When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae

by Kirsten Mortensen

  It’s funny though, isn’t it, how people will live in a place all worn down and junky, and then fix it up so it’s nice right before they move out?

  She didn’t dwell on that thought. Paul was so proud. After Dean left that evening, they stood on the driveway, looking at their handiwork. Paul had his arm around her, and kept saying, “Sure is coming out nice, isn’t it, Libby?”

  And she’d say, again, “Yes, Paul. It is.”

  “So you going to list it, when, Monday?”

  She took a deep breath to calm her stomach. Because she hadn’t told him yet, about that cable show . . .

  “Libby?” He looked at her, and he didn’t look happy. The look startled her and then she realized: he thought her hesitation meant she was changing her mind about selling.

  “It’s okay, Paul,” she said. “I’m definitely selling. Only—”

  “Only what?” He’d dropped his arm from her waist and had fallen back a step, fixing his eyes on her face.

  The poor guy. Waiting for some fresh shock.

  “Well, you know how I mentioned that I may have a buyer.”

  “Oh, sure. I remember you saying.”

  “It’s someone Gina knows.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Yes! Exactly. The way Gina operates, there’s no telling if the deal will happen, right?”

  He ruffled her hair affectionately. “You can be one smart cookie sometimes, Libby.”

  “But the thing is, Paul, if it does go through, I’ll get more than market for the place.”

  “Oh, really?”

  So she told him the whole story. How Gina and Jade had figured that they should turn the place into a retreat. He looked pretty skeptical—the same expression as when he’d heard the campers talk about it all earlier in the week—so finally she led him inside to her office. “Look,” she said, stepping up to her desk and bending over her keyboard. She went to google.com, typed in “Findhorn,” and clicked on the Findhorn Foundation’s website. “See? Like this.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s in Scotland. It was originally a farm where some people . . .” The whole fairy idea was such a sore point that she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She couldn’t say, “where some people talked to fairies.”

  But he knew what words had been left unsaid. “You’re kidding me.”

  She shook her head.

  “What a scam.” He’d taken over the mouse and was clicking on the Findhorn website.

  “I don’t know why you say ‘scam.’”

  He grunted. “So Gina thinks she’s going to buy your place and turn it into a retreat for whackos.”

  “More or less. Yes.”

  “I suppose as long as the whackos are showing up anyway, you might as well figure out a way to part them from their cash. So this guy she’s got lined up, what’s he doing?”

  “Well, Gina doesn’t have any money.”

  “Of course she doesn’t. What’s his name?”

  “Simon Blackwell.”

  “Libby, I realize that you’re your own woman, and all that. But why didn’t you discuss any of this with me?”

  She avoided his eyes.

  “Has he given you anything in writing?”

  “Just a letter.”

  “Let’s see it.”

  She dug through her file cabinet for a minute, found the letter, and handed it to him.

  “It doesn’t mention how much he thinks the property is worth.”

  “No, just what it says here—that he understands that the property’s valuation is based on its use as a business, rather than a farm.”

  “How much do you think he’ll offer?”

  “I’m not sure. But I would expect to take out at least ten or twenty thousand. You know, after paying off the mortgage.”

  He nodded. “Okay if I keep this?” He waved the letter at her. “I’d like to have Cliff look at it.” Cliff was a lawyer Paul had used, once, when he’d been sued for leaving stuff stacked on a stairway—he’d been living in an apartment, at the time. An elderly woman had slipped on a stack of old Lab Biology Today magazines and fractured her wrist. It was Paul’s fault, of course, for leaving magazines there, but on the other hand—a half million dollars?

  “We need to make sure you’re getting a fair deal, Libby.”

  She hated to see Paul take the whole thing over this way. But she nodded yes. What could she do? This is what she got for hiding it from him for so long.

  He was reading the letter again. “So this bit about publicity—”

  “Well,” she hesitated. “I more or less have to agree to it, Paul.”

  He made a face.

  “The place isn’t worth a thing unless people know about it. They hope to have things ready to start offering workshops and stuff next summer. They’ll do their own PR come spring but for now, it’s all on me, Paul . . .”

  “Let me ask you something. Once they take over, you’re done, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It will be someone else claiming to see these . . . things.”

  “Jade, I guess.”

  “Jade. And Jade would be . . .”

  “She’s another friend of Gina’s. She claims to be able to . . . communicate with the, uh . . .”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “Well, that’s what she says.”

  He folded the letter. “Whatever. But the main thing is, you are done. Once the place is sold, you don’t have to be involved at all.”

  “Right.”

  “No special guest appearances. No nothing. You never have to come back to this place again.”

  She felt tears threatening again but fought them off. “That’s the idea, Paul.”

  “Well.” He stood up. “I guess if that’s the deal, that’s the deal. Only I think we need to ask this Blackwell guy for more money.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll have Cliff look at it.”

  “Okay. Paul?”

  He looked at me, waiting.

  She took a deep breath. Now was as good a time as any. “About doing publicity.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve agreed to go on Hey, America! That morning cable news show.”

  He made another face. “Figures.”

  “I pretty much have to,” she whispered.

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She nodded.

  He rubbed his forehead. “Aw, Libby. Why didn’t you—why would you hide this from me?”

  She avoided his eyes. “There just wasn’t a good time to bring it up, Paul. There’s been so much going on—and I wasn’t even sure, really, if it was going to happen.”

  “This—this is national television, Libby. It’s going to get back to my boss. You realize that, right?”

  “Paul, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” And she was. She was just about as miserable as she’d ever been in her life.

  He sighed. “Well, at least your name is off the Skin Tones masthead . . . maybe I’ll have our software guy look into getting it off any cached versions of our website, too. You know. As a precaution. I think he can do that.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. Meaning, “Thank you for only taking my name off.” Rather than telling her there was no way she could be associated with the newsletter at all.

  “So. Tomorrow, huh?”

  He looked at her.

  She knew what he wanted. For there to be an easy answer. But there wasn’t. Because what he really wanted was for her to get out of this whole situation, and as much as he hated the idea of her being paraded around like a sideshow freak, he wasn’t stupid enough to advise her to jinx the Simon deal.

  Because even worse than his girlfriend as sideshow freak was his girlfriend stuck with the farm.

  “What time tomorrow?”

  “They’re picking me up at 5:45.”

  “Picking you up.”

  She nodded. “They’
re sending a car.”

  “I’d better call Josh,” Paul said. Then, “Damn it, Libby.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated again.

  He didn’t answer.

  “I guess I’ll take my shower. While you call Josh. Okay?”

  He was pretty angry. Again. He didn’t answer.

  46

  They sent a limo.

  Libby was standing inside her front door, waiting, so she saw it crawl up her driveway.

  It couldn’t have looked more out of place. She could imagine the driver wondering who the hell this Libby Samson person was, and how could anybody living this far out in the sticks be important enough to be on the national news.

  She’d decided to wear a suit. The suit she used to wear back when she presented at biology conferences. She’d chosen it partly because it was the nicest outfit she owned. But mostly because she figured if she looked like a professional, it would help protect her from coming across like a nut case.

  She could have used a manicure, too. She usually wore gloves when she worked in her gardens but a week of painting hadn’t done her hands any good. Not that her hands were going to show on TV. She looked down at her fingers. This was about playing a part, and the more real it felt to her, the better.

  Paul was in bed still. Awake, of course. But he hadn’t gotten up. Rolled over when the alarm went off and laid there, his back to her.

  She closed the front door softly behind her and turned the key to lock it.

  No campers up. So that was something.

  “Morning, ma’am.” The driver opened her door for her. The limo was as wide as her driveway, but he’d parked so that she’d be able to stay off the grass. On his side of the limo, though, he’d had to walk on it, and his shoes were bright with dew.

  “Thank you,” she said as he shut the door. The interior smelled of leather and the driver’s cologne.

  A moment later they were on their way to Rochester.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Hi. I’m Kendra. Libby, right?”

  Libby nodded. Kendra looked to be about Maisey’s age. She was wearing magenta chinos and as Libby followed her back to the studio where the interview would take place, she marveled that Kendra could sit down given how snug they were. But maybe she didn’t need to sit much for her job.

  “Do you want make-up?” Kendra held the studio door open.

  Libby hesitated. “What do you think?”

  She peered at Libby’s face. “Jack does a good job. Your cameraman. It’s all digital.”

  “Maybe I’ll be okay without.”

  “Yeah. You don’t have, like, anything horrible you need to cover up. Here’s Jack.”

  “Morning.” Jack shook Libby’s hand. He was tall and gaunt with a receding hairline and smelled faintly of garlic. “Have a seat.” He gestured at an upholstered office chair near the back wall. “Let’s get you wired.”

  He clipped a microphone to Libby’s lapel and handed her an ear piece. “Your IFB,” he said.

  “IFB?”

  “Interruptible feedback.”

  She’d begun to feel nervous during the drive. It was getting worse, now. Kendra had left the room and Jack couldn’t seem to get the microphone like he wanted it. “Is there going to be anyone else here? In the room?” she asked.

  “Nope. Just me.”

  “How will I know when my interview starts?”

  “They said 7:30, right? I can turn the IFB on at quarter after if you like. You’ll be able to hear the show. But you know sometimes people get bumped. You might be sitting for awhile.” He was at his camera now. “When it starts, when you hear Dave and Jillian introduce you, just look right at the lens.”

  “Okay.”

  A bright light suddenly came on behind her and she swiveled her head around to look. A surreally vivid image of the Rochester skyline glowed on a screen behind her chair. “Oh!” she said. “Is that what people will see behind me?”

  “Pretty slick, huh? Backdrop rear projection.”

  “I guess.”

  “How’s it going?” Kendra was back. “Everything okay?”

  Before Libby could answer, her earpiece suddenly switched on and she was hearing disembodied voices. Lively conversation. Led by the Hey! America hosts, Dave Swindon and Jillian Bates. Then Dave took over and started talking to someone about his business start-up. She gathered it was Starbucks meets Hard Rock Café meets MySpace—a bar specializing in alcoholic coffee drinks and pop culture décor. With free wireless access and terminals embedded in the tabletops.

  “I just spoke to the producer,” Kendra said. “Looks like we’re good to go for 7:30. Jillian will be doing the interview. They have another guest on to talk about the photos.”

  Photos?

  “I’m sorry?” Libby said. “What did you just say?”

  “I just spoke to the prod—”

  “No,” Libby interrupted. “Something about photos?”

  “Those pictures of you with the fairies.”

  Libby pulled the earpiece from her ear. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Hang on.” Kendra left again.

  “You’d better put that thing back on,” Jack said.

  “In a minute.” Libby’s hands had started to shake. She’d been feeling nervous before. She was beyond nervous now. Photos?

  Photos of what?

  “Here you go. These.” Kendra popped back through the door carrying a sheaf of paper and handed them to Libby.

  Libby looked at the sheet on top. It was a black and white printout of a web page. And right there in the middle of the page was a photograph of Libby, crouched down next to one of her garden beds and a little elfin figure in a green pointed hat was looking up at her, his mouth open as if he were about to speak.

  “I—I don’t know what this is,” Libby whispered.

  “Better get that earpiece back in, Ms. Samson,” Jack said. “We’re at 25 after.”

  Libby looked at the next page. Her. By the wall between her property and Dean’s. Four elfin figures standing in a semi-circle in front of her. One pointing at her with the mouthpiece of a little pipe.

  She looked up at Kendra. “I don’t know what these are. I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

  “Well,” she said doubtfully. “That’s you. You’re in them.”

  “I can’t do this interview.”

  “Three minutes. You need to get your earpiece in. They just did the teaser.”

  Kendra took the earpiece out of Libby’s hand and inserted it in her ear. “Don’t worry, Jillian’s nice. There. That feel okay?”

  Jack had walked to a panel of switches near the door and touched one and suddenly the room was dark except for the light cast by the projection screen. “Remember to look right at the camera,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Libby said to Kendra. “I can’t talk about these photos. I have no idea where they came from.”

  “Just be yourself,” she said.

  “I’ll do this when you’re on the air,” Jack made a chopping motion with his arm.

  “See you after,” Kendra said and when she opened the door the room lightened for a second, then returned to its disorienting bluish half-light.

  Jillian’s voice cut in. “And now: Modern Fairy Tale, or Age-Old Fraud?”

  Oh, no.

  Libby suppressed a groan.

  Jack, standing behind his camera, slashed the air dramatically.

  “Our first guest is Libby Samson, an organic farmer from Upstate New York who claims that she sees, and talks to, fairy folk. Good morning, Libby.”

  “Hi,” Libby said, hoping the grimace she was directing at the camera lens would pass for a smile.

  “So tell us, Libby, what are the fairy folk like? How did you come to meet them?”

  “They’re . . . well, I’m not sure what they are, exactly. They appear to be humanlike, but of course, they’re small—”

  “How small, would you say?�
�

  “About two feet tall.”

  “I see. And you see them on your farm?”

  “Yes.” Libby’s tongue was so dry it was sticking to the roof of her mouth. “I bought this place with a farm house and about ten acres of land—”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “They give me advice for my crops. What to grow, that sort of thing.”

  “And their advice, is it good advice?”

  Libby had the sudden impression that Jillian was desperately bored. “You know what I think? I think I’m somehow picking up energy from the land itself—from the plants and the soil—and somehow it’s taken the form of—”

  “And what we all really want to know, of course, is—have they got a pot of gold?”

  “Pot of—”

  “Just kidding, Libby! Just kidding. Now, your story first took off when these encounters you’re having with fairies appeared on the Internet.”

  “Yes.”

  “And more recently, there have been some photos as well.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Here, for our viewers to see—there’s Libby talking to one of them—here she is with several—Libby, these photos are quite extraordinary.”

  “Yes, only, Jillian—”

  “We have, joining us now, photography expert George Wales. George is director of the Photodocumentation Institute in Miami. Welcome to Hey! America, George.”

  “Thanks for having me on.”

  “George, based on your analysis of the photos of Ms. Samson with her fairies, would you say they are genuine?”

  George’s chuckle rattled through her earpiece. “No, Jillian. On the contrary. They are most definitely fake. They’re not even as good as the Cottingley fairy photos of 1917—a pretty successful hoax at the time. Pre-digital, of course.”

  Libby’s stomach twisted and she wished, desperately, that she hadn’t eaten that morning.

  “What makes you so certain they’re fake?” Jillian said.

  “Keep looking at the camera,” Jack whispered urgently. “They may cut to you.”

  Libby stared at the camera. As if it were possible to look relaxed and unconcerned while being pilloried on national television. And not only was it impossible, it was dreadful to have to even try.

  “. . . mismatch of illumination,” George Wales was saying. “Note how the lighting on the so-called ‘fairy’ is more diffuse than that on Ms. Samson and her surroundings. You can also see variations in image contrast . . . ”