Page 63 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

“Yup.” He tossed his jacket on a filled hook, then took mine, adding it to the heap while he kicked off his shoes.

A dazzling woman in her fifties, with long sweeping earrings, appeared. Her left earring tickled the top of her shoulder, her other was hidden in a tangle of curly black and silver hair. What her body lacked in mass, her hair more than made up for. She looked at home in a paisley wrap-around skirt and ropes of beads.

Not at all the plump, unstylish mom I’d imagined.

“I’m Sally.” She offered her hand, and we shook, even though she struck me as a hugger. Maybe she was holding back, sensing that it was too early for me to be comfortable with a hug. “You must be Char.”

I blinked at James. He’d mentioned me to his mother? I was charmed.

And way too hopeful.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, already imagining what it might be like to be a part of her circle. Homey afternoons spent gossiping around the kitchen table with cups of tea with sunlight streaming in through the open windows….

Seriously. One kiss and, even though I wasn’t cut from the same cloth as the Backstrohms, I was trying to figure out how to blend my way into this sweet family’s routines?

Sally led us into the kitchen where a card game was laid out, mid-play. A woman with a spine curved by age smiled at us. James went to her side, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello, Mrs. Laven. How are you doing today?”

“Beating your mom at cards,” she crowed triumphantly, her eyes sparkling.

“Good to hear it. This is my friend Char.” James turned to me. “Mrs. Laven lives next door.” He turned to his mom. “Where’s Dad?”

“He had a later shift, but I think I just heard the garage door go.”

A man stepped into the kitchen as though on cue. “James! Thought I saw your car. Nice to see you.” He was tall and built, an older, more rugged Viking version of James. He gave his son a shoulder squeeze, kissed his wife sweetly, said hello to Mrs. Laven before making his way over to me. I was still in the doorway on the other side of the room, unsure where I should be and what my role was.

“Hello. I’m Otto.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Char.”

“Just raiding the costume box,” James said. “Back in a mo’.” And with that, he ducked through the door his father had appeared through, leaving me in the kitchen. I hesitated, unsure if I was supposed to cross the airy room and follow, or stay put and be social. My index finger had found the hole in my shirt’s sleeve from earlier, and I forced myself to stop worrying the spot.

“I donated most of it!” Sally called after her son. When the door didn’t reopen, she shrugged and turned to me. “He’ll figure it out. Cookie? They’re homemade.”

I stepped further into the room, accepting a chocolate chip cookie, which was still warm from the oven. Soft, gooey, sweet and utterly perfect, just like her ginger cookies had been.

“James brought us some of your ginger cookies. Thank you. They were a big hit.”

Sally smiled. “I’m glad you liked them.”

“She loves to bake,” Mr. Backstrohm said, grabbing two cookies for himself.

“I do.” Still holding the plate of warm cookies, Sally angled her cheek toward her husband, who planted another kiss on it.

The whole sweet family and doting parents were actually a real thing in James’ world. And it didn’t give off liar vibes like I’d half-expected. Everyone seemed happy, upbeat, and truly alive. The idea that a perfect little home life might exist left me feeling strangely alone, like an outsider looking in, wondering how the pieces all went together to create such a beautiful picture. But most of all, how to make it last?

Even during my family’s better days, I didn’t ever recall a settled feeling quite like this one. This was a blip in time so easily taken for granted, so mundane, and yet so heartwarmingly real.

Was it possible that my parents had always been cartwheeling, slipping and sliding toward divorce from the day they’d met? Maybe my wish had simply been the nudge that had finally tipped them over the edge to face the reality that their relationship had hit a dead end.

Watching James’s parents interact, their cozy evening routine already on autopilot, I realized how easy it would be for me to say the wrong thing or make an inopportune, ill-thought-out wish—which seemed to be my specialty—and ruin it all should I ever become a part of it.

“She looks a bit rounder,” Mrs. Laven said, leaning toward Sally as she sat back down at the card game, speaking as though I wasn’t there, her gaze on me. “Is she expecting already?”

Instinctively, I sucked in and smoothed my blouse over my midriff.

“Greta, this isn’t Sophia,” Otto said awkwardly, giving me an apologetic smile as he pulled a prepared plate of leftovers from the microwave.

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