As the oldest, Myrtle liked to be in charge, and since the world—fairy or human—seldom went just the way she wanted, she was frequently more than a bit frazzled.
Blossom leaving without telling them where she was going had left Myrtle's frazzledness at an all-time high.
"You're sure she's fine?” Myrtle repeated. “Why she's out on her own, no sisters to help her, no magic. She's just a mere mortal woman in a cold, cruel world. Imagine how much trouble she could get into. She could be hurt, she could be lost."
"I don't think I need to imagine anything. You're obviously imagining enough for both of us."
Fern suspected that Blossom could more than handle herself. If she was going to worry about anyone, she was going to worry about the humans Blossom met, not her sister.
"Why, Fern, you know as well as I do that Blossom can't take care of herself."
"I know no such thing. She's a perfectly capable fairy—"
"Human, at least for now,” Myrtle corrected.
"—and she's more than old enough to go out on her own if she likes."
Fern looked at Myrtle and felt a small tug of pity. She was about to add to Myrtle's worries. But she didn't feel enough pity not to go ahead and say, “And speaking of going out on our own, I'm on my way out now."
"To look for Blossom?” A look of relief swept over Myrtle's face. “See, I knew you were as worried as I was."
"Oh, no. I'm sure Blossom is having a wonderful time and is fine. Why, she'll be home tonight telling us all about her adventures. No, I'm off to find a job."
"A job?” Myrtle asked and slumped onto the couch. “A job?"
"Yes. We're human, and that means we need money, so I'm off to earn some."
"Doing what? The only job you've ever had was that of fairy godmother, and I don't think you're going to find many job openings for a fairy godmother that doesn't have any magic."
"You're right about that. But Myrtle, we've been fairy godmothers for a very long time. I think maybe it's time for a change ... at least for me."
"Change?” Myrtle asked, the word sounding more like a curse than a precursor to new adventures.
"Change. I think Bernie might have done us a favor. I'm looking forward to trying something different. Something I love."
"What?” Myrtle asked. “Just what is it you love so much here in the human world? What is it you think people will pay you money to do? Because I can't think of a thing myself. I've been wondering just what I was going to do with myself for the next six months, and I haven't come up with a single, solitary thing. So I'd really like to hear what you're thinking you're going to do."
"I'm going to be a cook."
Fern had lain awake half the night thinking about what to do next, and when the idea of cooking hit her, there'd been a feeling of rightness. This is what she was meant to do.
She'd spent centuries preparing for it, taking lessons from the greatest chefs. She cooked for relaxation. She cooked for the sheer joy of cooking. What a lovely way to spend the next six months.
"You're cooking for Glory at the restaurant?"
"No. I talked to her last night after dinner. She'd have me back, but I want something different. She said she'd give me references and told me about this new place that's opening down on the bay. Les Magik. Doesn't it just sound perfect? Les Magik. I just love saying it. I loved working at Glory's Chambers, but it's not the haute cuisine I dream about preparing. Les Magik is catering to that more sophisticated palate."
"But Fern, what about Blossom?"
Fern realized that her sister was really saying, What about me, and again felt a stab of pity. She patted Myrtle's arm. “She'll be fine, dear. We'll all be fine. What you need to do is figure out what it is you want to do."
"But—"
"I'll be back this evening sometime. Don't wait up."
Fern hurried from the apartment and breathed deeply as she hit the city street. She'd traveled all over the world, but of all the places she'd visited, Erie felt most like home.
It was big enough to jostle and vibrate with energy, and yet small enough to feel like home.
Bernie might want to think he'd punished them, but Fern was looking forward to this time. She couldn't remember the last time there wasn't some fairy godchild waiting in the wings for their own happily-ever-after. She'd spent so long focused on what would make her godchildren happy that she'd forgotten to wonder what made her happy. But last night, lying in her bed, she'd wondered, and the idea of being a chef—not just a cook, but a true chef—was the answer she'd come up with.
"Well, you certainly have a way with food,” Fiona said.
Fern wasn't the least bit surprised to find Fiona suddenly materialize next to her. She'd spent so many years popping in on others, that it felt rather comforting.
"So what do you think of the fairy godmother-biz so far?” she asked her fairy goddaughter, turned godmother.
"Well, after years of being totally wrapped up in my problems, I think it's almost therapeutic being wrapped up in someone else's."
"Ah, you should be with Myrtle then. She's not taking this whole human thing very well, and she's especially not happy about Blossom and I being out and about on our own."
"I'm on my way over to see her next. But first, I wanted to drop this off to you.” She handed Fern a large envelope. “Resumes and letters of recommendation. Glory's a fine reference, but I think you might find you need a little more to get a position at Les Magik."
Fern turned the envelope over in her hand and grinned at her newly appointed fairy godmother. “Why, Fiona, you certainly do have the knack of this."
"Why, thank you. I'm trying. Having my first assignment involve three people is a bit taxing, but I'm doing my best. No matter what happens, please remember that."
"Oh, I will, don't you worry, and I have every confidence in you."
"Why thank you. Now, I'm off to see Myrtle. Good luck with the interview.” Fiona disappeared and Fern almost thought she heard her add the words, "You'll need it," but wasn't sure.
No, she must being hearing things. Armed with her new resume and her cooking skills, there was no way she needed luck. She was totally set.
* * * *
"What thunder-footed beast flattened my soufflé?"
Fern heard the loud voice through the door and decided discretion would indicate she wait a moment before entering.
"I...” came another voice, softer, though still male.
"You?” the booming voice asked. “You don't know how to walk softly in a kitchen when there are soufflés in the oven?"
"I did, boss. It's just that..."
"Just what, Puffy?"
"I dropped the pans."
The softer voice sounded close to tears, and knowing that men didn't like to cry, Fern decided that this was her cue.
She might not be a fairy godmother at the moment, but she still liked to help people, and maybe she could save this man from any more yelling.
She rapped on the door and pushed it open. “Pardon me?"
"Who are you,” came the booming voice.
She turned and got a good look at the man attached to the voice.
He was huge.
For a woman who spent a great deal of time just under the five foot mark, he was gigantic. Even though she'd moved closer to midway between five and six feet in her new human status, the man was still huge.
Towering.
He must be at least six and a half feet. With dark hair, that was on the cusp between black and brown. Wild hair that went every which way, as if it was trying to get away from the yelling, wild man, just like the small blond man apparently wished he could escape as well.
She extended her hand and smiled, trying to exude a confident air. “I'm Fern and I'm here to apply for a job."
He ignored her hand and crossed his arms over his chest. “We're not hiring."
"I heard you were looking for a chef.” She was sure that even though Fiona was new, she wouldn't send her out f
or a job that didn't exist.
"Yes we're looking for a chef. A chef,” he repeated with heavy emphasis. “Not a little girl playing kitchen."
"That was a very sexist thing to say. You don't know a thing about me, or my qualifications.” She set her resume and letters of recommendation on the counter, and shoved them toward him.
He blatantly ignored them. “Yeah? Keep your resumes and sue me."
"I could,” she muttered.
It wouldn't be the first time she'd been involved in a law suit. And she rather thought she'd enjoy being the suer rather than the suee.
"What?” he asked, his voice deep and dark.
He probably thought his tone would be enough to intimidate her, but Fern wasn't easily intimidated. And if they were going to work together—and they were going to work together—then he'd better learn that fact going into their relationship.
"Have you ever heard of sexual discrimination?” she asked. “You can't refuse to hire someone who's highly qualified based on their gender."
"It's my restaurant and I can do whatever I want."
"Well, sir, you'll be hearing from my lawyer."
She picked up her papers and turned toward the door. She felt a twinge of sorrow for the small blond man, who must be Puffy. He was hiding in the corner, looking as if he was hoping the big bully would forget about him.
"You wouldn't sue me,” the bully said, confidence in his voice.
Fern whirled back around and plastered a smile on her face.
"Want to bet?” she asked in her sweetest voice.
"You wouldn't want the job anyway. I'd be a miserable boss. You heard the way I was yelling at Puffy. I'd yell at you like that."
She shrugged. “I'd yell back."
"No you wouldn't. You'd break down in tears, like all women do. The minute I raised my voice you'd be sobbing."
Fern laughed at the absurdity of his comment.
She was a fairy godmother. She didn't cry. Even when things looked as if they'd never work out, she didn't cry. She toughed it out, knowing that things would be fine in the end.
And she wasn't going to tell her future boss, but she knew this was going to work out as well. Les Magik was the perfect place for a has-been-fairy-godmother, wanna-be-chef to work.
"I don't cry,” she said. “You may not have noticed, but you're raising your voice now and there's not a tear in sight. I live with a bossy sister who could out yell you any day of the week."
"I doubt that. This isn't yelling. This is loud conversation. I can show you yelling, if you like."
He looked her up and down in that way men have of checking a woman out. That type of look was the reason she and her sisters had adopted their old lady personas. It's hard to be taken seriously if men were ogling you. And this man was ogling her.
He might not want her to cook for him, but he was interested in her physical attributes.
The unfairness of being judged on her physicality, rather than her ability, infuriated Fern. “No thank you. I'd simply like you to look at my resume and letters of recommendation rather than looking at my chest."
"I never looked at your chest,” he denied quickly.
Too quickly.
"Sure you did. You did one of those full-body appraisals the moment I walked into the room and made a closer study a moment ago. That study seemed centered on my chest. It's been years since I've had to deal with it, but I do recognize an appraisal when I see one."
"Babe, the only way you've gone years without men looking at you is if you lived in a convent, or wore a disguise. And it would have to be a good disguise to hide your physical charms."
"It was."
How she wished she had it back right now. Nice, sagging breasts never garnered much male attention. “Now, if you can forget my breasts, I'd like you to read my resume."
She pushed the papers toward him again.
He pushed them back. “I don't care what these people have to say. I just care about how you cook."
She let them remain on the counter and said, “Good."
"What?"
"I said, good. I'm a good cook. I'm a better chef. I'd be happy to tell you all about my specialties, but I'd prefer showing you what I can do. When would you like a demonstration?"
"Who said I wanted one?” he asked.
"You just did. You said you prefer seeing how I cook. I'm saying, when?"
"I didn't mean you should cook for me."
"But I'm going to. How about now?"
It wasn't as if she had anything else to do. She didn't like being idle. And if she couldn't godmother, then cooking was her second choice.
"Get out of my kitchen,” he yelled, his voice louder than before. “I'm making soufflés."
"If your bellowing earlier is to be believed, you're not. Rumor has it they fell."
She regretted reminding him because he turned toward poor Puffy, who visibly shrank further into the corner.
He turned back. “I'm going to have to remake them, I guess."
Fern brushed her hands together, ready to work. “No. I am."
"Don't be pushy,” he said. But there wasn't much heat in the words. Instead, he looked as if he was considering her offer.
"I don't think you'd understand subtle, so I'm opting for pushy,” Fern said. “I'll make the soufflés. How many?"
"Five,” he said, his expression saying that he doubted she could do one, much less five.
"Any particular type?” she said.
"Surprise me."
"Fine.” She hadn't come expecting to start so soon, but this was better. Rather than sitting around waiting for her job to start, she could just dive right into her human life and profession.
She noted the man was still standing there, staring at her.
"Fine,” she repeated. “You can leave now."
"What did you say?” he asked, visibly bristling as he ran his fingers through his wild hair in a frustrated gesture.
Fern tried to hide her pleasure at frustrating the man. She had a feeling he wasn't use to it.
"I said get out,” she repeated slowly and succinctly. “Puffy and I have work to do, and we'd prefer doing it without you glaring at us."
"You can't order me around."
"Sure I can. I'm the chef, this is my kitchen and I want you out."
"You're not the chef yet,” he reminded her.
"Once you taste my soufflés, I will be. And I plan to begin as I mean to go, and that means you need to leave ... now."
"Listen, there's no way I'm hiring a bossy tyrant for my kitchen."
"Out.” She reached out her hands, as if she was going to physically push him through the door, if he didn't move on his own.
"You wouldn't dare,” he said, no longer bellowing.
No, his voice had gone soft and dangerous.
"Try me.” She advanced.
He stood a moment, as if he wasn't sure what to do, then simply shrugged. “Whatever. Have your fun, but I doubt anything you do will impress me."
"You just wait and see."
The man pushed the door, ready to exit, and Fern called out. “I told you my name. What's yours?"
"Nico,” he said. “Nico Starson.” He walked through the door which swung to and fro a few times before settling back into place.
Fern turned around and faced the small, blond man. “Hi, I'm Fern. Do you have something you'd prefer I call you?"
"No. No. Puffy is my name.” His voice was soft and not nearly as nervous as when he'd been speaking to Nico.
"Well, then Puffy, since I don't know where everything is in the kitchen, do you suppose you could show me around?"
"Oh, yes, yes, I could,” Puffy said.
Now that Nico—she mouthed the name and liked the way it felt—had gone, the small man didn't seem so small. Fern realized he was actually taller than she was.
"You saved me from the boss. He was mad,” Puffy continued.
"It seems to me that your boss is the type that's frequently mad abou
t something."
"Oh, it's his nature. He doesn't mean anything by it. No, not at all. He likes me.” The man straightened, as if the fact that Nico liked him was somehow a compliment.
"If that's how he expresses his fondness, he can just keep not liking me—as long as I get this job. And speaking of jobs, let's get started."
Fern set to work, ready to dazzle the short-fused, wild-haired man she hoped would be her boss. After all, she could handle him.
Puffy knocked against a pan and it clanged to the floor. He looked at her warily, waiting for her reaction.
She just smiled.
Yes, she could handle her new boss and she could even handle Puffy. After all, she'd spent centuries dealing with Myrtle and Blossom.
Nico and Puffy couldn't hold a candle to her sister's orneriness or clumsiness.
Chapter Four
Myrtle
Unnecessary.
Superfluous.
Outdated.
Unnecessary.
Oh, she'd already said that.
Repetitive.
Yep, she was all those things and more.
Myrtle sat on the couch in the living room, morosely making a mental list of all her qualities. None of which seemed very promising in the job-market.
"Hey, Myrtle!” Grace MacGuire Aaronson called as she let herself into the apartment, followed by Glory. “Wow, this is so totally awesome. Do I get a tour?"
"Sure. If you like."
Myrtle felt both women staring at her, then, rather than waiting for their tour, they sat down on either side of her.
"Maybe you can show us around in a few minutes. But first, what's wrong?” Glory asked.
Grace nodded. “And where are Fern and Blossom?"
"Now, that's a question, isn't it?” Myrtle said.
She pulled her long, unwrinkled, unvaricosed legs up onto the couch and wrapped her arms around them.
"What do you mean?” Grace asked.
"Blossom left before I got up, and Fern left with some addlepated notion of being a cook. No, I take that back. Being a chef at some new restaurant. Why couldn't she just work for you?"
Glory smiled, “Well, she could have, but I think Fern wants to try something new and I say good for her."
"Et tu?” Myrtle moaned.
"Myrtle, are you all right?” Grace asked.
Fairly Human Page 4
