Aye, I am a Fairy (The Fairies Saga Book 2) Read online

  James shifted around in his nice, oversized first class seat and found just the right spot for the small pillow the flight attendant had given him. It was then that he realized the one thing he hadn’t purchased: a book to read.

  As if someone had been reading his mind, the flight attendant—he looked up and saw her name was Barbie, how appropriate—walked by him with a wicker basket of books and magazines. “Would you care for something to read, sir?”

  He grinned as he realized that there was no sense of recognition in her voice. “Let’s see,” he said, and picked through the periodicals and paperbacks. He scanned the headlines of the pulps and saw that they were all current; his face wasn’t visible anywhere.

  “This looks like someone has read it quite a few times.” The upper corner was torn off the book and there were about thirty pages dog-eared. “Through the Stones,” he read aloud. “Never heard of it, but I’ll give it a shot. Looks like somebody sure liked it, though,” he added, as he flipped through the book, making sure it had all of the pages.

  Barbie was bumped from behind and her ribcage pushed right into James’s face. “Oh, my. Sorry, sir,” she said, then quickly regained her composure and got back to the subject of the book. “It’s a time travel, romance, and history novel, all in one. I think I’ve read that one about six, no seven, times. It’s the first in a series, and I read them all again in sequence whenever a new one comes out. Lots of stand-by time, you know,” she added, almost as an excuse.

  “Lisa Sinclaire—never heard of her—but I’ll take your word for it, and that of whoever read this before.”

  He turned over the well-worn book, glanced at the reviews, read the prologue, and scanned a few of the dog-eared pages. Ooh, lusty story. I can handle some diversion. At least it doesn’t have naked ladies or pirates on the cover.’

  The thought of a plain cover reminded James of his bundle of antique letters wrapped with the simple ‘do not read before’ paper. Well, now was as good a time as any to check on the date. He quickly retrieved his carry-on, pulled out his ‘smoking jacket,’ and was able to extract the letters and re-roll the coat before Barbie started her in-flight safety spiel. He covertly put his tray table down and placed the letters on top, carefully untying the bundle to verify once again that Clotilde hadn’t been into them.

  After a bit of fingernail picking to get the primary bow untied, the rest of the unwrapping was easy. As he pulled away the last bit of blue satin, he noticed some fading. The bundle had been accessed, but not recently. The faded ribbon looked like that on an old Christmas ornament he had received when he was six years old.

  “I got you a bike,” Great Aunt Mary Jane had whispered a few days before Christmas. He was so excited; he had his heart set on a retro-style bicycle. Then Christmas morning came and he was presented with an acrylic globe enclosing a thumb-sized version of the Sting Ray bike that he wanted so much. “You’re too young for a bike like that,” she chided. She held him close and kissed him on top of his head. “Maybe when you’re ten or twelve,” she soothed when she saw the tear that had sneaked out.

  The ornament was even more painful because he was forced to have it on the tree for the next four years, until he was old enough to have the real bike. The next year, the ornament wasn’t in the box of decorations. “I didn’t throw it away, honest, Grandpa,” he said when Aunt Mary Jane noticed that it wasn’t in the carton at the tree decorating party.

  “I believe you. I know you’d never lie to me. No worries,” Grandpa said.

  And there it was on Christmas morning: the full-sized, bronze-hued Sting Ray bike with the glittery-gold vinyl banana seat and extended sissy bar on the back. The ‘To James, From Grandpa’ note was tied on with the same faded blue ribbon that used to hang the miniature bicycle ornament that had mysteriously disappeared.

  Grandpa whispered in his ear, “I put that sorry excuse for a bike ornament in the dust bin. You can retrieve it, if you’d like,” he added with a chuckle.

  “No, thanks!” James had proclaimed a little too loudly. He gave Grandpa a big hug and Aunt Mary Jane a little grin. “Looks like the little bike you gave me grew up. Thank you,” he said to her graciously, and gave her a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t her fault that she was so protective of him.

  James held the ribbon out full length. Yup, there it was—the mustard stain. The ornament had been sitting on the dinner table when brats were the main course. He had flipped the mustard spoon a little too hard, and it had splashed the little bike insult…er…ornament. Someone had been into these letters at some point, and it was most likely Grandpa.

  Yeah, right, Grandpa. We have to wait, you said. James looked at the cover letter. Do not open before November 1, 2012. Okay, I’m playing by the rules. That was almost a year ago.

  ‘Read me First’ was written on the top paper. Alice in Wonderland. Okay, I’m game.

  James blanked out his surroundings as he began reading the letter, disappearing into his own personal world.

  “Sir? Sir? You have to put your tray up and stow your bag under the seat.” It was Barbie shaking him on the shoulder, trying to bring him out of his stupor, but it sounded like it was that sweet little old lady, Dani Madigan, who was trying to get his attention.

  “What? What? Oh, yes, sorry. Some deep reading here,” he said as an excuse. He flipped up the tray and stashed his leather bag under the seat in front of him with his left hand, his right holding the ancient letters close to his heart.

  Dear James,

  I know it seems like you saw me only yesterday, but if all has gone according to instructions, you will be getting this 230 years after I have written it. I think you can verify this if you have the paper dated. Remember that strange man, Simon? He does have something to do with us, or rather me. I followed him into the park, and I accidentally fell through time. Right now, I am living with your ancestors. I actually married your great—I don’t know how many times over—uncle’s son. I think I found the Revolutionary War relative you were looking for. That is, if you were looking for Lord Julian Wallace Hart, brother of Lord Anthony Melbourne. Julian’s a wonderful man, and his (step) son and I have three children (triplets!).

  The reason for my letter is that I want you to contact my daughter, Leah Madigan. Please, share this:

  Leah,

  I am alive and well in 1781. All the stories by Lisa Sinclaire are pretty much true. I will show up again on August 4, 2013 at the hospital you work in, but you will have to let me return home to my new family. You are bright and grown up now, and can live life on your own, but my babies and my new husband, Wallace Pomeroy-Hart, need me. Sarah and Jody Pomeroy are as wonderful as you told me and as the history (not science fiction or fantasy) books say. It is possible to change history on a small scale or I wouldn’t be here with your siblings who are nearly 200 years older than you.

  James, as of August 4, 2013, Leah is working at the Moses H. Cone Memorial Hospital in Greensboro, not far from our little cafe. She was, will be, my recovery room nurse. So, if you have a chance to talk to her in person, would you please explain what happened and let her read this letter? I love her very much and don’t want her to worry about me. Oh, and I have a new first name: Evie. I’ll write more as time goes by, but please do not read any other letters (I hope to get a journal started for you/her) until you get a chance to speak with her and let this settle in for both of you.

  Hugs and kisses from me and your great-many-times-over uncles and love from,

  Mom

  James turned the paper over, sniffed it, and then looked at it again. Something was wrong with this document. There were three other letters in the bundle. He glanced at them, and then realized what was different about this one: it was written with a ballpoint pen. The script width was consistent, not the thick-and-thin flow of the characters on the other letters. “She must have had one with her.” He looked up quickly and saw that if he had been speaking out loud, no one had heard him.

  Barbie was still checking
the overhead lockers, walking down the aisles, and smiling. He had time to check emails. He clicked on the in box and didn’t see any new messages. He was sure that he had sent the message to Bibb. He/she was generally quick at responding, no matter what time the notes were sent. He opened up the sent messages file. “Oh, crap.” James looked up and around. He knew he had said that out loud, but the ambient aircraft noise had sucked up the sounds.

  Flight arrives at noon today, Flt 3923, Greensboro. Let me know if we can get together. James Melbourne

  Oops! James had sent the same message to both Leah and Bibb. It was meant for Bibb only, but he had typed in the address for Leah earlier, meaning to send her a personal letter of condolences. Hopefully, she didn’t take it wrong. Maybe he would get an answer from one of them by the time he got into New York. He scrolled down and saw that he had sent the condolences to Leah. He reread the message. Ugh, how ugly and impersonal. It would have been better if he hadn’t sent anything. But he had, and if she replied, at least now he knew her relationship to Dani. It had also created an opportunity to meet and share the letter with her. And now it was imperative that he do so, too. Her mother had asked him to.

  “Sir? Sir?” the woman called.

  James shuddered at the voice. He knew it was Barbie, but she still sounded like Dani. He started powering off his smartphone before she could ask, then glanced up and gave her a smile.

  The book! He grabbed the book out of the seat pocket in front of him and looked again. ‘Through the Stones’ by Lisa Sinclaire, the same author Dani—or Evie, as she said she was called now—referred to. He reread the back cover. ‘Through the Stones, released in the USA and rest of the world as Lost—The story of Sarah and Jody Pomeroy, and their adventures in the 18th century.’

  James heard the pilot’s greeting, shut his eyes, and closed out the real world. It would take seven hours to get to New York. He’d better read his ‘history’ book right away. He opened his eyes, then the book, and started reading.

  “The picnic spot looked harmless enough. Who would have thought that it was an ancient portal to another time? Not a likely place…” Yeah, well, neither was North Carolina. He sighed and kept reading. Neither was North Carolina.

  *4 Let’s Get Together

  August 5, 2013

  Greensboro, NC, USA

  Leah crawled back into bed after her little ‘hair of the dog’ cocktail, still not ready to face the day. She snuggled up to Harry the stuffed hippo and let him lead her into sleep’s sweet oblivion. Seconds, hours—maybe it was only minutes later—she was rudely awakened by her polyester pellet-filled buddy blowing raspberries in her ear. “Hmph.” Her phone had fallen onto her pillow and was vibrating, signaling the hour. She picked it up and squinted: ten o’clock. She blinked and refocused: the little pigeon icon was fluttering across the screen. She had mail.

  Flight arrives at noon today, Flt 3923, Greensboro. Let me know if we can get together. James Melbourne

  First the condolences—and he didn’t even know whether I was her sister or her daughter—and now he wants to meet me? “Ho-kay.” Leah snorted, “Time to Google the name.” She searched the full name listed in the email’s return address properties. “Right…a British lord, and a randy one at that, according to the tabloids. Not bad looking, though… Why are all the cute ones gay?”

  Leah had time for a shower, a quick breakfast, and then maybe, just maybe, she’d drive to the airport and see what this Lord James Melbourne dude was all about. “Yeah, right, as if I don’t have anything better to do.” She looked around her tiny, white-walled apartment and realized that she really didn’t have anything better to do. “Shower for one, coming up!”

  The long hot shower cleared her head. The chilly rinse afterwards made sure her inner core was cool so she could handle the hot summer day outside. Rather than use the blow dryer and add to the Greensboro heat, she ran her brush through her hair the one hundred strokes her mother had told her was necessary for healthy hair. She twisted her thick locks up into a rope, wrapped it into a knot on top of her head, and secured the bun with a chopstick.

  Whether the man she was going to meet was a British lord or not, she wasn’t going to get dressed up to meet any new person on her day off. A tank top, a lightweight shirt, and skirts were acceptable wear just about anywhere this time of year. The style of shoes she wore would dress up or down the outfit. She looked at the pile of footwear by the door and made an easy decision. Slip-on sandals were comfortable, she didn’t have to bend over to tie them, and they didn’t remind her of work. She wiggled her hips in imaginary flirtation, visualizing herself as ‘classy casual,’ and slid her toes in.

  Leah reached for her oversized keyring on the table and saw the two smartphones next to it. She took a deep breath and grabbed the works. Maybe she’d find the courage to check out the files on her mother’s phone if someone else was with her. She certainly didn’t have the strength—or rather nerve—to do it alone. It also might be easier to do it alongside someone she didn’t know, but who was acquainted with—or at least had met—her mother.

  The purple Prius was right where she left it in the parking lot outside her apartment. “Nice car,” she said, as she patted the side mirror, “you’ve learned to stay where I put you. Yeah, well, if only people were as dependable.”

  She shuddered as she recalled that moment ten months ago. The Park Service had called and said her car had been left in their parking lot overnight; was there a problem?

  “My car is where?” she asked, dumbfounded. “Hanging Rock Park? Where’s my mother? She’s the one who had it last.”

  “No one was with the car, ma’am, and there were no signs of foul play. We just thought maybe you left it here because you had run out of gas or something. Can you get a ride out here so you can drive it home, or do you need to call a tow truck?”

  Billy, her next-door neighbor, had given her a ride to the park. She had been so stressed over the ordeal that she had forgotten to bring her spare key. No, she was more than stressed—she was irate—pissed way off the Richter scale at her mother for leaving the car, and then taking off to God only knew where. Before she totally freaked out about not remembering to bring a spare key, though, Leah checked under the right rear bumper. The key was there. She remembered thinking, ‘Well, at least Mom did something right and left the key where I told her to.’

  Then there was the waiting. That was the worst part of the ordeal. The first day she was nothing but mad. By the second morning—she had to go to work that day, too—the rage had subsided, and concern took its place. She made a call to the police and filed a missing persons report. “Why did you wait so long to call?” the condescending dispatcher accused, rather than asked.

  “Because she’s a sane adult woman who’s on vacation, and she doesn’t have to answer to her daughter, that’s why…if it’s any of your blankety, blank, blank business!” she screamed, swallowing the curse words that she knew would haunt her if she loosed them on the recorded phone line.

  Her furor must have worked: a police officer was at her door within an hour. She shared the voice mail she had received two days before and gave him a copy of a ten-year-old picture, embarrassed that she didn’t have a current one. However, whether the photo was ten minutes old or ten years old didn’t make a difference. No ransom demands were made, no body found, nor were there any signs of foul play.

  Billy Burke, the neighbor who had taken her to the park to retrieve her car, was also a Greensboro police detective, and although missing persons was not his department, he helped search on his own time. He took a copy of her mother’s photo and sent it to InterPol—or whatever it was he called it. He said if her mother went through any airline, bus, marine, or railroad terminal, this new-fangled technology would detect her as soon as she was in view of the security cameras. Ten months had passed, and not even a false alarm had been triggered.

  Well, she hadn’t had much but straws to grasp at before, so anything this ‘Lord’ James Melbo
urne person remembered about meeting her disappearing mama last Halloween would be appreciated. Yes, any clues would be welcome, especially after seeing her mother—or her mother’s younger clone—yesterday in the recovery room at the hospital.

  Ӂ

  Leah rolled all the car windows down, letting the hot air blow out before she turned on the air conditioning. She pulled into the little ‘Cuppa Joe’ drive-through coffee shop for her cup of iced fortitude. “Triple shot iced vanilla soy latte, please,” she said to the young orange-haired barista. The perky teenager quickly produced the drink and handed her the sealed cup with a couple of chocolate-covered coffee beans settled into the lid’s recess. Leah gave the efficient carrot-top girl a ten-dollar bill and told her to keep the change. She was feeling generous today. Maybe the energy of the world would feel like giving back. She could only hope.

  It was only 11:00 a.m. and flight 3923 wasn’t due in until 12:05. No worries—the airport parking lot was covered and the inside bars were air-conditioned. At least she wasn’t traveling, so she wouldn’t have to deal with the long lines for security. Leah strolled leisurely down the wide concourse, grateful for the abundance of cool, dry air, and spotted a little bar that wasn’t totally crowded. It looked like lots of other Greensboro sweat-heads had the same idea about how to handle a hot August day.

  All the tables were either full or hadn’t been bussed and were cluttered with dirty glasses. Leah wanted a table, but didn’t feel like clearing off a place to sit. The bar was empty, though, brilliantly clean, and very inviting. The bartender looked to be in good spirits, too. Right. Good spirits, as in spirit dispenser, as in bartender. Punny lady—your mudder would be proud of you.