The Godmother (Everland Ever After Book 11) Read online

  Christa gathered her skirts around her and cocked her head, staring up at the building, which had a sign over the door declaring it to be “Guild Boardinghouse, No Vacancies.” The fact the “No Vacancies” part was permanent, she suspected the home’s existence as a boardinghouse was more of a cover than anything else.

  Still, it looked cheerful with the snow clinging to the roof and the garlands festooning the porch. There was a big cheerful wreath on the front door, and Christa decided it was now or never.

  Straightening her back—and her gumption—she marched up the steps and knocked on the door, which was pulled open almost before she was finished.

  “No vacan—” the grumpy-looking woman with the short red hair snapped, before swallowing down her words and peering at Christa.

  Christa blinked back.

  The woman hummed, then asked, “You’re here for the job?”

  “I’m Christa Harrington.”

  Another glare, then the woman sighed and stepped back, as much of an invite as Christa expected she’d receive. “You’d better come meet everyone then. Doc,” she bellowed, as she turned down the hall, “your new project is here!”

  New project? That didn’t sound particularly promising.

  From somewhere overhead came the sound of a bell ringing, and then a strangely automated voice boomed, “Emergency meeting! This is not a drill! Get a move on, you mothers! Go go go!”

  The red-headed woman grumbled something under her breath. “I’m Grunhilda. I’d better take you to the kitchen.”

  Bemused, Christa followed her down a normal-looking hall. Once, her attention was caught by a scene outside a window she was being led past, which—according to her mental map—should lead to the backyard. An enclosed courtyard was out there beyond the window glass, where apple trees grew with only the barest hint of snow on their leaves.

  Interesting.

  Matchmakers and horticulturalists?

  When they reached the kitchen, they were met by a gray-haired older woman, spectacles perched on her nose, who was peering suspiciously at them. “Christmas Harrington?” she snapped, and when Christa nodded, the older woman nodded in return briskly. “I’m Doc, the head of this— Well, we’re not a coven, although there are some who might call us that. I’m the head of this branch of the guild.”

  Ah, yes. The advertisement had called them the Guild of Godmothers, which she thought had been silly. On the other hand, who but a bunch of silly old women would live in a purple house with strange apple trees?

  Christa managed a, “Nice to meet you,” before Doc pointed over her shoulder.

  “That’s Bashful—I’d tell you her real name, but it’s unpronounceable—and Suzy, my niece.”

  Christa turned and was surprised to see the two newcomers were younger, at least near her own age. The woman, Bashful—with the elaborate jewelry, headdress, and bohemian gown—gave an elaborate bow. Suzy sneezed, then nodded miserably.

  “What’d I miss? What’d I miss?” A heavy-set woman skidded in from another door; her cheerful smile not diminished by how out of breath she was. “Is she here?”

  “And this,” Doc said blandly, “is Helga.”

  “You can call me Happy, dear—” began the cheerful woman, but Doc interrupted her.

  “No, she can’t,” the older woman snapped. “Because that’s treading awfully close to copyright infringement, and we can’t have that. You’re Helga, try to remember. Now, make the tea.”

  Copy-what now?

  Hap—Helga was now bustling around cheerfully as Doc turned back to the assembled group. “Everyone, take your seats, this meeting will begin— Wait, where’s Dorcas?”

  Suzy and Grunhilda both shrugged, and Doc stomped over to the door.

  “Dorcas,” she bellowed out into the hall, “where are you?”

  From upstairs floated an answering call, “Oh, did you mean now for the emergency meeting?”

  “What! Of course I meant—” Doc bit off whatever she was about to say and glared up the steps. “If you’re not down here in one minute, Dorcas, I will personally put you on probation.”

  She hadn’t raised her voice, but considering how, well, deadly she’d sounded, Christa wasn’t surprised to hear pounding footsteps on the stairs. Doc turned back to them.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Why are you all still standing here? Emergency meeting! Get the tea, Helga!”

  “Yes, dear,” Helga called, and everyone planted their rear ends in the chairs, even Christa, who had gone past “surprise” and was firmly into “disbelief.”

  It seemed the Guild of Godmothers not only took themselves seriously, but they’d already accepted her as one of their own.

  “Now then…” Doc settled herself on one of the empty seats and blew an irritated breath out through her nose. It wasn’t the head of the table—since the table was round—but it was clear she had everyone’s attention. “If I might be allowed to start?”

  “No one’s stopping you,” grumbled Grunhilda, but Doc ignored her.

  “I’ve called this emergency meeting to welcome Candidate Christmas to the guild. Christmas.” She nodded a welcome.

  Candidate?

  Christa cleared her throat. “Call me Christa,” she demanded, more than offered. “Christmas is a silly name.”

  “But not a silly time of year,” called out Helga, who came bustling over, carrying a tray of prepared-impossibly-fast tea. “Cookies?”

  Suzy leaned forward; her handkerchief clutched in her hand. “Christmas is, in fact, an auspicious time of year. Almost magical.”

  Nodding, Bashful reached for a teacup, her bangles clanging together. “We’re quite good at Christmases. Christmas romance, Christmas reuniting, Christmas cakes!”

  “Cakes? Who said cakes?” A round, gray-haired woman with a wart on her chin came huffing into the room. “Is it an emergency cake meeting?”

  “It’s an emergency emergency meeting, you complete flufflehead,” snapped Doc. “Sit down, Dorcas, and try to keep up.”

  “Keeping up, aye!” chirped the newcomer—Dorcas—good-naturedly, as she scooped a cookie from the tray and plopped down. “Ta!” she called, waving the fingers of one hand at Christa.

  “Now, as you know, we recently had a position open up within our ranks,” began Doc.

  “Because Somnolena died,” whispered Bashful helpfully.

  “And we need seven godmothers in this sect,” added Grunhilda, “for narrative causality.”

  “Narrative causality! Narrative causality!” chirped Dorcas.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” groaned Doc. One palm smashed flat against the table, making everyone jump. “The next one of you who interrupts me will be on dish-scrubbing duty for a week, and no wands.”

  Christa didn’t know what that meant, but from the way more than one of the gathered ladies swallowed and sat back, it was a serious threat.

  Doc huffed out a breath. “Now, as I was saying, we have an open position. We don’t need seven godmothers here, not since Snow married that nice Reverend Woods, but we have seven little chairs and seven little beds, and yes, I suppose we could rent out her room or something, but having someone new could be nice too.”

  She finished her sentence and glared at Christa, as if daring her to disagree. Christa, who hadn’t liked the sound of dishes-and-no-wands, tried to look as though she understood what was going on.

  “We are…” Doc paused, slowly exhaling. “We are what you might call matchmakers, but we do a bit more than that, and you’ll find our network and our notes are extensive. We can accomplish our goals with some bibbidi-bobbidi nonsense”—she waved her hand dismissively, and one or two others nodded as though they knew what she was talking about—“but usually it’s basic legwork, research, and elbow grease. It’s not always easy getting two hearts to come together, and sometimes creative solutions are required.”

  Here, she reached for her tea and took a sip, piercing Christa with a stare, as if waiting for her to speak. Having no in
tention of speaking until asked a direct question, Christa folded her hands in her lap.

  “Well?” Doc finally snapped. “Are you interested?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” The words slipped out before Christa could think better of it, but once said, she did nothing to call the words back. Instead, she lifted her chin and met Doc’s eyes.

  To her surprise, the older woman snorted softly and nodded.

  Helga leaned over to Suzy. “She reminds me of your aunt when she was younger,” she whispered loudly, smirking at Doc, who shot her a glare.

  Deciding maybe she should ask some questions, Christa leaned forward. “Am I being invited to be a part of this—guild? You called me a ‘candidate’ before.”

  “Provisionally invited,” Doc clarified with a firm nod. “Of all the applicants, you are the obvious first choice.” She squinted at Christa momentarily, then blinked, her gaze sliding down to her teacup. “You will be given a project, and if you complete it satisfactorily, you will be invited permanently.”

  “A project?” Is that what they called the couples they matched up?

  The old woman nodded, her eyes still on her tea. “Sibyl Miller, I think.”

  “But Sibyl is my—” began the grumpy-looking one, but Doc’s sharp gaze, and even sharper tongue, skewered her.

  “You hush your mouth, Grunhilda! You just keep your thoughts to yourself. It’ll all be revealed in time!”

  Grunhilda glared but pressed her lips together and leaned back in her chair.

  When Bashful moved, she sounded like a percussion section all on her own. As everyone’s gazes moved to her, she grinned flamboyantly. “I know I’m not supposed to speak, but I, for one, would be interested in knowing more about Christmas and why she wants to be a godmother.”

  Everyone’s gaze flicked to Doc, who nodded stiffly. “If you could elaborate on your application please…Christa.”

  Well, calling her Christa was a start, and it wasn’t as if she thought she could get away without explaining things, so she shrugged and took a breath.

  “I am no longer young. Once, long ago, I dreamed about meeting a boy and falling in love, but then the war came, and all the boys went off to fight. When they returned, there was so much rebuilding to be done, and it was a lot of hard work. One day I looked up and realized my siblings had all started families, and I had, well, I suppose I’d missed my chance.” She shrugged again, trying to hide how much it still bothered her, all these years later. “So I took care of my nieces and nephews. I paid for their schooling. I’ve even found nice husbands for two of them, so I have some experience making matches. Yes, it is all about research,” she agreed, her lips curling wryly as she looked around the table. “I sent money home and watched everyone else move on with their lives, and I realized I wanted something different.”

  There was some nodding, as if a few of the other women had had similar experiences. Doc, however, just watched her thoughtfully.

  “What kind of work did you do?” she asked suddenly.

  Christa was caught unawares. “I’m sorry?”

  “You said you sent money home, which indicates the work you were doing wasn’t at home. And you’re not dressed in rags, although you don’t look entirely comfortable in that gown either.” Doc nodded curtly, and Christa fought the urge to squirm. “You paid for your own trip out to Wyoming, which isn’t cheap. Clearly you have some money, and it sounds as though you’ve been the one supporting your family, not the other way around.”

  “My family…” How to explain? “I have two brothers who are still alive, and they inherited the farm. Even together, their families are barely able to make a living. One of my sisters married a neighboring farmer and has more children than they can feed. The other married a butcher in town, so at least they have food. My point is, as the single employable person in the family, it has fallen on my shoulders to send money home.”

  Where employable was a relative term.

  Winning at the poker tables isn’t really work.

  No, but she wasn’t going to tell Doc that, no matter how hard the woman glared.

  “Godmothers make terrible pay!” blurted Dorcas out-of-the-blue.

  Bashful snorted. “You get paid?”

  “I thought we were paid in love and friendship and gratitude,” burbled Helga.

  And through it all, Doc held Christa’s gaze. “Quiet!” she snapped, then narrowed her eyes. “But they’re not wrong. If you become a godmother, you’ll not be able to send much home to your family.”

  Thinking the poker games would likely continue running at The Gingerbread House each evening, and what she’d made the night before last, Christa felt confident saying, “That doesn’t matter.”

  If Andrew Prince played even just once a month, she’d be able to win enough to make sure her family wouldn’t starve.

  And is that the only reason you want to sit across the green baize from him?

  It was impossible to tell one’s subconscious to shut up, but she tried it anyhow.

  She was in a job interview. The last thing she needed was to be reminded of a handsome smile and a friendly gaze.

  And the way it felt to have your hand in his.

  There’d been a moment there when she’d been sure he was about to accuse her of cheating. It hadn’t been the first time, but she’d learned how to talk her way out of the situations. When it had become clear that wasn’t why he’d grabbed her wrist, she’d swallowed down her fear and her reaction to the warmth spreading from his touch and had met his eyes.

  And she’d been certain he’d known her secret.

  When he’d asked her name, she’d known he was about to call her out, to declare her a woman. But he hadn’t, and that had made her clumsy. It was a good thing she’d been able to call it quits not long after.

  Next time she played against Andrew Prince—and her family depended on her playing against him again—she’d make certain he had no reason to suspect her.

  “What kind of work did you do?” Doc suddenly asked again.

  And Christa knew she couldn’t admit the truth. So she hardened her gaze and lifted her chin. “Is that really relevant?”

  Let them think the worst for all she cared.

  But instead of pushing it, Doc hummed thoughtfully, then reached under the table. As if by magic, she produced a dauntingly thick leather-bound book and slammed it against the table, hard enough to spill Dorcas’s tea. Or maybe Dorcas had done it herself, judging from the way the woman cursed, flustered, and began to wipe at herself with Bashful’s skirts.

  Christa kept a wary gaze on Doc, who dropped her elbow onto the top of the book—not quite covering the gilt letters: Guide to Godmothering—and propped her chin in her hand.

  “Have you ever been in love?” she asked.

  More than one woman at the table sucked in a breath at such a personal question, and Christa scanned their faces. Their expressions ranged from angry—Grunhilda, of course—to sympathetic.

  But Helga nodded. “Go on, dearie, answer the question. I suspect I know how Doc’s brain works after all these years.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” the older woman repeated, more quietly this time.

  For some reason, a very clear image of a laughing Andrew Prince popped into her mind, but she quickly pushed it aside. Don’t be stupid. The man had played against her; he wasn’t a romantic prospect, even if she’d been at all interested.

  Which she wasn’t.

  “I…” She shook her head. “There was a boy, once, long ago. He died; I got over it.”

  There. The complete summary of her one painful brush with romance.

  But when she looked up, Doc’s suspicious gaze made her wonder if the woman saw more than Christa wanted her to.

  Helga leaned across the table and patted her arm. “Dearie, if you join the Godmothers permanently, you’ll give up the chance to find True Love of your own. That’s what we do; we help others find True Love. Do you understand?”
<
br />   Christa flicked her gaze around the table. Grunhilda nodded curtly, but Bashful winked, as if giving up her chance at True Love wasn’t that big of a deal. Dorcas’s chin—wart and all—quivered gently, but she nodded.

  And Suzy sneezed.

  Patting her arm again, Helga pulled Christa’s attention back to her. “You have spent your life helping others. Here, you won’t be helping just your family; you’ll be helping others all over the world find happiness. That’s a rare blessing, but you have to be certain it’s what you want. Are you willing to give up your own happiness for that?”

  “But…” Christa glanced around the table. “Surely you’ve all found happiness of some sort?”

  Nodding, Suzy shoved her handkerchief back under the cuff of her shirt. “Most definitely. I’m happy to be surrounded by women who respect me for my abilities, rather than what kind of marriage I may or may not have had.”

  “I’m done with men,” grumbled Grunhilda. “Don’t need one in my life.”

  Bashful merely grinned naughtily as she sipped her tea, but Dorcas declared, “I like cake!”

  When Christa switched her gaze to Helga, the plump woman sat back with a faint smile. “Doc and I are not going to tell you our secrets, dearie. Suffice it to say, yes, you’re right: we’ve all found happiness outside of building a life with a man. But before you join us, you have to be absolutely certain you feel that way too.”

  “Of course.” But as she said the words, Christa felt herself hesitate.

  She was done with…with all of that.

  Wasn’t she?

  When Bobby had been killed, she’d been devastated. But a few years later, she’d realized what she’d felt for him had been a sort of youthful infatuation. Maybe that’s what all love was when it started young; goodness knows she’d seen her siblings weather plenty of ups and downs in their relationships.

  Christa had been allowed the freedom to travel, to dress in men’s clothes, to get really, really good at poker. She was smart and strong and capable, and helped support her extended family. She wouldn’t have been able to do any of that had her beau lived, and she’d married him.