by Holly Jacobs
Other Books by Holly Jacobs
“Dear Fairy Godmother…” Series
Mad About Max
Miracles for Nick
Fairly Human
Magic for Joy
“Dear Fairy Godmother…”
Book 2
by
Holly Jacobs
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-045-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-893896-19-2
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2000 by Holly Fuhrmann
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
We at ImaJinn Books enjoy hearing from readers. Visit our websites
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Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Gift box with hearts © Maksim Pasko | Dreamstime.com
Fairy Godmother © Anna Velichkovsky | Dreamstime.com
Couple with a dog © Vanda Grigorovic | Dreamstime.com
:Ejmk:01:
Dedication
To my grandmother, Marion Morrow—“Nana”—who always kept me well supplied with books and dreams.
And to Jean Allue, an adopted Grandmother of my heart, who’s cheered me on as I chased those dreams.
Dear Reader,
I grew up reading science fiction and fantasy. But then I fell in love with love…or rather the romance genre. What hooked me? Romance deals with people and what makes them tick. Plus romance is a genre that has something for everybody. Comedy. Drama. Mystery. Yes, even fantasy. In the sixteen years since Mad About Max came out, I’ve written romances with all those elements.
In Mad About Max my heroine, Grace lives in my hometown, Erie, Pennsylvania. She’s a romance writer with a small problem…three of her characters have come to life. Three fairy godmothers to be more specific. Their agenda? Help Grace find her very own happily-ever-after. Unfortunately, Grace did not write very competent godmothers. Their help leads to more than a bit of havoc. But like magic, Grace finds her own happily-ever-after at the end.
When I finished that first book, I realized that the fairies weren’t finished yet. And abracadabra, that first book turned into a trilogy with Magic for Joy and Miracles for Nick. Finally, I thought I was done with fairies. I went on to write more romantic comedies and sweet romances. But I kept hearing from readers who wanted to know what happened to the three godmothers, Myrtle, Fern and Blossom. And so I finished up the quartet with one more story, Fairly Human.
I put the fairies away and continued writing, adding emotional family dramas to my resume. My kids grew older, my house grew quieter. The world changed a lot over the last sixteen years. But I still heard from fairy fans. And it turns out, fairies don’t like to be forgotten. So I was pleased when ImaJinn Books said that they were re-releasing the series. And as I reread these older books, I was taken back to a decade and a half ago. I remembered those early days of writing with four kids underfoot. And I remembered realizing that writing is, in and of itself, magic. Every day I sit in front of a blank page and words begin to appear and those words weave themselves into a story. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is.
I hope you enjoy going back in time with me.
—Holly Jacobs
One
“JOY.”
Joy paused and looked behind her. The only thing that met her eye was the empty, unfamiliar room she’d been assigned for the duration of the house-party. Despite the chills climbing up her spine, she forced herself to return to her unpacking.
All day long she’d felt like she was being watched, which was absurd. Who on Earth would want to watch her? She gave a little laugh. No one. That was the answer. She was boringly normal, not the type of woman to inspire anyone to follow her. Five feet three inches of well-padded normalcy. No chestnut curls or azure eyes. Nope. Just straight brown hair and blue eyes. Normal. No secret admirers, no stalkers. Not for Joy Aaronson.
“Joy.”
She jumped and whirled around. This time the room wasn’t empty. Three elderly ladies stood side-by-side, watching her. No, not just watching, they were studying her. Joy’s mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara, and the chills blew Arctic against her backbone.
“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong room.”
The trio smiled in unison. It might have been endearing if the entire situation wasn’t so eerie. She hadn’t heard the door open, hadn’t heard a sound.
Joy took in her uninvited guests. They were small women, smaller than Joy herself. None of them could be over four and a half feet tall. They were in their mid-fifties, Joy would guess. A redhead was sporting a sequined red dress with stiletto-heeled shoes that belonged on someone thirty years her junior. A brunette wore a green, Orient-inspired dress. And a blonde—whose hair was a hideous shade of yellow that belonged on a canary not on a human—was wearing a buttercup gown that would have looked at home with Scarlet O’Hara on Tara.
The trio was as extraordinarily different as Joy was ordinary to the point of boring. They were the type that might attract a stalker.
Joy smiled sympathetically. There was no use alienating the weird trio when she planned to beg favors from them later. “The maid showed me up to this room, so I’m pretty sure I’m in the right one. You might want to go check with her. She’ll be able to point you all in the right direction.”
“Joy, we’re not in the wrong room by mistake,” said the brunette.
“We don’t make mistakes,” said the blonde. The redhead shot her a funny look, and the blonde hastily added, “Well, not often.” Another red-raised eyebrow. “Okay, maybe we make mistakes, but they all turn out right in the end. And we’re not mistaken about the room, or who’s in it. We’re looking for you.”
“Girls, I suggest you allow me to make our introductions.” The redhead was obviously accustomed to taking charge. “Joy, we know about Ripples, and that’s one of the reasons we’re here, to see to it this fund-raising party is successful.”
Ripples was Joy’s nonprofit foundation that funded a number of small charities. She’d realized years ago she couldn’t change the world, but Ripples was Joy’s attempt to change small corners of it.
“Ripples can use all the friends, and all the help with fund-raising, we can get.” Raising money for Ripples was the reason Joy was attending this upscale house party, and though she welcomed their help, something about these three women still made her nervous. “I’m glad Mrs. St. John has already started to spread the word about the foundation and what we do.”
“Actually, she didn’t. At least not that we know of. You see, we’re friends of your brother. Actually we knew Grace first, but we’ve come to know and love Max as well.”
Joy sank to the bed, blatantly staring at the three. Friends of Grace’s? Grace was
a romance author who wrote about three bumbling fairy godmothers. Godmothers who . . . Now that Joy stopped and thought about it these women were dressed exactly like. A simple explanation occurred to her.
“Is this party a costume one? How wonderful of you to dress up like Grace’s fairy godmothers. Did Trudi tell you I was coming? If everyone’s costume is as great as yours, I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb. I just brought a cocktail dress.”
“Darling, you obviously don’t know Trudi.” The brunette shook her head. “She would never do anything as crass as holding a costume party.”
“And if she did we’d come as something other than ourselves.” The blonde turned to her companions. “Do you remember Leila’s party? I so enjoy the cancan costumes. We could go in those again.”
“There is no costume party,” the redhead reminded her.
“Oh.”
Seeing the blonde’s face fall in disappointment, Joy almost wished there was a costume party. “Maybe next time,” she offered softly.
The older woman’s smile was as bright as her banana-colored hair.
“Ladies, I’m sorry. I still don’t understand what I can do for you.”
The blonde and brunette looked as if they were about to say something, but the redhead held up a hand, silencing them. “I’ve told you two over and over again, let me handle these initial meetings. All you do with your chatter is confuse our goddaughters.”
“Goddaughter?” Joy’s smile drooped a bit, and a faint headache began to stir behind her eyes.
The redhead nodded encouragingly. “Joy, you see, we’re here to help you.”
“Help me raise money for Ripples?”
“Oh, no. We’re here to help you find your own true love,” the redhead said as the other two bobbed their heads in agreement. “We’re your fairy godmothers.”
Joy tried to laugh. This was some joke. Max must be behind it.
Despite his doctorly occupation, he had always enjoyed tormenting her, trying to convince her that she needed his psychiatric help. “Okay, you three. The joke’s over. Tell my dear brother, Max, it didn’t work.”
“Dear, we’re not joking.” The redhead did indeed look deadly serious. “We’ve been watching you for quite sometime.”
Obviously not able to remain silent, the brunette piped in, “And we know . . .”
The blonde cut her off. “Yes, we know that you’re not happy. You’re missing something.”
The two took off, bouncing sentences right after the other’s.
“You’re missing a good man—”
“Not that we’re saying you need a man to make you complete—”
“Certainly not. This is the new millennium, and women have learned to stand on their own two feet—”
“And you’ve done a great job—”
“But you need—”
“Yes, you need something more—”
“Someone more—”
“And we’re—”
“Girls.” The redhead had had enough. The two shut up.
Joy was grateful. Trying to watch the two of them as they talked had been like trying to watch a high speed tennis ball fly back and forth on the court. Her headache was going to be complicated by a stiff neck.
“Now,” said the redhead, once again in charge of the very odd, probably crazy, trio. Maybe they were three of Max’s patients, escapees from some asylum. Did they even have asylums anymore?
“Joy.” The redhead pulled her from her ruminations. “We realize that this is all confusing, but we know you’ve read Grace’s books, so we know you know how this works. In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m Myrtle.” Myrtle gestured to the blonde. “She is Blossom, and this is Fern.” The brunette nodded.
“We’ve been looking for your Mr. Right for quite some time, and we’ve finally found him,” Blossom said in a rush. “The problem was he didn’t really look like a right . . .”
Fern interrupted. “More like a wrong. There were quite a few strikes against him.”
“But there was the wish to consider,” Blossom said.
“And you would be an answer to one, despite the strikes against the other,” Fern said.
“Helen, for instance,” Blossom muttered.
“Plus he was badly burned by—”
“Girls.” The sisters were silent. “Suffice to say, that despite some hurdles that will have be to overcome, we have found the perfect man for you. And despite the problems you might have to face, you know we’ll be right beside you every step of the way.”
It was too much. Joy didn’t know if she should take some aspirin—or maybe a Valium—or call Max for a reference. Maybe she should call Grace, since the trio claimed to be her brainchildren. The tempo of her headache picked up speed as she considered what she should do next. Were the three women the crazy ones, or was she? “I don’t understand what precisely is going on, but I wish you’d all leave. I have an important party—”
“Full of important people with deep pockets,” Blossom said, nodding as if she knew what was going on.
“I can’t deal with this joke. Tell Max I said, Ha, Ha.”
“Sweetheart, we’ll let you get ready for your party, but we’ll be back to talk to you soon.” The redhead, Myrtle, smiled. “We just wanted to drop in and say hello before the fun begins.”
The three disappeared in the blink of an eye. They were either very quiet and very quick, or they were really fairy—
Joy shut off the thought. She would be crazy if she believed they were fairy godmothers. And crazy is just what Max, and his sick sense of humor, wanted her to think she was, so she wouldn’t. She was going to take some aspirin, get dressed and go to this party. And reach into all those lovely deep pockets, taking as much money as possible for Ripples. And, most of all, she was going to forget this odd scene had ever been played out.
That’s exactly what she was going to do.
HALF AN HOUR later Joy strode down the hall—dressed, headache numbed by aspirin—with her mind on the party, not on the fairies. She wasn’t going to think about them, she told herself over and over as she did just that. A physical jolt pulled her from her sanity impairment worries.
“Darn!” she swore.
It was the only word Joy could manage as she began the long descent to the floor. The noise was loud. The clattering of plates was accompanied by the tinkling of silverware and the shattering of glasses.
Joy landed on her well-padded rump and sat momentarily stunned, surrounded by the remains of what must have been the dinner’s appetizers. She’d done it again. Actually, she hadn’t done it this time. It was a combination of fairy befuddlement and the small form in a blue jumper huddled against the wall.
“Are you okay?” Joy simultaneously asked the woman who had been carrying the tray and the little girl who had instigated the three-way collision.
Two red braids bobbed with the rhythm of the girl’s nodding head, but no words escaped her.
“I’m just fine,” said the woman. “But if her,” she jerked her hand toward the girl, “mother finds out what just happened there will be . . .”
“It was an accident,” Joy told the woman firmly. “Everyone has accidents. Since all three of us are okay, I guess our only casualties are a few plates and glasses.” Joy smiled at the little girl, but there was no answering expression. The child stood motionless, soundlessly surveying the damage.
From her inelegant seat on the floor, Joy was in the perfect position to pick up the pieces, and she did so.
“Now, you might think that this bumping was a fluke . . .” Joy glanced toward the woman and waited for her to supply her name.
“Martha,” the woman finally said.
“Martha. If that’s what you think, why, then you have another think coming. I’m here to t
ell you that if it hadn’t been the two of you, it would have been something else. I seem to have the ability to fall over nothing.”
Though she was talking to Martha, Joy kept her eye on the little girl. “Why, just the other day I was licking an envelope, sending a letter to my brother, and the paper cut my tongue. Can you imagine? A paper cut on your tongue? Hurt like the dickens. Now it takes an especially klutzy person to paper cut their tongue . . . the type of person who goes tripping over little girls who are only doing what little girls are supposed to do.”
Martha gave a reluctant snort, and what might have been the beginning of a smile flitted across her face.
Joy glanced over her shoulder, but the child still had a look of terror in her eyes. “Didn’t you know that everything in the world has a purpose? Children are here to run and scream and laugh and make messes. Older brothers are here to torment sisters.”
Thinking of her older brothers reminded her of Max and momentarily brought the three supposed fairies to mind. For a split second Joy thought she saw them standing just behind the little girl, but in the next blink of her eyes she was once again alone with Martha and the silent child.
Now she was seeing things. It was all Max’s fault. She had no idea how he’d bribed three strange women into playing along with his joke, but he was going to pay . . . and pay big. “But any self-respecting sister knows how to outsmart brothers.”
She looked up again at the little girl. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Braids swaying, the little girl shook her head.
“Do you have a name?”
A shy nod this time. “Sophie. Mother hates the way that sounds. She’s the only one who calls me Sophia, but really I’m just plain old Sophie.” The words were soft, hesitant, but it was a start.
Joy scratched her chin and looked at the child with mock consideration. “I think you’re right. You’re definitely a Sophie. A Sophia would be a quiet mouse of a girl who didn’t do anything but sit in a corner all day. I can tell you’re the kind of girl who likes to run and shout. Why, I even believe you might be the kind of girl who likes to go fishing.” Despite her own problems--pseudo-fairies and practical joking brothers--Joy couldn’t resist trying to ease a smile onto the child’s face.
