by Marian Vere
“What do you do, exactly?”
Thank God.
I chuckle (hopefully not hysterically) as I drop a bag of lettuce into a crisper drawer. “I assume you mean my group, as all I really do is take notes, answer phones, and—” I wave toward the brewing pot “—get coffee.”
“All very important jobs,” she says, in a very dignified tone, “but yes, I did mean your group. Nick says you are financial planners, but I thought they handled things like stock trade, and all of that.”
“We do some of that, but if that’s all someone needs, our firm has large groups devoted to stock investments and managing income. What our group does is more on a personal level. We research all the major factors involved with large purchases, like estates,” I say, gesturing around us, “or business franchises. Things like that. Instead of hiring separate people to advise you in different areas, real estate, inspections, codes, et cetera, and then put it all together and try to make sense of it on your own, we do it for you. After all, not many people have a lot of experience buying homes like this one. We do the leg work, go to meetings, supervise inspections, and other annoying stuff so our clients don’t have to.” I take the now full pot of coffee off the burner and pour it into the waiting mugs. “Basically,” I say with a smile, handing her a steaming cup, “we help wealthy people spend their money in the wisest and most productive way, with as little effort on their part as possible.”
We exchange a giggle and clink our coffee mugs in a mock-toast.
“Well in any event, I know Nick is glad you’re here.”
Ha…now I know you’re referring to the team.
“So, does the house have your approval?” she asks between sips.
“Well, nothing seems disastrous so far, but we will have to wait for the inspection reports. All the renovations have really done wonders; you would never know how old this place actually is.”
“I know, it’s amazing! My parents would be shocked.”
I look up from my mug. “Your parents?”
“Mmm.” She nods, taking a drink. “They both passed away years ago, but they were actually married here, back in the late sixties. Nick and I have never been here, but they used to talk about it all the time. When Nick found out it was up for sale, we both thought it would be worth a look.”
Ah…
“That makes more sense now. I’ve been wondering why he’s interested in a place like this. He’s not extravagant…that is to say…he doesn’t strike me as an extravagant person.” Oh, yeah. Good save. “In this line of work it gets pretty easy to tell,” I add, hoping to help cover my slip.
“No, he’s definitely not. It doesn’t have much to do with the house itself.” She grins.
I smile back and go to take another sip of coffee, but no sooner does the mug reach my lips then Nick appears in the doorway. My heart is suddenly in my throat, and I have trouble swallowing the coffee in my mouth. I turn to the other two mugs on the counter and pick them up, preparing to run—I mean, preparing to calmly leave the room, because Margaret and Bree are waiting and the coffee is done now, and for no reason other than that.
Head up, damn it! Don’t be a coward!
“I should take these over,” I say, looking at Cathy.
“Okay, I’ll see you later,” she says warmly, placing a hand on my shoulder.
I walk straight toward the door, not looking at Nick, but not looking away from him either. I’m actually praying he will move aside and we won’t accidentally touch, as this is definitely the closest we have physically been since this whole screwed up reunion began. I hold my breath as I slide past him, and he steps aside without looking at me.
After I round the bend, I stop and release my breath. There, that wasn’t so bad. Just two more days, nineteen hours, and—
“She’s really sweet,” I hear Cathy say from the kitchen.
Oh, God…
“Yes, she is,” Nick answers after a moment.
My heart jumps.
Sweet? He thinks I’m sweet? Really? Did he say that just for her sake? He didn’t even hesitate.
I tiptoe closer to the kitchen, but still out of sight.
“She doesn’t seem to think much of her job, but I’ll bet she’s one of those people who runs the whole office without realizing it. The kind the boss says they couldn’t do without. She seems the type.”
“She is,” he says softly. “Or, she seems like she would be,” he adds quickly.
My cheeks catch fire, and I take a step nearer to the door.
“What?” Cathy asks after a pause.
“Nothing,” he says.
“What?” “Nothing”? What was that? Was he making a face? Was she asking what was wrong, or what he’s thinking? What is he thinking?
“Were there more bags in the car?” Cathy asks.
“Just one, hang on and I’ll get it,” Nick answers, his voice getting closer.
Shit!
I run down the hall toward the room Margaret, Bree, and I have been using as a temporary office, hoping with everything in me that I’m fast enough, and he won’t actually catch me eavesdropping, or running away for that matter. I am in such a hurry, I run headlong into Margaret, almost spilling the coffee.
“Oh, God, I’m sorry!”
“Whoa, easy there! Where’s the fire?” she asks, grabbing my shoulders to steady me.
“Here you go.” I hand her the coffee. “Sorry it took so long. The machine here sucks,” I tell her, realizing I am out of breath.
“No problem, we just wrapped up. There are a few write-ups on your computer that need to be entered into the log, and that should be it for the day.”
She grabs her briefcase and leaves, giving me a much needed moment to think. He had been talking about me. Granted, he didn’t start the conversation, but he didn’t end it. What had happened? Did he actually make a face? What did it mean?
I let out a heavy sigh, lean back in my chair, and look up at the ceiling.
Get a hold of yourself. It more than likely meant nothing, just like he said. Hell, odds are, it wasn’t about me at all. He probably saw something weird in the refrigerator while Cathy was putting the rest of the groceries away, and grimaced.
And here I am, getting all worked up over nothing!
Not that it matters. Professional, friendly, passive, remember?
As I bring my computer back to life, Bree runs in the room in a tizzy. She makes a beeline for her seat and grabs her bag, not noticing me.
“Whoa, what’s up?”
“Oh! Jules, I didn’t see you! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” she says, skipping over and taking my hands. “Guess what?”
“What?”
“I just ran into Mr. Kerkley in the hall, and he asked me to take a walk with him down to the lake!”
“Wow, that’s great!” I say, straining to control my face.
It should be great. She’s my friend I should be happy for her. I am. It’s great.
It’s good anyway.
Okay, maybe a little bothersome.
And just a little upsetting.
It’s terrible.
Down right, God damned, gut-wrenchingly, horrible!
She pulls me into a quick hug. “Wish me luck!” she says, and skips out the door.
I fall back into my chair, fighting the urge to cry.
The remainder of that afternoon is quiet, which is mainly because I spend it alone in my room. If I had gone out into the rest of the house and attempted to be social, I’m sure I would have spent most of the time watching and waiting for Nick and Bree to come back from their walk. Then I would have analyzed every look, word, smile, and gesture between the two of them until I drove myself out of my mind.
Not the best way to spend an afternoon.
Instead, I hide—or that is, rationally decide to stay—in my room, reading a magazine I brought with me, re-folding my clothes, showering, and actually taking the time to do my hair, which is usually too unruly to bother with, unless it’
s a special occasion. I’m sure that fighting with the brush, blow-dryer, straightener, and curling iron will take up at least an hour or so.
By the time I walk down to dinner, I am fifteen minutes later than I had planned to be, but my hair looks spectacular—so spectacular in fact that I had no choice but to pull it back. Sure, that was over an hour and a half of work for nothing, but I can’t have people thinking I’m trying to impress anyone.
I walk into the kitchen, and the first thing I see is Nick, Bree, Cathy, and her husband sitting on the stools at the counter, chatting and laughing like a happy little foursome.
Wince.
Good for Bree; her fairy godmother obviously showed up to work. I should go over and check her shoes—they’re probably glass.
No way is the happy family the group I’m going to approach, so I look around frantically for Margaret…who’s not here yet. Damn. Now what? I can’t just stand in the doorway like a wallflower. Thankfully, I notice Chris sitting by himself against the far wall.
“Mind if I join?” I say, taking the seat next to him.
“Not at all,” he answers with a shy but warm smile.
Every time I talk to him, I become more and more grateful that Chris was invited up here. He has been invaluable to my overall mental state, having saved me from what could have been two awkward situations already. Luckily enough, he also seems to enjoy my company, which makes me feel a little bit better about monopolizing his time the way I have.
“How was town?”
“It’s a town.” He grins. “Nothing special. Though the restaurant we had lunch at was pretty good. Derek actually saw someone he knows.”
“Really?”
“Some lawyer who used to work with him at City Hall. The guy retired up here I guess. You should have seen his wife!” he adds with a smile, leaning in and lowering his voice.
“Yeah?” I grin.
“I guarantee you, he has kids older than she is!”
“Really?” I giggle in spite of myself.
“If he hadn’t actually introduced her as his wife, I would have sworn it was his daughter!”
We chuckle again, and I am so thankful that Chris is here that I could kiss him! I have almost forgotten the man sitting at the counter.
Almost.
We talk for a good twenty minutes about this, that, and the other, while I studiously avoid looking at the counter. I do a good job, slipping up only once when, from the corner of my eye, I swear I see Nick staring over at Chris and me. I glance over—just a reflex—to check, but he’s deep in conversation with his group. Great. Now I can add paranoia to the list of issues I’ll have by the end of this trip.
“Come and get it!” Derek calls from outside.
I turn to look out the window, and see him standing by a grill on the huge stone deck out back, a beer in his hand. Margaret sits on the stone wall nearby.
We all file outside to eat. Derek is a whiz at the grill, and everything looks amazing. While everyone gets food, I catch up to Margaret.
“I was wondering where you were.”
“Oh, well.” She leans in confidentially. “When I came down, Bree and Mr. Kerkley were alone in the kitchen talking. I didn’t want to interrupt,” she says with a grin and a wink.
Wince.
“Right,” I say, and go back to filling my plate, though now I’m queasy.
Looks like I’ll be adding paranoia and stomach ulcers to the list.
Awesome.
That night I can’t sleep. I lie in bed, thumbing through my magazine again, hoping it will put me to sleep, but it’s no use. Too many “Nick and Bree” visions dancing in my head. Normally, reading is a good distraction for me, but tonight all it seems to be doing is adding unnecessary fuel to the fire that is my ramped imagination. All the articles about love and relationships take on new meaning when I start to unwittingly imagine Mr. Kerkley and Bree in the scenarios they describe. “10 Things He’s Thinking When He Sees Your Lingerie” becomes “What Lingerie Will Bree Look Fantastic In.” “The Surefire Way To Land A Second Date” becomes “The Surefire Way To Land Your Best Friend’s Ex.” When the photo of the half-naked spooning couple under the heading “Better Sex For Both Of You” actually becomes Nick and Bree, I’ve had enough. I toss the magazine into the corner of the room and roll out of bed with a growl. Time to find something else to do.
I slide on my slippers and stick my head out into the hall. No one’s around, though it’s past midnight, so I guess that would make sense. I silently make my way downstairs to check out the library. I’ve wanted to take a closer look at it ever since the first walkthrough, and now seems as good a time as any. The large wooden doors groan when I open them, but as all the bedrooms are on the upper levels, I don’t imagine that anyone heard.
I step inside and am awed by the number of books. The shelves go from floor to ceiling, and there doesn’t seem to be an empty spot left on them. For a long while I casually scan the shelves, realizing that the books are in alphabetical order by author. Austen, the Brontës, Dickens, Poe, Shakespeare, Thoreau—it doesn’t look like anyone has been left out. From Dante Alighieri to Edgar Rice Burroughs, everyone is accounted for. Some are older and leather bound, while others are newer paperback editions, and everything in between. And Bibles! There is an entire shelf full of them; some look to be older than the house itself.
One book in particular catches my eye. It is a larger, leather-bound volume with an ornate gold-leaf rose down the spine. I pull it out and read the title. The Complete Anthology of Folklore and Fairytales: Illustrated and Unabridged. I leaf through it, admiring the colorful artwork. Not only are there pictures depicting characters and scenes, but the text itself is beautifully done. It is just like those old religious books from the Middle Ages, where the first letter of a chapter takes up half the page, and is ridiculously elaborate with scrolls and flowers over it. Very impressive.
My casual reading is interrupted when I come across a beautiful watercolor-style illustration. It is of an older woman in a robe. She has translucent wings and it looks as though light is spilling out of the tips of her fingers. There is no caption, but I don’t need one—I know who she is.
She’s the Fairy Godmother.
She is the woman sent to solve all of poor Cinderella’s problems, as that’s wh—
“Never liked that picture, not my best angle.”
My head snaps up and I almost drop the book in surprise as I suddenly find myself looking at a woman in a long, sky blue robe, leaning casually against one of the bookshelves. She’s older—in her sixties maybe—but she isn’t the plump, happy, grandmother type. She is thin and drawn, with a raspy voice, deep set wrinkles, a frizzy beehive hairdo, and way too much makeup: the sort of woman you picture sitting in the corner of a dingy diner with coffee and a cigarette, yelling at the waitress about the coffee being cold.
“Admit it,” she continues, “it makes my ass look big.”
I look slowly down at the book in my hands, then back up to her. “This is you?”
She gives me a look that says my question is too obvious to deserve an answer. “So,” she says, waving her hand in the air in a let’s-get-on-with-it gesture, “what do ya need?”
“Sorry?” I ask, totally at a loss. What the hell is going on? Who is this? Did she really just appear out of thin air? That’s not possible; I’m standing right next to the only door to the room. There is no way I could have missed her coming in.
“I’m waiting.” She drums her red-lacquered nails against the bookshelf, obviously annoyed at my lack of response.
All I can do is stare.
“Look, you called me, do you need something or not?”
“I…I didn’t…”
“All right, I’ve got about thirty more appointments tonight, so if we’re done—”
“No wait!” I call out, stepping forward as she turns to leave. “Don’t go.” She turns back and looks at me, hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to speak.
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br /> This is all crazy. She can’t really be my fairy godmother, can she? How can I be sure? Does she have a badge or something I can ask to see?
Suddenly, a memory stirs in my mind and I hear Lisa’s voice in my head, “She’ll know all about you.” The echo of Lisa’s words gives me an idea.
“What’s my middle name?” I ask, looking her square in the eye.
“What?”
“My middle name.”
“You’re quizzing me now?” she asks, with something between disbelief and censure in her tone.
“That doesn’t sound like an answer,” I say, trying to fake some bravado.
“Lee,” she answers, doing nothing to hide her irritation as she folds her arms across her chest.
“What’s my cat’s name?”
“You’re allergic to cats.”
Impressive, but I should probably give her a question in her field. “Who was the first guy I wanted to marry?”
“Super Grover from Sesame Street, but as I’m pretty sure we can’t really consider him a ‘guy,’ we’ll have to go with Danny from New Kids on the Block.”
Whoa…
“Are we done yet?” she sighs, growing frustrated.
No—no, it’s not possible. But then again, she seems like the sort of fairy godmother I’d get. In any case, I can’t let her leave. “I’m sorry, this is just…” I trail off. After a deep breath, I try again. “I…I want a second chance.” The words are out before I even know what I am saying.
“A second chance? What the hell do you think all this is?” She waves her arm around her. “You’ve got your second chance. You just don’t have the guts to do something about it!”
“I do, I just…” I look down at the book that I’m hugging against my chest like a shield.
“You just…”
I don’t know what to say, so I make an excuse. “I haven’t been able to talk to him alone.” Weak, I know, but I have to say something. I haven’t been scolded like this since I was ten; I have to at least try to stand up for myself.
“Oh, so you need some alone time with him do you?” she says with mock sweetness, not hiding the cynical edge to her tone. “All right then…go!”
