Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas

by Pepper Basham

  But her dad’s gentle voice rang in her memories, encouraging her over the years. When she couldn’t quite figure out her bike without training wheels and Harper rode circles around her. Try again, Princess. When she failed her dance-line tryouts in junior high and Harper pranced around in her cheerleading uniform. You’re capable, Princess. When she didn’t get asked to Prom her senior year of high school and Harper had been going every year since she was a freshman. You’re always my Princess.

  Now she could just picture him encouraging her again. He would want her to go, would want her to try to be close to her remaining family for his sake, and that was the only thing that urged forth an answer from her reluctant lips. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

  “Great.” Harper chirped. Her voice softened. “I haven’t seen you in, like, forever.”

  The doubt crumbled a little at her sister’s somewhat warmer tone. Hope rose a notch. Maybe they had really missed her. Perhaps they could get along at the resort, and she could honor her father’s memory well. Maybe Harper had grown up a little and—

  “So I assume you’re coming solo?”

  Ah. There it was. The familiar, borderline haughty tone that sometimes she wondered if Harper could even help. It was just such a part of her now, she probably couldn’t.

  Maggie opened her mouth to confirm the inevitable, then took in the five men milling about her book store. No, seven. Moe and Beeker, the last remaining members of the book club, had somehow snuck in post-deer conversation, and sat on the wicker loveseat opposite Lester, who was jabbing one finger at the comic pages opened before him and passionately making a point about the Joker. Moe argued back about Batman, while Beeker tapped furiously on his iPad.

  Bam. Bam. Bam.

  Griff pounded another nail and her heart skipped as she focused on his broad back kneeling before her bookcase. Eight. There were eight men. Surely one of them…

  She straightened her shoulders. “Actually, put me down for a plus one.” She disconnected the call before Harper could ask a dozen questions she couldn’t answer.

  And before she could take it back.

  Griff tested the weight of the repaired shelf, satisfied, and stood from his hunched position. Maggie hung up the phone, lingering by the front counter and meeting his eye the moment he turned. He raised his eyebrow at her eagerness.

  “Thanks for fixing that. I’m surprised the complex sent you over.” Maggie tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and offered a smile. “I figured that fell under my responsibility as tenant. I’d been meaning to get a quote from you.”

  She’d always reminded him of one of those Disney princess characters from the books she kept on display in her store. With her jet-black hair and pale skin, she was striking—not necessarily traditionally beautiful, but someone you wanted to look at longer. There was a gentleness about Maggie that kids and animals alike—be it the miniature dogs, kittens or pet birds people brought into the store—responded to.

  Apparently the same could be said for her nerdy tribe of book club groupies. They were always in here, arguing the latest piece of technology and Star War theories, and offering advice to Maggie on everything from store décor to her family dynamics—which he’d overheard just enough of the past few weeks to recognize was a pretty big mess.

  He tossed his tape measure into his toolbox. “The complex didn’t send me. I just remembered you mentioning this shelf to me last week when I was in here warning you about the timeline for the new roof.”

  Surprise lit her eyes, which he noticed for the first time were hazel. “Well, thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  “No charge. It’s a slow day.” He pushed up the sleeves of his shirt and checked his watch. From his peripheral vision, he noticed a geek on the couch pretending not to be watching them from behind his comic. “Guess that means I’m not in trouble for pounding nails while you were on the phone?” That might or might not have been on purpose. Maggie was easy to mess with. Pretty fun to do so, too.

  She theatrically tapped her chin as if thinking about it. “Okay, guess not. Fair’s fair.”

  He tilted his head toward the new shelf. “Maybe if you quit putting fifty-pound books on those cheap cases, they wouldn’t crumble on you.”

  The woman loved her enormous estate sale finds, judging by the heavy volumes he’d noticed stacked by the laptop she used as a cash register—and apparently, she loved discount furniture just as much. This store probably didn’t bring in a ton of income, hence the mismatched, second-hand vibe—but that only contributed to the comfortable appeal. Anyone who walked in would be immediately tempted to pull up a random chair, pick a novel, and settle in for the long haul. Like her seven goofballs over there.

  “But if I quit breaking stuff, what would you do when you were bored?” She grinned.

  “Touché.” He snagged his hammer from the top of the bookcase where he’d left it, accidentally knocking over a little figurine of some dark-haired princess in a blue and red dress. “I better be going.”

  He hefted his toolbox and started toward the door. He was actually a little busier today than he’d let on, but didn’t want her to feel bad for taking up his time for a technical freebie. She was always trying to peddle coffee on him, as if him doing his job was a favor she had to repay. Besides, knowing that shelf was broken had been bothering him for days. He’d fixed it for his own sense of accomplishment.

  Or at least, that’s what he would keep telling himself every time she offered that sweet smile.

  He hesitated at the door before tugging it open. “And hey, don’t forget the roofers are coming next week.”

  “Wait.” Maggie stepped closer, lowering her voice and casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the book club members. “Speaking of next week—I need to ask you a favor.”

  Unless it was a nail to pound or a faucet to tighten, he didn’t have much to offer. “What’s that?”

  She crossed her arms over her royal blue sweater, hugging them tight against her. “Are you busy next weekend?”

  Maggie was asking him out?

  Griff swallowed, unsure how to answer. He barely knew her—besides the times he stood and slurped coffee at the counter and discussed the state of the economy or the repairs going on at her neighboring shops. She was pretty, in a simplistic way, and had a kind, sweet demeanor—but he didn’t feel that zing of attraction he’d felt in past relationships. Maggie was more like a comfortable quilt. Someone you wanted to be near and enjoyed, but someone who was too easy to put back in the corner and forget.

  Besides, he wasn’t really in a place to date anyone right now. His business was growing, and he was almost ready to hire another assistant. If he could just get a contract on the complex further up Main Street, he’d be set. Then maybe he could shut up the nagging voices that lingered over the years—the voices that sounded remarkably like a mix between his ex-girlfriend and his father, that declared he wasn’t good enough. Wasn’t successful enough. He could finally start venturing into actual construction, instead of carpentry and general repairs.

  There just wasn’t time for distractions—even from someone as incredibly nice as Maggie Craft. “I’m, uh—”

  “It’s not a date.” Maggie quickly held up both hands at his hesitation. “It’s a fake date.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  She let out a long sigh. “My stepmom and stepsister have this annual winter tradition—we go to this cabin resort in the Smokies for a long weekend. Winter Crisp Cottage. There’s snowshoeing, snowmobiles, good home-cooked food.”

  He didn’t respond, and she talked faster. “There’s even a downtown carnival and bake-off and a pageant. It’s really festive.”

  He waited.

  She wrung her hands in front of her. “But they think I’m bringing someone this year.”

  Aha. There it was. “A date.”

  “Right.” Her nose wrinkled.

  “And you they think this because…?” He raised his eyebrows.

 
; “I sort of told them.”

  “So you lied.”

  She shrugged. “Potentially not, if someone really does come with me.”

  “And you want that someone to be me?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t get it.” He gestured to the guys reading a few yards away on the bean bag chairs. “What about one of them? Aren’t they your friends?”

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder. “That’s the problem. My family knows that—they’d never buy that I was dating one of them. Besides…”

  He took in the group as a whole. One of the ones on the bean bag chairs, wearing a pullover gray hoodie, absently reached up to pick his nose. Griff turned away. “I get it.”

  “So?” Her voice pitched with hope. “It’s only about a four-hour drive.”

  He kept squinting. There was no way he was going to go all the way to a resort with a woman whom he only knew by her coffee preferences and propensity for rare books.

  “I’ll drive. And pay for the gas, of course.” She nibbled on her lower lip. Sympathy tapped him on the shoulder at her sudden vulnerability. Why was she so eager to pull one over on her family? Desperation lit her eyes and his resolve wavered but remained stoically in place.

  No. This was none of his business. There was no way possible he was going to—

  “And I’ll bake you one of my apple tarts for the drive up?”

  “Oh, man, do it!” One of the guys who’d been talking about his deer-hunting abilities earlier piped up from the red chair in the center of the room. “Those tarts are to die for. Once you’ve bitten into one, you’ll have wished you agreed to this sooner.”

  A blush crept up Maggie’s pale cheeks as another guy chimed in. “He’s right, dude. This lady can bake.” Several nods came from the guys lining the bean bag chairs by the sci-fi books. “I’m going to have her apple tarts at my wedding.”

  “Like you’re ever going to get married, Dan.” The one holding the comic snorted.

  “I will before you do, you big dope.” The redhead in the chair turned a page on the book in his hands. “You didn’t even finish this month’s book club pick.”

  Comic-guy picked up his can of off-brand soda and took a swig before answering. “That’s because I have a life.”

  An identical redhead in the next beanbag sneezed before piping up. “No, it’s because you can’t get your World of Warcraft character to level up.”

  Yes, she was certainly limited on her male options around here. Griff turned back to Maggie, his stomach rumbling at the thought of one of these allegedly legendary tarts. Apples were his favorite. “So you’re bribing me now?” He never got home-cooked food, much less special desserts. He knew how to make spaghetti—with three pounds of deer meat—and could grill decently enough, but that was about the extent of his culinary genius. Occasionally he threw a can of green beans on the table to appease his mother’s nag in the back of his mind, and called it a day.

  “Whatever it takes, I suppose.”

  He set his toolbox down and blew out a slow breath, unsure how to get out of this without hurting her feelings. He hated hurting a woman’s feelings—even when they were jerks to him, which he’d had his share of over the years. One villainous blonde came to mind in particular, but that was ancient history. “Listen, Maggie, as good as those tarts sound—”

  “Look.” Maggie pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans and began scrolling furiously. “This is my family. See? Harmless enough.” She held up a photo of a middle-aged woman standing by a splashy sports car, while a younger version of the same lady posed next to her in a purple ski jacket.

  “Come on, I’ve heard you on the phone. They don’t sound harmless.” He glanced at the picture. “Looks can be deceiving, right?”

  She responded, but her words thickened in his ears to a dull roar as he looked closer at the photo. That was—impossible. Harper Weir was Maggie’s stepsister?

  He fought to keep a neutral expression as a dozen thoughts vied for attention. The girl who’d broken his heart about seven years ago—guess it was closer to eight now. He’d met her when she was a freshman at college and he’d been a junior, working at the university school store. He’d watched her breeze in one fateful afternoon with a group of friends, her blonde energy crackling the room with electricity. She’d worn a cheerleader uniform, had flirted shamelessly, and written her number on the store copy of the receipt. He’d assumed it was fake until he’d texted it on a whim that night.

  They went to the football game together, then the after-party—his first college party—and over her Solo cup of something clear, she’d mumbled about wanting to kiss him. That’d been all it’d taken to fall for Harper Weir, and her influence had lingered like a hangover despite the fact he hadn’t drank a drop that night.

  How in the world was she related—even by marriage—to someone as nice as Maggie?

  Concern pinched Maggie’s brow. “Griff? You okay?”

  He nodded, unable to look away from the photo even as his heart raced with unreleased adrenaline. That sealed it. Maggie could make a lifetime supply of these apple tarts and it couldn’t convince him to get anywhere near Harper, ever again. That was one chapter from his past that needed to stay closed. Better yet, erased.

  He opened his mouth to express as much, then stopped. How many years had he wanted a chance to prove himself to his ex? To show what he’d made of himself, what he was making even now?

  Maggie put her phone away, the photo disappearing with it. “I’m sorry, I think I made this awkward. Forget I asked, okay?” A new kind of desperation tinged her eyes, and he hated that she’d felt that way twice now. He sort of wished she would have just poured scalding coffee on his hand again. That’d had been much less painful.

  He flipped the hammer in his hand as he thought. A free trip to the Smokies in January. Flip. Racing snowmobiles. Flip. Snowshoeing through the woods. Flip. Apple tarts.

  And the chance to shove his success in his ex’s perfectly tanned face.

  Decision made. The hammer stilled in his grip. “I’ll do it.”

  Maggie’s eyes brightened. His stomach clenched. And a wad of cash passed between the two goofballs sitting on the couch.

  2

  He was going to stand her up.

  Maggie set her suitcase inside the trunk of her SUV and slammed the hatch-back. She shivered, hunching inside her puffy blue ski jacket, and shoved her hands into her pockets. The Friday morning sun shone crisp beams between the branches of the tall oak trees standing guard beside her office complex, and from their high branches, birds chirped.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand and peered up the winding road in both directions. Nothing—including no extended cab, hunter green truck with a built-in tool box in the bed.

  Stood up. Jilted. Deserted. She always turned into a thesaurus when she got nervous.

  The breeze shifted, wafting down the neck of her coat and nudging her out of her dismal reverie. She hustled to sit inside her small, silver SUV, closing the car door behind her and cranking up the heater. Two thermoses of coffee sat nestled in the cupholder beside her, hopefully still doing their job of insulating. She aimed the vents at her cold cheeks and tugged off her gloves in an attempt to squeeze warmth back into her hands.

  Fifteen minutes late.

  Despair mocked her as she took in the silent streets. Businesses wouldn’t be opening their doors for another hour, at least. She’d wanted to get an early start and have less traffic leaving Charlotte—and had also half-jokingly thought that maybe Griff wouldn’t have as much time to talk himself out of joining her if they left early.

  She must have thought wrong.

  She took a sip from one of the thermoses as the clock continued to tick, the hot caffeine doing little to ease her anxiety. Of course he wasn’t coming. Her mini apple tarts—which were secured in a wicker basket in the backseat—certainly weren’t reason enough to convince someone to travel with a casual work acquaintance to a winter
cabin getaway.

  A romantic getaway.

  With her family.

  Maggie groaned. What had she been thinking? She should have stayed home. Or told Harper she’d be coming alone, as usual, and just dealt with the consequential cat-lady comments. Instead, she had to suffer extra humiliation before she even got to her family.

  Seventeen minutes late.

  She’d reminded him just a few days ago to bring a coat, that the Smokies got pretty cold at the resort, despite the rock fireplaces and the abundance of hot chocolate. He seemed like the type to want to ride snowmobiles and horses—something she’d never become quite comfortable with. Harper, however, could ride a horse like a bicycle, and never failed to laugh at Maggie’s awkward attempts to mount.

  Eighteen minutes late. She flipped down the visor and checked her makeup. She’d taken extra care with her eyeshadow today, the brown hues turning her usually hazel eyes green against the pale shade of her coat. Reason number 413 to feel embarrassed. Like Griff cared a single whit about her makeup practices—or keeping his word, apparently.

  She stared into the mirror, willing the disappointment to leave and ignoring the urge to check her watch. If her hair was blonde, and her eyes an actual shade of a real color, would it have mattered? If her skin were tan and even like Harper’s, her hips a little less wide, her top a little fuller, would it have changed anything? Was the thought of even pretending to be her date that unappealing to a guy like Griff?

  Harper had probably never been stood up a day in her life.

  Mirror, mirror. Maggie squeezed her eyes closed, shutting out her reflection. She had to stop doing that—comparing herself to Harper. They’d never been anything alike, inside or outside, and that was okay. Normal, certainly. Still, it was hard not to go there when it seemed like Harper got everything she wanted, and Maggie had to work so hard—and sometimes still didn’t make it.

  Another benefit to staying away from her stepsister lately. She hadn’t had a bout of insecurity like this in months.