Page 3 of A Wish For Wilma
Sam nodded. His heart clenched at the sight of his pregnant fiancée, looking more beautiful than ever. Admittedly, discovering that he would be a father for the second time had come as a shock — a lovely one, but a shock nonetheless. He didn’t see his son Sean, currently at uni in Stirling, often. Not because they didn’t get along, but student life sucked up all his time. Sam suspected there was more partying than studying, but they chatted regularly.
‘You’ve got that frowny face on again,’ scolded Jinnie. ‘You’re not still fretting about the whole genie business, are you?’
As the first recipient of Dhassim-granted wishes, Jinnie had dealt with the situation far better than Sam. Similarly, café-owner Jo had seemed unfazed by her encounter with Aaliyah. Only Sam struggled with what he’d learned, and hours of internet research had failed to enlighten him further. Strangely, no one had written a definitive guide to being a Djinn in the twenty-first century.
‘I’m not fretting,’ said Sam, arranging his features into a more pleasing expression. ‘With the two lamps put away in a cupboard, I can’t see how anything else can happen. But—’
Jinnie silenced him with a kiss. ‘Everything’s fine, Sam. We’ve a baby on the way, your latest book hit the top 100 on Amazon, and I now have a gorgeous dish for my jewellery. A free one, no less!’
Sam nodded. Jinnie’s optimism and enthusiasm for life were just two of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with her. After his failed marriage, leaving him with zero interest in romance, her arrival in Cranley had turned him upside down. Jinnie was everything a man could wish for — but thoughts of wishes made his innards twist.
‘Are you still OK with Jo and Harvey coming for dinner?’ Jinnie stood up and stretched, her bump emphasised by her fitted T-shirt.
‘More to the point, are you feeling OK?’ Sam had quit drinking whisky in Jinnie’s presence as the smell made her nauseous. He’d taken over cooking duties, as smells like strong blue cheese and fish had her turning green and retching. Nothing like as bad as the early days of morning sickness, but certain odours still turned her stomach.
‘I’m fine.’ Jinnie grinned and nudged Sam. ‘You don’t need to treat me like a fragile piece of pottery, you know. As long as there’s a toilet or bucket close by in case nausea strikes.’
‘I’m not sure the best way to impress dinner guests is to park a bucket next to the dining table — unless my culinary efforts make them want to heave, too.’
Jinnie laughed and Sam felt his earlier tension slip away. He wouldn’t have Jamie Oliver or Gordon Ramsay quaking in their boots, but he made a decent cottage pie and Jo was bringing home-made apple pie for dessert.
‘How’s the baby-name list coming along?’ Sam finished unwrapping the pieces and scanned the shop for the best place to display them.
‘Over by the door,’ said Jinnie, following his gaze. ‘I’ll shift those ugly toby jugs and fetch some fabric to bring out the colours of the vases. The list’s progressing nicely. I’m leaning towards Moriarty or Balthazar if it’s a boy, and Jasmine or Sultana if it’s a girl.’
Sam didn’t know which to comment on first: Jinnie’s harsh description of the Royal Doulton collection of cheeky chappies, or her tongue-in-cheek (he hoped) baby names. Three had definite genie connotations, although the last might also be a cake ingredient.
‘I am joking, you know.’ Jinnie grinned and began scooping the toby jugs into an empty box. ‘Actually, I quite like Toby as a boy’s name, although it doesn’t scan well with your surname. Toby Addin, maybe not.’
Sam didn’t comment on Jinnie’s use of his name. They hadn’t even discussed a date for a wedding; he wasn’t sure shewantedto get married. And did he? Perhaps it was a case of once bitten, twice shy, but he didn’t doubt the strength of their relationship.
Leaving Jinnie with the pottery, Sam popped home to put the finishing touches to the meal. He enjoyed Jo and Harvey's company and the way Jo fussed over Jinnie like a mother hen. She was too young to actuallybeJinnie’s mum, though, unless she’d given birth as a schoolgirl.
Chopping veg to accompany the pie, Sam pondered his Djinn status again. If the lamps remained hidden, how could their occupants reappear? Surely they had to be rubbed. Or did his powers override the whole rubbing business? He had no intention of conjuring them up. With a baby on the way and a contract for three more books, Sam didn’t need two genies disturbing the quiet harmony of his life.
Satisfied that all was in order food-wise, he checked the table. They would eat not in the rarely used dining room — too big and too chilly — but at the cosy weathered-pine kitchen table, with comfy high-backed stools and room for six people — or more, if you kept your elbows tucked in. Jinnie had laid it earlier, polishing glasses and tutting at dishwasher streaks on the cutlery.
Sam fixed himself a small whisky, smiling at Jinnie’s ongoing aversion to the stuff. She’d developed an obsession with soda water and ate tuna and pickle sandwiches at all hours of the day and night. Sickness notwithstanding, that girl could eat!
With some time on his hands before Jinnie’s return and their guests' arrival, Sam went to his office. Maybe he could add a few hundred words to his latest crime thriller,Wishful Thinking.It was the first in a planned series featuring a detective with a talent for solving cases using unorthodox methods. Perhaps not tea-leaf readings à la Wilma, but off the wall nonetheless. No prizes for guessing where the inspiration had come from, although Sam drew the line at incorporating genies into his books. He doubted his publisher would be impressed withthatstoryline.
Sipping his drink, Sam typed away, his mind not entirely on the manuscript. His thoughts kept slipping back to the day when his life had been turned upside down.
Jinnie appeared, pulling a face at the whisky glass. ‘All under control? I’ll just have a quick shower and be with you soon.’ She blew a kiss and Sam carried on typing until a piercing scream dragged him firmly into the present…
CHAPTER4
To keepher mind off things, Wilma decided a bit of cupboard tidying was just the ticket. She might lack organisational skills in her own home, but creating order out of chaos in someone else’s…
‘She’ll be fine, just fine,’ she muttered. ‘The doctors know what they’re doing, and Sam’s calm under pressure.’ She ignored the fact that he’d resembled a headless chicken as they got ready to go to the hospital. He’d tripped over Jinnie’s hastily packed bag and earned himself a nice bruise on his forehead.
With Jinnie’s parents away, Wilma had gladly hopped into a taxi to Cranley when she got the call from Sam. He’d shown her a guest bedroom like something out of a high-end hotel and told her to make herself at home. Poor Jinnie had been huddled on the sofa, her wee face chalk white and etched with fear.
‘I’m bleeding, Gran,’ she’d whispered when Wilma arrived. Wilma had wrapped her arms around her, feeling her body tremble. ‘I’m so scared I’m going to lose the baby.’
Wilma had done her best to comfort Jinnie. She gave her a crystal — tiger’s eye — which Jinnie clutched tightly all the way to the car. Wilma was no medical expert and didn’t want to spout meaningless platitudes. The wee lass would be well taken care of, and Sam had promised to ring as soon as he had news.
Where to begin? The kitchen seemed as good a place as any. She opened one of the sleek, glossy cupboards above the pristine granite worktop. Oops, already smudged with her fingerprints. Wilma located a cloth in the drawer beneath the sink and wiped away the evidence. She contemplated snapping on a pair of Marigolds, then decided against it. She was tidying, not committing murder.
