Page 129 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

I cracked one eye open, my freaking out temporarily waylaid by her mirth.

“Our payment systems just needed a reset. Nothing permanent. Nobody is going anywhere.” She gathered up a stack of papers beside her and thumped them into a neat stack.

“But we owe Char, and you said we never owe our clients anything.”

“Yes.” She adjusted her half-moons lower on her nose. “Owing her would be problematic, for sure. But not beyond solution.”

“How do we fix it?”

She smiled and gestured like she was pulling a plug out of a bathtub. She made a whooshing sound. “I’ll take care of it.”

“What? How?”

“Char will help make the world a better place with her overflow, because…” she explained patiently, her voice dropping low like she was afraid of being overheard, “we never carry debt. Clients are allowed a very small overpayment which can only be applied toward future wishes. The rest…” She swooped an arm through the air and a shower of sparkles lit up the room. They were dazzling. So much prettier than my frustrated rage glitter. “Is shared. The world is now a slightly better place.”

“But that’s not in the book.”

“Not everything is.” She scanned the top sheet in her stack, then flipped through a few more before speaking again. “I do see that you stopped the flow into her account. So, I think we’re done here. Nice work.”

Nice work. Was that a compliment?

I felt the kindness of her words seep under my skin like much-needed rain after a drought.

“As you may have heard, I also put your name forward for the creativity award.”

I held in a gasp. Trainees never got nominated in their first year. This was huge. “No, I didn’t hear.”

Gram-Gram lifted an eyebrow. “Interesting. I told Trish to tell you.” She held my gaze for a beat, and I could see the edges of her lips wavering like she was trying to hold back a smile.

“Does that mean I’m no longer a fairy godmother trainee?”

Gram-Gram gave me a dry look. “Don’t push it, kid.”

CHAPTER49

~ Char ~

On Friday, with a stomach full of Peter’s, I headed downtown for my afternoon job interview. I crossed the pedestrian bridge over the Bow River, and watched the people below floating on the current in their inflatable rafts and tubes, beating the August day’s increasing heat.

The interview was for a company that bought and sold artifacts around the world, and they needed a pottery specialist. That person was possibly me.

But how could it be? There were so many trained experts out there. Were they all super busy?

As I walked, I allowed myself to daydream that I had the job. I could see myself strolling down the Stephen Avenue Walk, the trees along the street’s edges providing shade as I searched for a new restaurant to try on my lunch break. I was wearing a crisp suit from Banker’s Hall, feeling like a million bucks, and talking on my cell phone about pottery with a European buyer who had a fabulous accent.

I inhaled, savouring the feel of this new life. I could taste the cooling latte I’d picked up from an artisan coffee shop near my office. See the brightly coloured koi, or whatever they were, in the Devonian Garden’s fish pond where I stopped to sit. I could even feel the gust of air from the CTrain as it passed me en route, filled with other businessmen and women. I had a modern, gorgeous office decorated with lovely, lush ferns and lots of product—otherwise known as priceless pottery pieces worth more than many of the homes lining Springbank Hill.

Okay, maybe not quite that much. Maybe in total they’d be worth the amount those homes went for in the growing insanity called Calgary housing prices.

I stopped in front of Ruckles’ temporary office and pumped myself up. So what if I didn’t have a degree? I could show the interviewer that I had enough field experience and reasonable knowledge. I’d helped the police, after all. Who else in Calgary could do that? Plus, I was a fast learner who was very curious, and could learn on the job.

Thirty minutes later, I left the interview, smiling. I had a new BFF, Mira, who didn’t mind nerding out over mutually favourite eras. It had been so nice to hold a conversation about ancient pottery that lasted longer than approximately fifteen seconds.

At first, I’d thought I’d blown it. It had been as though the job was on the platform waving at me; the train tooting its whistle, ready to leave the station. I’d been pleased over spotting a fake Ming right off the hop. I’d asked Mira if they sold many knock-offs, then had gotten nervous and said I knew it was a fake because it was placed within sight of the windows, and they didn’t have high-end security.

Fearing that I was coming across like a thief casing the place, and very aware that I’d come onto their radar thanks to the museum heist, I’d quickly muttered that the glaze also wasn’t consistent enough, and that a real Ming’s glaze didn’t crack.

Thankfully, she’d been pleased that I knew a bit about porcelain as well as pottery. And even though I’d never been a buyer, or assessed the value of various pieces, I’d been offered a three-month contract where we’d try each other out with the stipulation that I would take some classes to round out my knowledge.

---