by Holly Jacobs
“Oh my God, it’s already happened,” Grace gasped, not hearing anything the man said after “tux.” The devious godmothers were having the poor doctor buy one, so he’d be all ready for the wedding.
Grace raised her voice slightly. “Planning the wedding already?”
She knew it was silly, but she was irritated at them. If they were going to fix her up with her perfect man, the least they could do was have him rescue her from some villain or soothe her fevered brow during some illness. Remembering Susan and Cap’s misadventures, she rectified the last thought. Absolutely no diseases.
Maybe the fairies were wrong. Maybe Max wasn’t the man for her. Maybe he didn’t like writers? Maybe he hated romance?
Grace turned to Max. “Tell me, do you like romance?”
The question struck Max as odd. But then, writers were notoriously eccentric. But considering she talked to fountains about weddings, Grace was taking eccentricity to a higher level. Max was beginning to suspect that Grace MacGuire had a few more problems than just a troublesome manuscript. “Uh, I like romance I guess. I used to send my girlfriend, Terri, flowers for Valentine’s Day.”
Grace laughed then, a great big, relieved belly laugh. Again she spoke to the fountain. “Ha! He has a girlfriend!”
Max looked around and aside from the small crowd watching Grace talk to a fountain, there didn’t appear to be anyone connected with her. “Uh, we broke up last year. Irreconcilable differences. I loved her and so did she—love herself, that is. Seems she was a one woman kind of gal and couldn’t see beyond her mirror.”
Despite not wanting to like this fairy prince, she felt a wave of compassion. “I’m sorry.”
“It was for the best. I think when the right one comes along, you know it, and all the problems don’t amount to much. Our problems amounted to way too many.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I would really like a chance to talk to you about your book. I know you’ve changed your mind about the characters, but I might be able to help, anyway.”
Grace studied the doctor. Maybe he could help, but only if she watched her step. She would just have to be careful—very, very careful. “Maybe you could.”
“Do you want to come back to the office and see me next week?”
Grace thought about dealing with fairies on her own all weekend. “I think the sooner we talk, the better . . . for my story. Do you have time today, since you’re not going sailing?”
He smiled. “Your place or mine?”
“Definitely yours.” She followed him out of the mall, purposely lagging behind. “You three just stay out of his house,” she whispered. “No listening in, either. Do you understand?”
“Yes, dear,” Myrtle whispered in her head.
“Did you say something?” Max was staring at her with curiosity.
Grace shook her head. Max shrugged and continued toward the door. Grace gratefully followed him.
“Where are you parked?” he asked.
“Outside Webster’s.” And she was sure she knew who she had to thank for the mysterious lack of other parking spaces, not to mention the pile of manhunting clothes.
“So am I. Why don’t you ride with me? We can come back for your car later.”
Gratefully, Grace accepted. She wasn’t really sure she should be driving in her current mental state.
MAX LIVED IN a condo on the lakeshore. The location of his home didn’t surprise Grace at all. She loved the water. She’d only been waiting for a bit more financial security before she moved onto the shore herself. Of course there was her inheritance that would be coming next year, but she didn’t really want to touch that. She’d save it for her future children, a great big college fund. If she didn’t have any kids, she’d donate it somewhere, someday.
The fairies were good—very good, she realized as she gazed at the lake.
“It’s not fair to use the water and sea gulls against me,” she whispered miserably.
As far as Grace was concerned, there was no sight more beautiful than Lake Erie in May. Max lived in an exclusive new development that stood at the base of Presque Isle, a natural Peninsula that was a major tourist attraction for the city, though it was really just outside the city limits.
The water stretched forever, much like an ocean view. Lake Erie was the southernmost of the five Great Lakes. The winters were long, but it was easy to forget that in the late spring sunshine, with the sea gulls delicately arcing through the sky. Maybe she’d forget this mental aberration as easily as the winter’s snows were forgotten when spring stepped into the picture and promised the summer to come. Grace hoped so.
She settled on Max’s deck, an iced tea in her hand, looking out at the waves and gulls.
“So, tell me about your problem,” Max invited, breaking into her quiet musings.
“I’m having trouble with the fairy godmothers in my book. Like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, only I write about three.”
“I see,” was all he said, wearing what Grace figured to be a patented psychiatrist’s smile. They probably offered a class on it in med school. Patronizing Smiles 101 or something. “You’re writing a story about three fairy godmothers, and you need a psychiatrist’s opinion on them?”
“In a manner of speaking. Let me start at the beginning,” Grace said. “I’m a writer, and three years ago I started a series of books, a series that’s been doing very well. I’m getting more and more name recognition these days.”
Realizing she drifted, she took a deep breath and tried again. “As I said, three years ago, I started this series of romances. Three slightly inept fairy godmothers . . .”
“We resent that,” Myrtle said in her head.
“If you eavesdrop you can’t expect to hear good things,” Grace whispered.
Max stared at her, his eyebrows lifted in puzzlement.
Grace took a long gulp of her tea, wishing it was something stronger. Not that she drank, but since she was crazy what could a few drinks hurt, right? But she knew booze would only be a temporary fix. She’d rather have some very good prescription drugs that would wipe her delusions away permanently.
She jumped back into her narrative. “So, these three fairy godmothers—Blossom, Fern and Myrtle—help women find their own true loves. Only it’s generally more complex than that when they start off. They do seem to thrive on making falling in love harder. And they don’t always do things in a normal way. Just when you think everything’s going to fall apart, somehow they pull it together.”
“And these are the characters you’re having trouble with?” asked Max.
“Trouble? Yes, you could call it that. You see, they showed up in my . . . ah, in a character’s car yesterday. She’s a writer, like me. I think every good writer has had a character talk to them, but this was different. I’ve had characters sort of show up—though not in the flesh—and show me . . . ah . . . her where they need to be, and what they need to do. But this time they were in the flesh. I’m not sure what I should do for this character.” She paused, searching for the right words—they were generally easier for her to find when putting them on paper or the computer screen rather than in person.
“Are we talking about a character, or you?” He was studying her. Suddenly, she felt like some lab specimen. As he watched her, waiting for an answer, she told herself to get up and leave.
Instead she heard herself say, “I’m not talking about a character. I’m talking about me.”
She glanced up at him, expecting to see him looking at her with an expression of horror, or something. Instead, he gave her an encouraging smile.
With a sigh, she continued, “The three fairies showed up in my car. Then this,” she tousled her hair. “This is the first thing that happened after they showed up yesterday. I won a contest from some radio station I never listen to.” She imitated the announcer last night, �
��WWOW, the station that gives you the best of the Eighties, Nineties and today. I listen to country. But this WWOW gave me a complete makeover. When the makeover people were done, I didn’t just look better, I looked fantastic.
“You wouldn’t believe it to look at me,” she went on, “but I’m not beautiful. I’m passably pretty when I put my mind to it, but most days I don’t bother. I like sweats and flannel shirts, t-shirts if it’s too hot. I wear sneakers, no makeup, and ponytails.” She raked her hands through her bobbed hair, which, with the way the fairies were running things, probably only made it look more tousled and beautiful. “I generally don’t even shave my legs in the winter.”
Max just watched her and waited, she assumed, for her to continue.
“That doesn’t happen to ordinary folks, does it? I mean, one minute you’re passably pretty on a good day, the next you’re gorgeous. I mean, I woke up this morning gorgeous. No bed-head, no morning breath—that’s just not normal.”
“And so you called me about three fairy godmother characters who were no longer just talking in your head? They’d come to life?” Max prompted.
Grace avoided looking at him. She didn’t want to see pity in his eyes for the crazy writer. She watched a particularly active sea gull dive instead. “Yes.”
“But you ran out of my office.”
“I couldn’t go through with it. I shouldn’t be here now. Don’t you see? You’re the one the fairies want me to have. It’s all a setup. With a name like Artemus Aaronson, you should be eighty, with gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a whole passel of very well-adjusted grandchildren. Instead you’re . . . you’re perfect.” The last sentence came out like an accusation, as if being perfect was Max’s fault.
Max chuckled. “I don’t know about the perfect, but I’m sorry I’m not a gray-haired grandfather. I intend to be one someday, if that helps.”
Grace shook her head sadly. “You couldn’t help it. The fairies set you up, too.” She sighed, already tired of fighting the trio. Maybe it would be easier to just give up and accept the inevitable.
“We might as well just get married now because they won’t leave us alone until we do. They got you to the mall, even had you buy a tux . . .” She faced the water and yelled, “And just what is he going to need a tux for, eh, girls? Wouldn’t be for a wedding or anything, would it?”
She turned back to Max and whispered, “Yes. You probably should marry me and get it over with. You can always divorce me quietly after you have me committed. I’d ask for my computer, so I can still write. But maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea, considering my mental state. What if my next character is a mean, demonic sort? It wouldn’t do to turn him loose on the city, now would it?”
“Grace, I don’t think you’re crazy. And I’m sure we shouldn’t rush out and find a preacher. I’m a doctor. I can help you with this problem.”
“I don’t want to see you as a doctor.” She couldn’t take the chance of Leila and Doris finding out, and if the fairies were determined to make Dr. Artemus “Max” Aaronson her fairy prince charming, wasn’t there a rule against doctors having a personal relationship with their patients? Not only would it be a conflict for him, but the way the fairies worked, he’d probably lose his license to practice psychiatry.
“I can recommend a friend to see you. I’ll even set up an appointment.”
“That might be for the best, but I don’t think it’s going to stop the fairies. They’ll never let us walk away from each other.”
He gently enfolded her hand in his. “Then we’ll be friends.”
“How do you feel about crazy friends?”
“Some of my best friends are crazy.” He smiled. “And if you think my friends are bad, you should meet my family.”
“Grace, dear, you’re not crazy,” Blossom said as she winked in and then out again right behind Max’s chair.
“Oh, shut up and get out of here,” Grace yelled.
Max gave her a startled look. “Now, Grace, how can I help you if—”
Frustrated, she cried, “Not you, them. They’re not supposed to be eavesdropping.” She scowled at the spot where Myrtle had stood. “Don’t the three of you have anyone else to bother?”
“They’re here?” Max asked, glancing behind him.
“Grace, you’re no bother,” Fern said, winking into view. “And, no, there’s no one else. You know when we’re working on a major case we generally take just one at a time. Oh, sometimes we make exceptions, if one case is exceptionally easy. Let me tell you, your case is not easy, and so we’re dealing with just you.” Fern winked out as quickly as she’d winked into view.
“I was right,” Grace said to Max. “They won’t leave until we’re married. You might as well get it over with now. I’m glad you’ve decided to send me to a friend. I mean, I could never see you professionally, since we’re about to become involved.”
Max got up and started to open the sliding glass door. “Well, if we’re going to get involved, I suggest we start with supper, where we can get to know each other a little better.”
“Aren’t you afraid of me? I mean, I’d be a little nervous if someone started shouting at fairies on my deck.”
Max smiled. “It’s not every day I entertain a fairy-phobic person in my home. But, I’m not afraid. You don’t seem particularly dangerous.”
It wouldn’t be professional or scientific for Max to add that he had a feeling that Grace wasn’t nuts, no matter how crazy she appeared.
He left Grace sitting on the deck and staring pensively at the sea gulls as he walked into the kitchen. Max wasn’t anything remotely related to a culinary expert. His bare pantry bore witness to that. So instead of cooking, he let his fingers do the walking and called for pizza.
He peeked from the kitchen at the woman sitting on his deck drinking an iced tea and watching the sea gulls. To say he was in an unusual position was a vast understatement. Just what he was going to do about it remained to be seen. But it would probably be interesting. Max peeked again—she was laughing at something, her face glowing like a beacon, making him want to draw closer. Yes, figuring out Grace MacGuire would prove very, very interesting.
THE LAST PIECE of pizza was devoured. Grace realized she felt better. Oh, she was still nuts, but at least her stomach was full. “Max?”
He looked up, his expression telling her he was waiting to hear whatever she had to say. She decided Max Aaronson was an interesting man. He listened, really listened. That was a rare quality in a man, or a woman for that matter. He seemed to genuinely be concerned for Grace, despite her problems.
“Will your friend be able to cure me?”
He steepled his fingers under his chin, leaning his elbows on the table. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s not a very doctory thing to say. Shouldn’t you be reassuring?”
He grinned. “Around you, I don’t feel very doctory.”
Grace told herself to ignore the comment, that she’d just be falling in a fairy trap. But she couldn’t help asking, “How do you feel?”
“That’s supposed to be my line.” He laughed a moment, and then grew serious. “You intrigue me. From the moment you walked into my office you caught my attention. I want to understand you. As a writer, you’ve always heard characters in your head, but suddenly you’re actually seeing them. Something is going on, and I don’t think it’s a psychosis. That’s not a professional opinion, by the way, but a personal one.”
He pushed back his chair, needing to put some distance between them. He needed time to figure out what was going on. “It’s time for me to take you home so you can get some rest. I’ll take you to the mall to pick up your car. We’ll talk later.”
“About?” She fidgeted with her glass.
“About Grace MacGuire. And about fairy godmothers.” He pulled out her chair for her.
“I want to get to know you, Grace MacGuire. I want to understand about your work, about the fairies.” He opened her door and then walked around to his.
“About the fairies. They claim that fictional characters—”
Myrtle cut in, though she didn’t appear, “Only fictional characters that are well loved.”
“Yeah, well, characters that are well loved are able to form a life of their own. It’s as if their authors are parents and give birth . . .”
“Like you did for Myrtle, Fern and Blossom?” he asked.
“I guess.” She squirmed at the thought of being the parent of the unruly trio. She might be crazy, but no one was nuts enough to want to claim that particular honor. So how was she going to handle her delusions? Better yet, how was she going to handle these strange feelings for Max? He fascinated her. The way he listened, the way he seemed to genuinely care about her, a virtual stranger. Gentle, yet strong. He made her feel safe and almost sane.
“We’re going to figure this out, taking things one step at a time,” he said. “After we pick up your car, I’ll follow you home. We’ll start by seeing if all your jeans and flannel shirts are gone. Maybe yesterday was just an aberration. Maybe everything will be back to normal. And I’ll set up an appointment with my friend on Monday.”
He kept saying we. Grace found the word comforting. We meant she wasn’t in this alone. She had an ally. The thought held her fear for her sanity at bay.
“Grace, what happened right before you saw the fairies?”
“I was driving and listening to the radio on the way home from Pittsburgh.”