Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas

by Pepper Basham

  Emma returned his grin. She couldn’t resist him, and her heart still skipped a beat every time she thought of a book with her own name on the cover. A book inspired in no small part by Sawyer. Maybe a little Ross Poldark too. She tapped to open the camera. “Say trout.”

  Sawyer looped his arm around the bear. “Trout!” He hopped down. “Did you get a good one?”

  Emma handed back his phone. “See for yourself.”

  He reached for her bag. “Let me carry that for you.” But when he grabbed onto the handle, he pretended to stumble from the weight of it. “What do you have in here? A novel?”

  Emma shrugged. Guilty as charged.

  “Em! You brought that fairytale book along, didn’t you?” He reached inside the bag to hold Finding Ever After for inspection. “On our honeymoon?”

  Emma snatched it from him, laughing. “Oh, please. Says the man who can’t resist posing with a single bear.”

  Sawyer tucked his hand around the small of her back and drew her closer. Somehow he still smelled like pecan trees, even this far from home. She didn’t mind it. On the contrary, she was eager to get back to the farm and begin plans for their bed-and-breakfast.

  Hammonds B&B, they’d call it. She was lobbying for the slogan All The Tea and Books You Need. Sawyer still needed convincing for that part.

  They weren’t a block up the road before Sawyer found a giant ice cream cone to pose beside. Emma groaned and looked around for an escape route.

  Ah, a bookstore, just up from the ice cream. That would be perfect. She held gently onto her book and shook her head. “I’m going into this bookstore. But knock yourself out.”

  Sawyer pocketed his phone. “Well, now I’m just a grown man posing alone by kitschy advertisements.”

  Emma grinned. “Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but that’s what you’ve been all day.”

  “Touché.” Sawyer surprised her with a kiss and reached for the door of the ice cream shop. “Want anything?”

  “Cookies and cream, please.”

  Emma hurried over to the bookstore, and a bell chimed as she opened the door.

  “Welcome!” A college-age woman looked up from where she was shelving books and adjusted the floral headband that tamed wild curls. Her gaze fell to Emma’s book. “Do you have a trade?”

  “This, you mean?” Emma held up the collection of fairy tales.

  “Oh my stars.” The woman gasped. “That has to be the most beautiful book I’ve ever seen. It almost looks magical.”

  “Magical is a good word for it.” Emma traced the golden letters of the title and smiled. Just like the other owners of the book, she too had found her love story. Made her own notes in the margins, so to speak.

  And with the realization, she knew what she must do next. It was time she let the book work its magic and add another owner to its story.

  “With a book this rare, I could give you a store credit that may get you a first edition of something else really special,” the woman said.

  Emma smiled and followed the woman to a locked case behind the register. She noticed Keats and Bronte, Dickinson and Shelley. None of them were so rare as her story. But this was only, after all, the beginning.

  Even the sunrise over the orchard in harvest season didn’t hold the promise she did. For her twice-upon-a-time had become her happily-ever-after—and that was all she’d ever need.

  Acknowledgments

  When I first began talking with Rachel, Betsy, and Pepper about writing a fairytale novella collection, I felt like I was dreaming. I’ve been writing fiction for years and never imagined my debut novella would appear between my dear friends’ stories. Thank you to all of you who have helped make this dream a reality.

  To my parents Steve and Laurie who have loved, supported, and believed in me during every season.

  To my critique partner Angie Dicken, my mentor Cara Putman, and all of my sisters at The Writer’s Alley—even if my stories never saw the light of day, the relationships I have with all of you would be worth it all.

  To my amazing agent, Karen Solem, who has never wavered in advocating for my stories. You are truly a gift to me.

  To my editor Marisa Deshaies for putting up with my ellipsis. I swear, I deleted a ton!

  To Hillary Manton Lodge for being a creative genius with all things graphic design.

  To Betsy St. Amant for reading my first draft and cheering me on.

  And thanks be to God, the Father of heavenly lights, for the good gift of story and the privilege of writing them.

  About the Author

  Ashley Clark writes romance with southern grace. She's dreamed of being a writer ever since the thumbprint-cookie-days of library story hour. Ashley has an M.A. in English and teaches writing and literature courses as an adjunct. She's an active member of American Christian Fiction Writers and lives on the Gulf Coast with her husband and preschool-age son. She loves a good cup of English Breakfast tea and is always planning her next trip to Charleston, South Carolina. When she's not writing or pretending to be a dinosaur for her son, Ashley's usually busy rescuing stray animals and finding charming new towns. She loves writing stories of the South she calls home. Find her on Facebook, Instagram at the_handwritten_story, and her website www.ashleyclarkbooks.com.

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  www.ashleyclarkbooks.com

  Once Bitten

  Copyright © 2019 by Betsy St. Amant Haddox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image ©2018 by GoOnWrite.com

  Published in the United States of America by Betsy St. Amant Haddox

  www.betsystamant.com

  Dedication

  To my sister, who once dressed up as Snow White for Halloween, and was super adorable—and to my mom, for instilling in us a love for all things fairytale.

  1

  If wishes were apples, she could have baked two tarts by now.

  Maggie Craft stared at the lit screen on her cell phone and debated stashing the blasted contraption under the pile of used books she had yet to add to her store’s inventory. Combing through a few of the dusty volumes she’d acquired from last night’s estate sale was a lot more appealing—nay, incredibly more appealing—than talking to her stepsister, Harper. But she couldn’t wish this one away.

  “You don’t have to answer, you know.” Lester, one of her store’s regulars, didn’t even look up from his perch across the room in his favorite red leather chair where he thumbed through the pages of a comic. Okay, pleather. But it was her favorite seat in the store, and one Lester always fought for when it was time for book club.

  The screen lit again, and her cell buzzed in her hands. She swallowed. “What do you think she wants?”

  “Your soul. On a platter.” That was Kyle, Lester’s best friend, who was apparently still brooding from losing out on the good seat. He scowled from his hunched position in a straight back chair and shoved his glasses back on his nose.

  Maggie snorted. At least the call couldn’t be about their annual winter cabin get-away. Her stepfamily had thankfully skipped it last year, and as far as Maggie was concerned, that was the end of that awkward tradition. They’d gone often as a family during her teenage years, then stopped once she and Harper both graduated from high school, opting to celebrate the holidays at home.

  But ever since Dad died, the holidays had never been the same.

  Then
her stepmom Carolyn had tried to instigate a new tradition with the cabin again—most likely, so they didn’t have to include Maggie with their “real” family celebration in December. Now, the only thing worse than dealing with her frigid stepmother was dealing with her in the literally frigid temperatures of the Smokey Mountains in January.

  Her cell buzzed a final time. With a sigh, she faced the inevitable. “Wish me luck. I’m going in, guys.”

  Kyle murmured his disapproval while his cousins—red-headed triplets Dan, Dave and David—shook their heads in sync from the row of bean bag chairs she’d set up near the speculative section. She’d initially arranged the colorful bags by the children’s rows, but thanks to her refusing-to-grow-up buddies, the spec section got a lot more reading traffic these days.

  She pasted on a smile. “Once More Books.” She always answered that way, even if she knew it was her family—stepfamily. Perhaps it was just one last, feeble attempt to show them she had made something of herself without their interference, and that she was fine being twenty-eight and single, thank-you-very-much.

  “Margaret. I know it’s you.” Harper’s humor was as dry as her perfectly tanned skin was moisturized. “And I know your store’s name.”

  “Maybe so, but you don’t mine. For the hundredth time, I go by Maggie.” She scooted a worn textbook over an inch on the inventory table so she could rest her elbow on the scratched wooden top. “What’s up?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’.” Harper’s voice eased into neutral, not for the first time leaving Maggie to wonder which part was genuine and which part was manipulation. Her slightly younger stepsister was the type to offer to let you wear her favorite scarf to dinner—only to find out she’d worn your favorite sweater without asking the night before and smeared spaghetti sauce across the front. Sometimes nice, sort of friendly—but hard to trust. Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous and worthy of every male’s double take. Growing up with her had been…interesting, to say the least.

  “Mom told me to call you.”

  Hmm. Carolyn told her to call—instead of calling herself. That could mean a plethora of things. None of them good. Maggie chewed on her lower lip. “Is everything okay?”

  The door opened, ushering in the late afternoon January chill. Maggie glanced up at the chime, fully expecting to see Moe and Beeker stroll in, late for book club as typical.

  Instead, it was Griff Massey—local handyman and construction guru. Most definitely not a book club member. Her heart did the weird stammer it always did when he came in the store. He was dressed in a green plaid flannel shirt today, with worn jeans and work boots that had to be steel-toed. Sort of like his personality. Handsome, and approachable—yet guarded. She’d never been able to get past surface level conversation with him.

  Unlike her book club buddies, who could stand a refresher on the definition of TMI.

  Maggie nodded a greeting at Griff, pointing to the phone and shrugging apologetically as he mouthed something and held up a hammer. No telling what the complex owner had sent him over to fix today. Her eyes lingered on the way his shirt pulled taunt across his back as he turned to shut the door behind him.

  Harper’s voice registered through the phone. “Maggie! Did you hear me?”

  At least she got her name right that time. “Yes, Harper. Sure, fine.” Anything to get her stepsibling off the phone. She hadn’t seen her or her stepmother, in what…three months? Four? Not since Carolyn moved into a bigger house uptown and she and Harper had started going to the late service at church. It’d been nice, to be honest. No more obligatory, strained weekend lunches. No defensive guard every time her stepmom asked who she was dating these days. No pretending to ignore Harper’s smirk when Maggie answered with the usual “no one right now”.

  Her eyes drifted back to Griff.

  “Great.” Harper’s voice pitched with success. “Then I’ll tell Mom you’ll be there.”

  Maggie’s attention jerked back to the call. “Wait. Be where?”

  Harper let out a heavy huff. “Winter Crisp Cottage, duh.”

  Duh. She really wished Harper would read a book now and then—maybe A Tale of Two Cities, or Moby Dick—and rid herself of her valley-girl vocabulary. But who needed to be smart when she was destined to marry rich? That was Maggie’s job—be smart. Be capable. Be dependable. Like bringing the dressing to Thanksgiving and staying after to clean the dishes while Harper painted her fingernails.

  Wait. She said Winter Crisp Cottage.

  She sat upright. “We’re going back?”

  “We go every year.” Her voice said duh again even though her words didn’t.

  Maggie wove a last desperate thread of protest. “Not last year.” No. She just couldn’t stomach it all again. The passive comments, the high bar they set that she always failed to reach. It was like being trapped on a roller coaster you hadn’t wanted to ride in the first place.

  Griff strolled back into her line of vision and set his tool box on the ground with a pointed expression. Clearly, he was ready to start work and she was holding him up.

  She raised one finger, silently asking him to wait, and his lips flattened into a straight line, the usual when he was mildly annoyed. Like that time she’d insisted on pouring him a cup of coffee and it’d splashed onto his hand. Or the time she’d startled him when he was hanging a picture, and he’d accidentally smashed his hammer against the sheetrock instead of the nail.

  He spun a hammer around two fingers, one booted foot tapping the floor, and pointed to the wall adjacent to her. It held a row of waist-high bookshelves that served as a countertop for a desk lamp, a few stubborn ferns that refused to die, and her collection of fairytale Funko Pop figurines.

  “Last year was a fluke, remember? Mom had the flu.” She could almost hear Harper roll her long-lashed eyes through the phone.

  Oh, yeah. Maggie had ordered Carolyn chicken soup via delivery for three days straight, so she didn’t have to see her and risk infection—and so Harper didn’t have to figure out how to cook something beyond mac and cheese or cold cereal.

  Her heart sank as reality cast a cold shadow. There probably wouldn’t be any getting out of this—unless she got lucky and caught the flu herself. What a fine kettle of fish this was turning out to be. “What are the dates?”

  “Speaking of dates…Mom said you could bring someone.” Her sister’s voice held as much dubiousness as Maggie would have expected. They knew she wouldn’t bring anyone—she never did.

  Griff waved the hammer again in warning, then turned, squatted by her broken bookshelf, and drove a nail hard into the loose board.

  Blast. Her gaze skittered over the room—where Griff repaired the bookshelf that had partially collapsed last week, to where Dan, Dave and David sprawled on bean bag chairs like seven-year-olds instead of twenty-seven-year-olds, and finally to where Kyle and Lester, former college roommates, argued over a comic. Here she was, literally surrounded by men, and yet perpetually single. No wonder Carolyn was always on her about being a spinster. Harper just usually called her the cat lady without cats.

  But she liked it this way. She enjoyed her cozy little life in Once More, which was a subtle nod to once upon a time and her obsession with fairy tales. She helped people find old literary treasures and baked apple tarts for the local mission and laughed with her group of book club nerds that camped out with comics and British literature, and was just fine. She was happy, even.

  Lonely, sometimes. But just fine.

  Maggie tightened her grip on her cell. “I meant the dates of the trip.”

  “We’re going the last weekend in January.”

  She did the math. That was the weekend after next—and they were just now informing her? Her feelings mixed into a murky potion. She shouldn’t expect more. Besides, it was too bad they hadn’t actually forgotten to tell her in the first place. Then she’d be free of the whole decision. She licked her lips, stammering a hesitation in order to procrastinate. “Well…”

  “How
many deer do you think he’s gotten this season?” Kyle’s whisper wasn’t soft enough.

  Maggie’s eyes darted to the hushed conversation as Lyle set aside his comic long enough to peer at Griff’s turned back. “Eh. Maybe one.”

  “Six point?”

  Lester snorted. “No way.”

  “Two, actually. And one was an eight-point.” Griff didn’t even turn around as he pulled a tape measure off his belt. “You boys interested in some deer meat?”

  Lester reached over and beat Kyle with the rolled up comic, a sudden red flushing his pale cheeks. “Dude!”

  “I’ll take some.” Dan raised his hand from the blue beanbag chair.

  “That was clearly rhetorical.” Lester hissed.

  Maggie turned her back on the masculine circus in her store and tried to focus on Harper. “So you’re coming?” Her stepsister pressed. “Mom needs to know for sure.”

  Why, to let the valet know how many cars would be parked at the Cottage? They didn’t really care if she came.

  She pressed her fingers—desperately in need of a manicure—against her forehead. Once upon a time, she and Carolyn got along fairly well. She always seemed to favor Harper growing up, but Maggie had her dad to bring balance to the equation, so it worked out. But since his illness and passing away five years ago, things had been awkward. Strained. Like she was the oddly shaped piece they couldn’t quite force-fit into their puzzle. She didn’t fit their expectation of perfection—she didn’t have Harper’s perfect blonde locks and perfect complexion and perfect size-four figure. It was exhausting attempting to try to meet that bar.

  She could easily give a million excuses right now. Like she was busy that weekend. She was sick. She had to travel for work.