, I hear Sylvia’s soft voice whisper, “Yes?”

“Sylvia, it’s Jay. I need to talk to you. Will you let me in?”

There’s a long pause, and just when I’m sure she’s not going to answer, the lock clicks open. I ride the ancient Otis elevator to her fourth floor apartment having no idea what I’m going to say.

I knock softly at the door and she answers, dressed in the white hooded housecoat I wore the night before.

“I just made tea,” she says sadly, “are you interested?”

“I am.”

I sit down on the same sofa chair and prop my foot up on the same setae.

In a few minutes she comes back with two steaming mugs. “How’s your ankle?” she asks softly.

“It’s fine. How’s your heart?” I whisper.

She sinks down on the floor at my feet, lays her head in my lap and sobs quietly. I let her, occasionally stroking her lovely red hair and telling her it’ll be all right, when I have no idea if it ever will.

Eventually, the tears subside and she lifts her face to me. “Were those poems written to me?”

I nod mutely.

“The sketches too—are those me?”

“Are they that bad?” I ask.

“They’re so beautiful, I couldn’t believe they were me. I thought they were some idealized portrait of an angel or a princess.”

“They are, but they’re also you—they’re your soul, Sylvia—at least, the way it looks to me.”

She nods and goes quiet, and when she speaks again, I can hardly hear her. “I saw your soul too, Jay, in those sketches and poems—just as I saw Nicholas for what he really was in those photos.”

“I never meant to hurt you, Sylvia.”

“I know,” she whispers, “you’re not like him. He never cared to treasure me. You did.”

I didn’t want to, but had to ask. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did. And you know what was interesting? He didn’t try to deny it. He simply shrugged philosophically as if to say, well, it’s out in the open now—the game is over.”

“And is it?”

She smiles bitterly, “Oh, rest assured it is—Nicholas Randall is history—and to tell you the truth, I never thought he was a good writer. Certainly not in the league of Nabokov or Gide.”

I nod sadly.

And then, as an afterthought, she adds, “But I do see elements of Hefner in his style.”

As I said at the beginning, it all started with a rainstorm and went on from there.

I had my own Prospero, in the person of Frizzy Morgan, conjuring up magic spells that brought me in a tempest to Sylvia’s apartment.

But in the end it wasn’t spells or magic that drew Sylvia and I together, but simple attraction—the gravity of two souls meant for each other.

Sylvia convinced me I have talent. She loves my sketches and poems, so much so that she’s persuaded me to publish a book of poetry adorned with my sketches, and has put me in touch with a publisher who’s as enthusiastic about them as she is.

Oh, did I mention? Frizzy is going to be Maid of Honor. Sylvia and I are getting married this October.

When she asked about a location, I immediately had a vision—preferably somewhere outdoors, I told her, with a downpour of red maple leaves the color of her hair.

Tempest and Tea Part One

Image credits: https://goo.gl/images/zSsfLX, https://goo.gl/images/sXe6hg, https://goo.gl/images/tNmVgh, http://www.cottonage.com/wholesale-Velour-Hooded-Bathrobe.html