Opal's Wish: Book Four of The Crystal Warriors Series

by Maree Anderson

  A pity such wishes never came true.

  Chapter Eight

  Talk about an advertisement for Monday-itis. The bus driver was communicating in grunts and refused to meet anyone’s gaze. Scowling passengers slumped in their seats. The bus was running late, and each time the doors hissed open to admit another irritated passenger, Opal winced. While she sympathized with the driver’s plight, by the time she’d glanced at her wristwatch for the umpteenth time to confirm what she already knew, she was pretty darned cranky, too. Because she was now running behind schedule, of course. Her current crankiness had nothing to do with a certain handsome ass of a man who’d stolen her daughter’s heart in the blink of an eye.

  And rocked Opal’s world with his kisses.

  She laced her fingers in her lap and pinched the flap of skin between her forefinger and thumb, willing the small pain to banish the memory of Danbur’s face, the way he’d touched her, the way she’d reacted to his touch. The way his body had shuddered beneath her hands. She’d felt powerful in that moment. In charge. She’d felt… turned on and revved up and dammit! She’d wanted him so badly she’d ached with it.

  How she’d summoned the strength to ask him to leave she would never know. But with the enforced idleness of the bus journey came clarity. She didn’t want a man in her life, didn’t want to battle her painful past and have to “fix” herself to live up to someone else’s expectations. Didn’t want to care or worry or constantly wonder about the continued wellbeing of a man she’d just met.

  Enough, already. She refused to fret about him—or her own reactions to him—any longer. He’d promised to leave. He’d kept his promise and walked out the door. End of story.

  And she’d kept her promise, too, telling Sera how sorry Danbur had been he couldn’t hang around to say goodbye personally. Sera had pouted a little—and God, that lower lip wobble never failed to tug Opal’s heartstrings—but it had taken less than a minute for her to perk up and announce she would see “Dan” later, and maybe they could go get an ice cream after school, because she didn’t think Dan had ever tried ice cream. Opal chose not to disabuse Sera of that notion. Which wasn’t exactly lying—merely delaying the moment Sera would realize Danbur wasn’t coming back.

  The bus wheezed to a halt at her stop. Opal dragged herself from the seat. She wasn’t looking forward to confronting her daughter with the truth—that Danbur wasn’t well. That the tales he’d told Sera were fantasies, and Sera hadn’t wished him into being from a hunk of rock.

  She exited the bus and power-walked up the pretty, tree-lined cul-de-sac street. The cluster of thirty-two beautiful, totally envy-inducing carriage houses had been built five years ago to take advantage of proximity to the golf course. And Opal had been lucky enough to snag some new clients. As each new pair of homes in the street sold, word had spread, allowing her to quit her other cleaning jobs one-by-one. It had seemed almost too good to be true at the time—still did. But she wasn’t questioning her stroke of luck. Having all her clients in one street, only a ten to fifteen minute bus ride from home, was hugely convenient if she had to pick Sera up from school in a hurry because she’d become unwell, which happened more frequently in the colder months.

  After selecting the appropriate key for the Mitchell home, she let herself in, and punched in the alarm code. Huh. Ten minutes to make up. She’d have to hustle to get everything done on time. And hope Sienna Mitchell hadn’t scrawled yet another note on the payment envelope detailing some extra task that she hoped Opal wouldn’t mind doing. Which would be okay except that, invariably, those little extras couldn’t be squeezed into the allotted timeframe unless Opal suddenly morphed into Superwoman. Not to mention Sienna never offered to pay extra if Opal was forced to work overtime.

  As she dusted and vacuumed the upstairs floors she told herself that Sienna wasn’t deliberately trying to screw her over. It merely hadn’t occurred to the woman that if extras forced Opal to finish up later than scheduled, it had a flow-on effect to her next job, which could ultimately result in having to pay for afterschool care for Sera. And if the woman’s manicure was any indicator, Sienna hadn’t the foggiest clue how long it took for even the basics of dusting and wiping, vacuuming and mopping, and cleaning bathrooms in a three-story home.

  She grabbed the bucket of cleaning supplies and moved on to the lower floor. A snort escaped as she ran the duster over photo frames, cups and trophies, and neat rows of leather-bound books. She’d eat her overalls if any of those books had ever been moved from their shelves let alone read.

  Time to scrub another toilet. Her favorite task… not. If Opal’s former agency mavens could see her now they’d keel over with shock. And as for her former roommates? Well, their advice would doubtless be to book a full-body spa session immediately, then set about snagging some rich-as-sin bachelor and voilà, all her problems would be solved.

  Yeah. Riiight. The only rich-as-sin bachelor Opal knew had ended up being the cause of all her problems.

  He’d ruined her life. If he got his hands on Sera he’d ruin hers, too.

  Opal grabbed a glass from the kitchen cabinet and filled it with tap water. She emptied it in large gulps and set the glass down on the countertop very carefully. Her fists clenched—the only way she could stop her hands from shaking—as she leaned against the counter, staring out the windows at the immaculately landscaped, soulless garden.

  Stop this, Opal. Stop this right now. Rick doesn’t know about Sera. There’s no reason for him to know about her if you stick to the plan.

  Except she hadn’t, had she? She hadn’t kept her head down and stayed mute and hidden. She’d put herself squarely in the public eye again. Risked being noticed, identified, gossiped about. What the holy fuck had she been thinking?

  The thirty minute alarm on her watch beeped, thankfully yanking her from what could easily have segued into a full blown panic attack. Crap. Time was short if she was going to finish up here and finish up her next job in time to meet Sera off the bus. She stuck the glass in the dishwasher and whirled through the rest of the work like a dervish on loan from hell.

  It was all done in the nick of time, helped along because fortunately there had been no “extras” requested today. Opal knew she was going to have to confront Sienna about those increasingly frequent “extras” at some stage in the very near future. Might be best to draft a polite letter over the weekend and leave it out for Sienna next time it happened. Yeah, right. If only it would prove that easy.

  Before resetting the alarm code she went through the ritual of patting her pockets, confirming the envelope with the cash was safely tucked away. Mislaying her pay really would be a disaster.

  As she walked to the next house she gnawed a snack bar and examined her feelings about the weekend’s show. There’d been a time she’d adored everything about being “reinvented” by skilled hair and makeup artists. She’d thought it the best job in the world being paid to show off beautiful, edgy designer clothes. But even dream jobs had a dark side. Like constantly monitoring your weight and every morsel of food that went into your mouth. People not respecting your privacy. Always having to be conscious of how you were portrayed in the tabloids, never truly being able to kick back and relax for fear someone would misrepresent something you’d said or done, and it’d blow up in your face.

  Did she truly miss the dramas?

  Cleaning houses was drama-free, at least. She and Sera got by, even if they didn’t have money for luxuries. If she was modeling again—even though at her age she would surely never be as sought after as she’d once been—she would have to sacrifice things she’d rather not sacrifice.

  Opal entered the next house and firmly shut the door on that part of her past. This was who she was now—a single mother who cleaned other people’s homes. There was no room for a man like Danbur in her life—no room for any man. And there was no going back to her old life.

  ~~~

  A painfully young Magda Bliss had gotten her first big break interning
for a woman whose acerbic tongue would make The Devil Wore Prada’s Miranda Priestly want to curl up and die of humiliation. And Magda could thank that ball-breaking bad-tempered bitch for making her the woman she was today. Focused. Driven. Successful. Highly respected in the fashion industry.

  Even after the health scare that had prompted her to leave the NY rat-race behind, Magda hadn’t sat around feeling sorry for herself for long. It wasn’t boasting to say she was still a mover and shaker. She’d worked her butt off to promote Philly Fashion Week and help it become a go-to event to rival New York or Miami. And she’d been an advocate for the Philadelphia Fashion Incubator from the get-go. Not to mention secretly proud of her inclusion as one of the industry leaders co-opted to mentor the designers-in-residence. Magda’s opinion counted, and a murmur in the right ear could make or break a budding designer’s career.

  Or a model’s.

  Magda placed her coffee cup on its saucer and leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. Sherriam Lindsay, for example, hadn’t yet learned the valuable lesson that divas were a dime a dozen. The people who mattered would soon tire of her outrageous behavior and tendency to run off at the mouth when she got a drink down her. Not to mention her regrettable habit of becoming embroiled in juicy scandals that, Magda suspected, Sherriam herself leaked to the tabloids.

  It was getting… tiresome.

  And perhaps more so because Magda wasn’t wholly convinced Sherriam was the perfect girl for this launch. Her photos were gorgeous, but they weren’t anything people hadn’t seen before. They weren’t new and exciting and different. Or perhaps that was a little harsh. When you’d been around as long as Magda had, it often felt like there was nothing new under the sun. Few things surprised her anymore—including Sherriam’s latest escapade that had involved YouTube videos of her stripping off at a party and jumping naked in the pool. Yawn.

  Gorgeous photos weren’t enough for Magda anymore. For this campaign she wanted the whole package. Photos that were memorable because they affected people at a visceral level. A model who could not only model but be a role model—someone teens would look up to, and women in their twenties and thirties could relate to as well. And so far as ticking those boxes went, Sherriam was a big fat fail. Hell, if the right girl walked in to Magda’s office right now, Magda would sign her on the dotted line and Sherriam would be out on her sculpted ass. It wouldn’t matter how much it cost her to shut Sherriam up and make her go away, either.

  Heaving a sigh, Magda opened the courier envelope her PA had left on her desk. She flicked through glossy photo after glossy photo and then paused. Her heart was pounding. And it took a moment to realize that the trembling of her hands, the champagne-like fizzing in her veins and the tightness in her chest, were in fact byproducts of excitement rather than some unpleasant and inconvenient health issue that would necessitate a trip to her specialist… and another lecture about decreasing the stress in her life.

  She removed her designer frames and carefully polished the lenses. Then, perching them back on her nose, she leaned forward and examined the photo that had captured her attention.

  Holy Mother of God. Magda traced the girl’s face with a fingertip. She had a knack for remembering faces. And there was no mistaking that face.

  She strummed her nails on the frosted glass of her desktop. The rhythm soothed her, calming her jumping heart and allowing her to think it through logically.

  Despite an almost decade-long year hiatus, Jordan Cast still possessed that unquantifiable magic that translated to stunning, unforgettable pictures. Magda was hard pressed to stop staring at the photo—Jordan was that compelling. The girl had aged like a fine wine. And thankfully developed just a few curves to soften what Magda had always privately considered a painfully thin, too-angular figure.

  She barked a soft laugh, hyper-aware of the irony. Not so long ago, wishing that a girl would put on a few pounds had amounted to heresy in an industry where you could never be too thin.

  Jordan would be how old, now? Mid-twenties? Still youthful enough to appeal to the older teens and young adults. Not so young that she wouldn’t be relatable to an older demographic. Career women and— Mmm. If there was any truth to the nasty rumor that had circulated when Jordan had dropped off the grid, she would appeal to moms with kids, too.

  There was a huge opportunity here, Magda could taste it, feel it, envision it. Jordan Cast fronting the ad campaign for Magda’s new line of jeans, casual wear, shoes and accessories. Jordan Cast endorsing the line. A style of jeans named after her. Jordans. Or perhaps Cast-offs….

  That had a certain edgy ring. Magda would have to think on it. And the more she thought about it, the more knowing she’d almost missed this incredible opportunity made her stomach churn. She’d planned a cursory glance through these photos and some encouraging platitudes—a favor to Conrad North, a longtime friend whose youngest daughter, Stella, had been among the aspiring designers at the show in Brooklyn over the weekend.

  Conrad had been savvy enough not to request that Magda attend such a minor event in person, and done the smart thing by sending professional photographs of the show. And voilà. Jordan Cast in the flesh, and an opportunity that made Magda feel like a dizzy schoolgirl.

  Jordan Cast. What a coup it would be!

  But her instincts told her to proceed with caution. Jordan could have “come out” at this event, capitalized on her notoriety. Instead, she’d quietly reentered the modeling world by way of some small time show, featuring wet behind the ears unknown designers. She must have used an alias, otherwise someone would have spilled and the paparazzi would have been all over it like white on rice.

  Magda buzzed her PA. And when Emilie entered the office she barked, “Get me the names and contact numbers of all the models used for that fashion show in Brooklyn over the weekend—the one Stella North persuaded her daddy to throw money at so she could showcase her own designs. Desiree Grant was one of models, though God knows what her agency was doing sending a model of her caliber on a gig like that. Must have been one hell of a favor someone called in.”

  Emilie, pretty and perky and discreet as ever, confined her reaction to raised eyebrows and a slight widening of her heavily mascaraed, kewpie-doll eyes. And then her gaze darted to the photos scattered on the desk.

  Magda sighed. Emilie knew her too well. Magda’s studied lack of interest in the photos was obviously ringing bells. “Yes, I’ve spotted something I like,” she said. “Or someone, I should say.”

  Emilie’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her thick bangs. “And everyone’s favorite diva?”

  Magda decided to put Emilie out of her misery and throw her a bone. “If this someone pans out, let’s just say it’ll be well worth enduring anything Sherriam Lindsay throws at us for letting her go.”

  Emilie pursed her lips, her dark eyes alight with curiosity as she tapped her pen on her teeth. “Care to fill me in?” she finally dared ask.

  “If you’re as good as we both know you are, you’ll figure it out. But I need to move on this as soon as possible. So let’s make things interesting, shall we? There’ll be a bonus in your next paycheck if you get me the info I need by the end of the week.” Magda leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “And when you do, I want it kept under wraps. There are legal implications and a host of other things to consider. I’ll give the go ahead when we’re in the clear.”

  “Understood.” Emilie gave her signature tight-lipped smile, pivoted on her heel and marched from the room, a noticeable bounce in her step. She did love a challenge.

  Magda waited until the door closed behind Emilie before she allowed the triumph that had been building to curve her lips.

  Look out, Jordan Cast. After I’ve tracked you down—and I will—I’m making you an offer you can’t refuse.

  Chapter Nine

  Opal forced herself to relax and turn the page of the glossy magazine she was pretending to read. An article extolling some new diet and exercise program—surpris
e! Not. She scanned the first paragraph and snorted. Hah. Want to tone up? Try cleaning houses for a living. She read on, and when the article’s words blurred, half-heartedly leafed through another few pages as her mind turned back to wrestling a thorny issue.

  Make that two thorny issues. Because she still hadn’t figured the best way to broach the issue of Liza’s escapades to Annie and Conrad. Maybe she should keep quiet. It might have been the first time Liza had dared do such a thing while babysitting. Everyone deserved a second chance, right?

  A loud squeal jerked Opal’s attention from the magazine. Her stomach flip-flopped. “You okay, sweetie?” she yelled. Thankfully she got the whole question out in super-quick time without stuttering. She waited for the reply, muscles tensed to leap from her prone position on the couch and race upstairs to the bathroom.

  “I’m fine, Mommy!” Sera yelled. “I knocked the soap into the bath with my foot.”

  Okay then. Nothing to worry about. Much.

  Earlier, and quite out of the blue, Sera had insisted she could take baths without Opal hovering. She’d also insisted she could read a book in the bath—“like you do, Mommy”—without getting it all wet, and had propped one of her favorite stories on the wooden bath rack. Opal had been shooed from the bathroom for the duration of “two chapters—maybe three”, which was why she was now stretched out on the couch, putting her feet up for the first time today, supposedly reading the glossy fashion mag Annie had given her. Brooding, in other words.

  Sera was growing up, becoming more independent. Which was a good thing. That’s what mothers were for—to nurture their babies, get them ready to cope with the big bad world, then let them loose to experience it. Because of the severity of Sera’s asthma, Opal had habit of hovering when she should stand back and let Sera try things for herself. Like taking a bath on her own… and trusting she wouldn’t have a silent asthma attack and slip beneath the water and drown. Opal wasn’t paranoid, but she’d had a nightmare where that very thing had happened, so she figured she could be forgiven for needing to hover whenever her daughter was in the bath, right?