Page 82 of Fairy Godmothers Aren't Cheap

The warehouse was coming down. The scrap workers had started removing the metal siding yesterday, but I’d begged so many favours, applied for so many grants, and asked so many local business to sponsor the park’s creation that I worried I was building more good karma for others than for my account due to their amazing generosity.

What if this didn’t work? What if I made a park, and the city declined the gift—even though they’d verbally told me they’d be excited to accept it—and I ended up with more debt?

It didn’t help that the scrap workers didn’t seem to have made much progress today. They knew the building’s frame was scheduled to be demolished next week, thanks to a favour from a backhoe company I once temped for. The owner was a great guy and, thankfully, still remembered how I’d filled in for his wife during part of her maternity leave as well as suggested he start his own backhoe school to train future employees. And he had done just that, and was now on the lookout for projects to use as training grounds for his students. Enter my warehouse, and we had a deal. I only had to pay for the gas to haul away the debris and the dumping fees.

There went my Greece trip savings. Oh, wait. No, I’d used them already to pay the property taxes for the next few months in the lawyer’s office during the land transfer. I guess it was a good thing I hadn’t told my dad about my hopeful travel plans, seeing as they were now on infinite delay.

At home I sprawled on the couch, wondering who might be interested in sponsoring my latest upcoming park costs involving the dumping of the warehouse frame. I propped a cushion under my head and let Felipe stand on my chest. I fed him Spitz, and he shelled the sunflower seeds with a hypnotic efficiency and speed. We were making a mess, but I was too tired to care. The last two weeks since getting the land grant had been a whirlwind of working all possible shifts for Joan to earn extra cash, signing endless paperwork around the park project’s land acquisition and sponsorships, studying Josie’s timelines and spreadsheets, and making pitches to sponsors. And of course, missing James this past week as he backpacked across Corsica.

The lucky duck. I admired that he was out there, exploring the world, but I was a tad jealous, too. I wanted that to be me. I wanted a job that paid better and allowed me time to travel. Because for the first time, temping had lost its glow, and I realized just how exhausting it was to be constantly learning new faces, new jobs and workplace nuances. But what else was I going to do? I hadn’t gone to college and my self-learned skills around pottery weren’t worth much to anyone unless it was ancient Grecian times trivia night and they wanted their team to win.

I was so wiped, I couldn’t even summon the energy to add my latest Grecian pottery purchase that I’d ordered before the whole Estelle debt thing to my display case. It was still sitting on top of its packaging on the coffee table.

It wasn’t a fake. Thank goodness. Seeing the number of reproductions in the museum’s gift shop had made me paranoid that my next online purchase would fall under a scam since I couldn’t verify the validity of the piece’s age until I had it in my hands, my money already in the sender’s. Swapping out originals, or selling fakes as though they were the real deal would be a brilliant scam since most people couldn’t tell the difference between a good fake and a genuine artifact.

Picking up my phone, while feeding Felipe another seed, I deleted the shopping app so I wouldn’t be tempted to order any new pottery. Right now, every extra dollar I could get my hands on was going toward the park, and the numerous, unanticipated extra costs that kept popping up around permits and paperwork fees. Soon, there’d also be landscaping and playground equipment costs, fencing for the two lots as well as basketball court costs. Those weren’t small. Yes, we’d gathered a few minor grants and sponsorships for those things, but Josie’s spreadsheets still had a thick red line at the bottom of the total column.

We were making progress, but we needed more money. Quite a bit more.

“What if asking for all this help negates what I’m creating with the park?” I asked Tamara when she joined me in the living room with a horse magazine.

Josie, overhearing us from the kitchen, came in and said, “A new car isn’t worth anything to the person who ordered and paid for it until it rolls out of the factory. Same with this park. Right now we’re in the cost phase.”

“We need to sit back and let things flow,” Tamara told me gently. “Have faith.”

“It’s hard. What if I’ve screwed up somewhere and don’t realize it?”

Gabby came up the stairs, home from work. She took one look at me, left the room and returned with a handheld battery-powered vacuum. Felipe spotted it and bolted.

“Gabby!”

She took the vacuum to me and the couch. I stood up, pushing her away. She moved around me, continuing her clean up.

“I was going to take care of that, you know.”

“Why do you look so stressed?” Gabby asked, sucking up one last shell fragment from my shirt. She and Samantha still believed I was making the park out of the goodness of my heart. That meant they didn’t understand the pressure I felt to succeed by August 15th. To them, that date was arbitrary and somewhat self-punishing.

“Fairy godmother debt?” I mumbled, giving her a cheesy smile, like I was laughing off my ridiculous claim from weeks ago that I had a fairy godmother. One of these days, she had to start believing, right? And how would I know when that was if I didn’t keep floating the idea past her?

“You are a ridiculous woman,” she said with a sigh. “Take a night off. You haven’t been to the museum to decompress in at least a week or two, and it shows.”

“Hey!”

“Isn’t it open until nine tonight?”

I sighed, acting put out even though she was right. Gazing at ancient pottery was a great way to decompress, and it always made life feel worth living again. Plus, I’d read an online article on my lunch break about glazes and I wanted to look at my favourite pieces in this new light of knowledge.

“Fine. I’ll go,” I grumbled without conviction. “Even though James won’t be there.”

I grabbed my membership card and jumped on the next bus heading toward the downtown. It was the middle of the night in France, and I was sure James would be sleeping. Having a seven-hour time difference sure didn’t help us stay in touch while he was away. Ditto with him not having an international texting or calling plan. He had to wait until he was somewhere with free Wi-Fi in order to message me.

Saying hi to Glenda at the admission desk, I caught some of the highlights of her recent bout with gout. It was flaring up again, and since I already felt I knew more about her health issues than a non-family member should, I scooted away as soon as was polite.

Once freed, I zipped straight to the pottery area, my shoulders loosening as I studied the first vase depicting a hunter drawing back an arrow, done in a burnt dark brown. Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Richard. The museum director. I flashed him a quick smile and tried to study the next piece through the glass despite the annoying reflections from the lighting placed high above it. I couldn’t see the cracking I’d read about. I confirmed the piece’s origin date on the card beside it.

Maybe my dad would have an insightful perspective on it. I’d sent him the article earlier. I shot him a quick text.

Dad

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