Finding Ever After: four fairytale-ish novellas Page 13

  “Eloise, please,” she corrected. “And you, my dear, had the skills already within you. All I had to do was provide the—”

  “Magic?” James offered a little eyebrow wiggle.

  “Money,” she revised with a tilt to her brow, and then her smile spread as she looked at Stella and James before her. “I do like this. Happily-ever-after never looked so certain, if you ask me.” Mrs. Bertram took a drink of her tea. “A beautiful ending.”

  “Not to contradict you, Mrs. Bertram”—Stella squeezed James’s hand—“but I believe it’s the start of a beautiful beginning.”

  Stella smoothed a palm over the title page of Finding Ever After, her intricate vine work creating a golden trellis around the words. She smiled at the completion of such a special project—a collection that in so many ways bought into the beauty of her own real-life story. She dipped her pen into ink to leave a final message for her new little sister. Maybe someday, when Alice had learned all the secrets of this collection, the book would find its way into someone else’s world – someone else who needed a little magic and hope. Perhaps, they’d see these letter, these scribbles and notes, and know that they are not alone.

  Dear Alice,

  Don’t only seek magic from this book, dear one. Magic is something as simple as a blossom-scented breeze on a spring afternoon or a warm meal by a fire as snow swirls beyond the windowsill or the kind and courageous love of a faithful heart. Find your ever-after in the real as well as the imaginary. You are brave enough to bring your own happily-ever-after into your true story.

  Stella

  With careful hands, she wrapped gold-and-green paper over the cover of the book and topped the look off with a massive bow, the Christmas gift now as much from Stella as Alice’s very own godmother, Eloise Bertram.

  “Are you ready, my fairy faie?”

  Stella grinned at the voice and the endearment James had branded her own. She turned from the book to see her brand new husband waiting in the doorway, looking as handsome as he had during the wedding ceremony earlier in the day. “I’m ready.”

  “And you have the book?”

  She nodded and lifted the package for his view. “Everything else is already in your car.”

  He grinned in his crooked way and held out his palm to her. “Then, may I take you home, Mrs. Craven?”

  Home? She placed her palm in his, his secure hold reaching to her heart and settling in for forever. “Yes, let’s go home.”

  He pulled her close for a kiss, cradling her face between his palms with as much tenderness as his voice when her spoke her name. He stepped back, his eyes glittering with their usual gleam of near-mischief and offered his arm to escort her from her room at Biltmore. As Stella walked down the grand staircase, the house glowed with the Vanderbilts’ signature Christmas elegance. Lights, garland, ribbons…and as she passed their massive tree, her smile bloomed again. Her hand-painted ornaments filled dozens of places on the branches, waiting to find a spot in the homes of Biltmore’s servants. People like her father and mother.

  Her eyes stung for a second at her little opportunity to give something in memory of the people who’d first inspired dreams in her.

  James led her through the massive double-doored archway toward his car, his smile brimming with as much anticipation as her own. With a delicate touch, she ran her fingers over the charm bracelet at her wrist. All nine charms hung securely in place, with a new addition to the story.

  Her grin lifted as her fingers found the final charm. A tree. Her future.

  James opened the car door for her and bowed. “Your carriage awaits, Your Majesty.”

  “And where are we going, Your Highness?”

  “Home.” His gaze held hers, offering her what her heart craved most. “Right where you belong.”

  Acknowledgments

  C.S. Lewis said, “Some day you will be old enough to read fairytales again.”

  There’s something timeless within fairytales that inspire our imaginations to believe in things beyond our vision and to hold out hope no matter how dark the circumstances.

  It has been my pleasure to join in the creation of this novella collection as each author nods toward the beauty, creativity, and fancies of four classic tales.

  Thank you to Rachel McMillan, Ashley Clark, and Betsy St. Amant Haddox for inviting me to join in this beautiful assortment of stories. I LOVE having my name with yours in this collection and am so thankful to call you my friends.

  Thanks to the amazing Katie Donovan who was ready and willing to take this project on in record time with her good humor and keen editing skills. Katie, you’re wonderful.

  As always, I can’t complete a story without thanking the Pepper Shakers! My street team is an amazing group of people who are so full of encouragement, hope, humor, and ideas! They’ve made this sometimes-challenging writing journey so sweet.

  Beth Erin, Rachel McDaniel, and Courtney Clark, thank you so much for being willing to give a quick preview to this story. You all were amazing.

  Alia, thanks for being my youngest reader! Fairytales are great at any age.

  Thanks to my hubs who helped provide time for me to finish this project without losing my mind.

  And to my kids, who are the very best creators of magic, inspirers of story, and encouragers of creativity that I know. No fairytale could ever be as cool as life with you!

  Finally, to the One who created our Once Upon a Time to our Happily-Ever-After, I am so grateful that your light shines into the darkest parts of our stories to help us make it to the certain and hopeful ending.

  Books by Pepper Basham

  Want to check out more of Pepper’s books?

  Historical Romance

  The Penned in Time series

  The Thorn Bearer

  The Thorn Keeper

  The Thorn Healer

  My Heart Belongs in the Blue Ridge

  Mitchell’s Crossroads

  A Twist of Faith

  Charming the Troublemaker

  Pleasant Gap

  Just the Way You Are

  When You Look at Me

  Novellas

  Façade

  Second Impressions

  Jane by the Book

  Copyright © 2019 by Rachel McMillan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover image ©2019 by Roseanna White Designs & Pepper D Basham

  Cover art photos ©iStockphoto.com and Pixabay used by permission.

  Published in Canada by Rachel McMillan

  To Betsy, Pepper and Ashley: Thanks for your friendship, your inspiration and this fun bookish adventure together

  I

  Back-Rank: the player sets up his pieces

  1

  Boston, 1920

  Once upon a time, Father Francisco told Nic Ricci that to find math in music he merely had to look to Mozart. There was something safe and precise in Mozart. Something calculated even as the composer’s Classical sensibilities withdrew from the rigid lines of the Baroque period before him. Nic liked a straight line. He liked strategy and problems with certain equations. Lately, his life had all been uneven colors like those flourished by Spanish artist Picasso whose irregular shapes he had seen sneaking into the Museum of Fine Arts with his friend Paul. Paul cared little about art-irregular or not- and mostly wanted to impress a girl, but Nic loved the exhibit. He squinted so the rich blues and reds of the vibrant painter blurred in wonderful confusion.

  The colors of Nic’s life had muted the year befo
re when news of the devastation at Purity Distilling Factory screeched over the North End in a tidal wave. Nic, overwhelmed with panic for his father-- one of the workers at the Molasses Factory--pushed through a throng of reporters and medics until bodily restrained by a policeman. A large tank burst and the sticky substance ran through the streets in a murky river.

  There was no mathematic calculation for a disaster that killed many and injured over one hundred souls. No way to make sure equation of the stretchers and sobs. No resolution to the death and the stench.

  Finally, through frantic search and a few close calls, he found his dad. Milo Ricci seemed too angry at Nic being in the midst of the devastation and smoke to notice the extent of his own injuries. Later, they learned Milo’s left hand would be amputated due to severe burns and he would never regain complete sight in his right eye.

  “Nic,” his dad muttered through a voice scratched by smoke and terror. “You must not be here. You could be hurt.”

  Nic hugged his dad tightly and administered every motion of care he could in an attempt to make him more comfortable. He had already sunk so deeply when Nic’s mother passed and Nic was determined to keep his spirits alive and occupied. So, during Milo’s convalescence and beyond, they played chess. They read. They finished crossword puzzles. Nic perfected reasonable skills in the kitchen and swore he would never leave his dad. He quit school and taught math in Charter Street with a position found by Father Francisco. He even tuned pianos on the side. Didn’t everyone say Nic had a perfectly musical ear? Perfect pitch, even. Somehow they would make it work.

  “But you must leave me someday, Nic.” His father would say, patting his hand over the chessboard. “And find your own path and your own happiness.” It was something he repeated time and again in the year or so since the factory disaster. Something Nic had no intention of obeying.

  Now, he was used to distracted boys at a school in Charter Street and spending his free hours with piano keys, sneaking in spare moments to compose at the tuneless upright in their flat. Father Francisco, happy that Nic would step in as organist at a moment’s notice or perform a last minute tuning before the feast of St. Lucy or St. Anthony was happy to loan the parish piano to further Nic’s study. Nic was content. Not completely happy, perhaps, but in its near vicinity. His dad was alive. That was all that mattered.

  Then fate, as disruptive as rainbowed confetti bursting over Hanover Street with the procession and promenade of a sacred feast, spilled uneven color on Nic Ricci’s life.

  One evening, gas flickering low and with a rhythm that matched the meted measure of Nic’s forming composition, his father burst into the sitting room, face a study in consternation.

  Nic stalled, turned, and spoke in his father’s first language, asking if his Dad wanted to finish the game of chess they had started the night before.

  “English, boy.” His father chided.

  “I speak perfect English. Let me speak to you in your language when I am in the borders of our home.”

  “Can I speak to you?”

  “Of course. Tea?” Nic rose from the piano, crossed to the kitchen and put the kettle on the hob. He took a loaf of bread from the cupboard and wiped the knife with a towel. His late mother always told him serious conversations never reached a resolution on an empty stomach. Nic rummaged in the ice box for lemon jam and arranged a small repast on a small wooden tray before rejoining his father in the sitting room.

  “And you cannot use the excuse of you wanting to learn,” Nic continued when his father twice more corrected him for speaking in Italian, “Because in the past year or so, your English has improved immensely.”

  His father’s English had improved with his health. With the daytime hours not spent overseeing production at the factory, he was able to spend time actually learning the language of his long adopted home.

  Though his father and mother had both emigrated from Italy, Nic was born and raised in Boston to parents who ensured while he bore the physical characteristics of his heritage, his English was perfect. He could speak Italian fluently but rarely did at home. Then there was his one-syllabled name. Easy for the Americans to pronounce, his parents decided.

  Just Nic.

  Nic spread lemon jam over bread, careful to avoid the intense study of his father’s eyes.

  “I want you to go to graduate school.” His father choked down a measure of tea. “Compose. Pursue every dream you ever had. The dreams you would still have if …”

  “Dad, I am happy. Just as we are. I told you. I don’t need to go to graduate school. Father Francisco…”

  His father waved his hand dismissively. “Father Francisco has been more than generous, but you were meant for something more and I am imprisoning you here.”

  Nic was torn. On the one hand, his father was speaking English with a competency he hadn’t before the accident. On the other, Nic wondered if his secret---his suffocation at the perfunctory, routine walls of the neighbourhood—was so obvious his father had noticed.

  “You are not imprisoning me. Do you know how many men like I lost their family that horrible day last year? Dad, I am glad you are alive. I need you. I am only doing what any son would. Besides, I get to play piano! That is what I have always wanted.”

  Dad shook his head. “No, my boy. It is not. You aimed for the moon and now you are sunk somewhere in the stars…”

  “The stars are beautiful. Stella. Sono Molta Belli.”

  “English, Nic!”

  Nic set his half-eaten slice of bread on a plate and gripped his father’s good hand. “I will never leave you. Are people expected to just be happy? I am finding a way to blend the music I love with the money that puts food on our table. It is a blessing. As long as I have a way to find a piano, to spend time playing and composing, I am happy to teach those young vagrants their fractions.”

  “Father Francisco called round while you were out today.” His father said after a long sip of tea.

  “Oh? Does he need someone for Sunday, then?”

  “A Mrs. Mayweather from Charles Street in Beacon Hill. She needs her piano tuned.”

  Nic gave a low whistle at the address. “She’s a little high end for my usual clients, Dad.”

  “She said that calling would be worth your while. Perhaps money. To help you save for graduate school.”

  Nic sipped tea, found the first prick of star out the window pane where it settled saucy and high above the uneven rims of North End rooftops. “Worth my while? I am sure there are far better tuners in Beacon Hill.”

  “Father Francisco assured her you were up for the task.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “You are, Nic.” His father searched Nic’s face fondly. “You need to go out more. You’re so busy teaching and tuning. I want you to meet a nice girl.”

  Nic choked a laugh. This was a new one. “A nice girl, huh? Where am I going to find a girl who can string Mozart and chess into the same sentence?” Nic took a beat. “Speaking of, shall we resume our game?”

  Esther Hunnisett had the voice of an angel. Unfortunately, if she were to ever use that voice to state her opinion of her fiancé, Thomas Weatherton, it would speak in a tone far from the celestial realm.

  It was too easy to dwell on his limitations.

  For one, he was a terrible chess player. Esther’s only means of honing her skills on the board were found in tips and strategies at the back of the Saturday Herald. Also, Thomas failed to realize the Bach and Gonoud version of Ave Maria was superior to the Schubert. Not that Esther had anything against Schubert. She loved the Austrian composer captured in numerous paintings with a well-tied cravat and those little glasses on his Patrician nose, the cleft in his chin. (Ironically, Thomas had the same cleft but knew as much about music as he did about modern hair styles for men so what purpose did it serve). Schubert’s An De Musik was one of her favorite pieces to sing. Her voice could swell around the German phrases achingly scribed to speak to music’s soft power. Music, Esther long thought,
was the best juxtaposition of all that was intelligent and enjoyable.

  Then (and perhaps most offensively), there was Thomas’ passion for dusty old musical historian Ralph Von Witterhorn. Thomas had read one long esoteric tome speaking to the dullest musical opinions pen ever put to paper and miraculously thought he had a doctoral degree in everything from composition to performance. Several times Esther informed him that music stretched beyond Von Witterhorn’s penchant for Baroque operas no one had heard of. Thomas Weatherton never seemed to hear her.

  “Pawn.” Thomas’s voice cut through her reverie.

  “Yes?” Esther answered as if present during a roll call. “Erm. I mean… pardon?”

  “I found this on the floor.” Thomas presented her with a piece from her father’s marble chess set. He pressed it into her hand but not before lifting her palm to his lips. “I promise we will resume our games.”

  “Lovely. I am looking forward to it.”

  His eyes sparkled at her. “I know that this is hard for you, Esther. That you think I only desire your hand in marriage for a fortuitous business opportunity.” He paused, waiting for affirmation.

  “How could I possibly think that?” A question, her mother taught her, can defer a direct lie. “After you have given me the opportunity of my own recital.”

  “Exactly, my dear.” He patted her hand as he might a lame kitten.