It’s late Friday afternoon when I catch Rochester glowering at the Spüktacular Weddings sign, his frame backlit like a sexy jack-o’-lantern in my shop doorway.
Honestly, I can’t believe that bitchy fay is back.
“How long should we make him wait?” I call out to the interior of the shop. Mandy and I have filled the room with bohemian pillows that a vendor delivered for Fi and Asher’s wedding. I don’t like them.They’re more over the top than a camping tent made out of caftans and macramé. But the main issue is, I had to put down a deposit for them. Fi and Asher’s vendor demanded I pay one before he left—which felt like something Fi should’ve done—and it absolutely devastated the funds I’ve been saving up from Fi’s and another client’s wedding deposits. Possibly, I’ve been scammed.
On a happier note, Mandy discovered that Grandma installed speakers in the ceiling, and now the shop is filled with the high-volume croonings of BTS. And the boys are so,sobeautiful.
From where she’s plucking dead leaves off a flower stem, the pixie cries over Jungkook’s dreamy voice, “We should make Rochester stay there all day.”
“I support that thoroughly,” says Bulan.
“Oh good,” says Mandy. “Because I need to STARE at him.”
And not only stare, but drool. Well, it’s time to cut the fun short. Mandy’s saliva could ruin the delicate silver dollar eucalyptus she’s clenching in her death grip. Getting those from the wholesale florist in Danvers took hard work. Apparently, he “needs florists to submit orders months in advance” and “doesn’t have extra stems and greenery for nontraditional clients.” Unless you bring along a disarmingly pretty pixie, in which case exceptions can be made.
I let Rochester in.
“Thanks for knocking,” I say.
He enters the room, paradoxically fluid and stiff. I guess this answers the question I never had of what it’s like to meet an animated block of ice.
“I did not knock,” says the frigid fairy.
“Yep, that was the joke. How can I help you today?”
He ignores the plush spider that has landed on his shoulder and says coolly, “I’m here for your quote.”
“I don’t have it,” I say.
He frowns. After a solid half minute of two-sided stonewalling, I say, “Just kidding. I wasn’tgoingto give you one, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Kind of.
Rochester’s documents laid out a vision for an elaborate, gorgeous wedding. Clearly, the financial reward for accepting his clients’ job would be ample—I suspect comparable to half a year’s pay at EFG. But I have common sense in addition to financial sense. It’s what tells me that accepting money from fairies is too damn dangerous.
According to Bulan, the fay are responsible for mischievously starting wars in the Community, and for plaguing humans with strange, unearned afflictions—from pimples to polka to full-blown insanity. They’re rumored to steal children. Plus,thesefay are choosing to communicate through an intermediary, likely making them extra dangerous. I can’t risk taking their money and running out on the job.
Here’s my dilemma: outright rejecting Rochester’s clients might come off as suspicious to other potential clients. Salem is small, and based off what Bulan’s told me, the Community’s got to be even smaller. So my goal is to make Rochester’s mysterious clients lose interest in me by putting together a dumpster fire of a proposal. And oh, what a foul-smelling, accelerant-laced dumpster fire it is. Grandma would be proud.
I signal my one paid employee. “Mandy?”
“Oh, right! On it!” Blushing, she dashes to the back of the store. With that matter taken care of, I brush the spider off the stilted fairy’s shoulder.
“So, Roach.Roachster. Can you tell me more about your client?”
“Those whom I represent would prefer to share more detailsafterconfirming their interest in working with you.”
“I take it they’re important?”
“One might say that.”
“I’ve got the folder!” Mandy returns, waving a pink portfolio, red-cheeked and adorable. She passes the folder with her bow-tied pink shoe popping off the ground, but tragically, Rochester fails to notice. His eyeballs clench onto mine like he’s attempting to pierce my soul.
“I will inform you if we choose to proceed,” he says.
“Cool cool,” I say.
Deigning to give us a final, stoic nod, Rochester leaves. Once the front door shuts, Mandy presses herself against it with a dramatic sigh.
