Diamonds and Toads: A Modern Fairy Tale (13 page)

A woman, professionally dressed in a red suit
and matching pumps, walked across the paved promenade toward
Isadora, her cell phone tucked against one ear while she dug inside
her purse. Isadora turned a jealous eye on the shoes. Manolo
Blahnik.
Her feet are too fat for those.

The woman tripped on something and lost her
balance. In the next second, she was flat out on the pavement,
face-first.

Isadora shrugged.
See? Too fat.
The
woman’s cell phone hit the ground and slid across the pavement,
stopping an inch from Isadora’s foot.

Isadora glanced at the slim pink device,
scooted down another few spaces and continued to scroll through the
newest tweets on her
Twitter
page.
“Jaded,”
her
favorite Aerosmith song, blasted from the BlackBerry in her hand at
the same time her mother’s name popped up on the screen. She
punched the answer button and lifted the phone to her ear. As she
did so, she looked up. The lady in red, on her feet again, waved
her hand in the air and fluttered her fingers in Isadora’s
direction.

Isadora swiveled to her right, giving the
strange woman her shoulder. “Hello, Mother,” she said. “No. Still
no sign of her.”

A loud
pop!
and a sudden scent of
patchouli wafted over to her from the direction she’d just turned
from. With a jolt, Isadora swung her head around. Sparks flew and a
cloud of glitter dust floated in the space where the woman had just
been, but there was no trace of the lady in red. She’d
vanished.

“Uh oh,” Isadora said.
I think I just blew
it, Mother.
“Go blow yourself, Mother.”
Huh?

* * *

Two nights later, Isadora sat next to her
mother at the head table in the ballroom of Chas Regan’s River Oaks
mansion. Texas blue blood, 30-something finance guru
extraordinaire, and now her lucky-duck sister’s fiancé. She was
determined to keep her mouth firmly shut tonight—and maybe for many
more to come. She’d already alienated her friends with her
humiliating, uncontrollable, oddball tweets and handwritten
gobbledegook. So, tonight she’d just pretend to have laryngitis or
something. At least until she’d figured out how to get the fairy
curse lifted.

“Will you
look
at Candace, that
tart
?” her mother said, not as quietly as she should, into
her ear. “She has
three
fine prospects dancing to her tune
already
, and she only
just
walked through the
door
two seconds ago!”

Isadora nodded.
How desperate can you
get??
“She’s dexterous, I’ll bet.” She bit down hard on her
tongue.

Her mother turned a bug-eyed look on her and
then blinked. “Such
filth!
When out in
society
, a man
wants a wife with
gentille
manners, not those of a
street
tramp.” She sat closer and whispered, “
Do
you
have a fever?”

Isadora just shook her head. It was no
use.

“Well, you’d
best
have this
distasteful
turn of
behavior
out of your
system
by the night of the
gala
at the Crystal
Ballroom, because I
promise
you this:
I
shall not
pardon it, I
tell
you this now.”

Isadora gave a docile nod.

“
Honestly
, Isadora,” she continued
unappeased, “you
haven’t
been
yourself
since your
fruitless
attempt to find your sister’s
fairy
the
other day.” Her mother shook her finger at her. “And don’t think
I’ve
forgiven
you for that
crude
comment you threw at
me that day,
either.
” Her mother’s spine stiffened and she
tilted her head back, just enough to look down her nose at her.
“Get a
grip
on yourself, girl. You’ve already stood by while
your sister
stole
the husband I had earmarked for you and
now you’re just
sitting
there while Candace gets her
claws
in every other
eligible
prospect here
tonight.”

Isadora only nodded. Maybe she should tell
her what really happened that day. Except. She couldn’t trust her
tongue anymore. It twisted everything she tried to say. Besides,
it’d only give her mother
more
reason to be angry with
her.

If only the fairy would answer one of her
calls or texts! Isadora’s fingers flittered across her silk clutch
and then stopped short over the rectangular-shaped bulge. She’d
left at least twelve dozen messages at the one and only number
listed in the woman’s abandoned cell phone— TIN-KER-BELL—with not a
peep in response.

Isadora’s mother leaned toward her. “The
Perraults
have a long history with the
fey
folk—they
followed your great-great
grand
papa here from France—and
I’ll not
rest
until you get your
blessing
from one as
well
. You quit it
much
too soon.” She gripped
Isadora’s upper arm and jerked it. Not with so much strength that
others could see, but with plenty to give Isadora the full
understanding of her wrath. “You are
such
a disappointment
to me, Isadora.”

Isadora’s stomach twisted and then sank.

“I’ve always
expected
more of you
than I have of your
silly
half sister.” Her mother slid her
hand from Isadora’s arm and took a sip of her wine. “It is
you
who have the beauty and the
brains
to get us
reinstated in the
social
register,”—Isadora clenched her
fists in her lap, but forced the muscles in her face to remain
relaxed—“something that I am
not
convinced
Delilah
is
going to be able to
do
—
even
with the money and the
catch she’s made in
Chas
.”

Isadora felt the heat of anger, of
frustration, and of her own disappointment in herself rise up
inside her like molten lava. She swiveled around and looked at the
band. The first chords of
“I’ve Got a Crush on You”
filled
the air.

A second later, a warm hand fell on her
shoulder. She started.

“They’re playing our song—shall we dance?”
The familiar smooth-as-Kahlúa voice sent an unwanted thrill through
her.

I only dance with men with 9-figures.
“I only dance with men with 9-inchers.”

“Isadora!” her mother said.

A very masculine chuckle followed.

Mouth. Shut!

“Well, you’re in luck then.” He took hold of
her hand and lifted her from her seat. She finally looked at him.
Sam. Samuel Thomas Slade.
The devil incarnate.
Still
gorgeous as ever. And by the dark tan of his skin and the sun
streaks in his chestnut hair, clearly still a slacker scuba dude as
well. What a waste.

Sam led her out onto the dance floor and
they easily fell into the same old perfect rhythm they’d enjoyed so
often during their short interlude together her sophomore year in
college.

“I like your hair. I’m glad you’re not
ruining the effect of all that sexy red with those blonde
highlights anymore. This look suits you much better.”

“Mmm.”

“So—Chas and Delilah. I’ll bet you’re pretty
disappointed. You’ve had your sights on the guy for a long time
now—what is it? Seven—eight years?”

Seven. And a couple of months.

“Wait, don’t tell me. January of oh-four.
The first party of the new semester.”

Isadora shrugged. No telling what would come
out of her mouth if she tried to answer him.

“That certainly was a defining moment for
me: finding my fiancée going down on my best friend.” He dipped her
and then slowly brought her up, holding her much-too-close against
him.

Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked
and then looked him straight in the eye. His pupils dilated.

“That’s why I was a little surprised,” he
said, “when I got this invite, having lost contact with him after
that. But I was downright intrigued when I saw that it was
Delilah’s name, not yours, on the card.”

The hot flush from his ungentlemanly
reminder of her desperate attempt to snag Chas now traveled from
her bosom, up her neck, to her cheeks.
Yes, well, my sister’s
made millions since then.
“Yes, well, I’ve laid millions since
then.”

Shut. Up.

“No doubt.”

The music stopped and Isadora all but leapt
from Sam’s embrace.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Chas said
from the riser, “we’ve got a real treat for you. Isadora, my
fiancée’s lovely sister, has a handmade piece of videography she’s
put together just for this wonderful occasion.” He held his hand
out to her. “Isadora?”

* * *

A few minutes later, the first image
blazoned across the 100-inch projection screen. It was Delilah’s
first baby picture. Many
oohs
and
ahs
rose in the air
at the sight.

So far, so good.
She wouldn’t have to
say a word. The film began then—a montage of scenes from Delilah’s
childhood—along with her favorite song from that time:
“Beauty
and the Beast.”

The tight band of tension across her
forehead and temples began to recede and Isadora settled more
comfortably back in her chair.
All right. Fifteen minutes of
blissful peace, here in the dark, with only the sound of the film
audio and the audience response breaking the silence.
Her
eyelids drooped closed.

“
I BLAME YOUR FATHER.”

Isadora bolted upright and stared at the
screen. Her mother’s image stretched across it.
Oh, God. The
fairy’s doing. It must be.

“
HE LEFT US VIRTUALLY PENNILESS WITH HIS
LAST SCHEME, AND NOW HE HAS NOT A CARE IN THE WORLD, ENJOYING AN
EXTENDED VACATION IN THAT EXECUTIVE COUNTRY CLUB THEY CALL A
PRISON.”

Shocked gasps and murmurs abounded in the
ballroom, and Isadora felt the weight of every eye on her as she
valiantly searched for the on/off switch. Wasn’t it just here? On
the back of the projector?
Blasted piece of machinery.

“
WE CAN’T RELY ON THAT TWIT DELILAH,
EITHER. AND NOW THAT YOUR FRIENDS HAVE DESERTED YOU, IT’S EVEN MORE
IMPORTANT THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF A HUSBAND OF SUFFICIENT BREEDING
AND WEALTH TO PULL US OUT OF THIS MESS.”

Isadora clawed at the tape that held the
electrical cord snug to the floor, mindlessly breaking nails as she
went, and then yanked the loosened cord as hard as she could.

“
HERE’S A LIST OF ELIGIBLES I’VE DRAWN
UP. WE’LL WORK THEM ONE-BY-ONE. MOST ARE IDIOTS—NOT LIKE OUR
CHAS—

More gasps and now a few snickers from the
assembled guests.

Please, please unplug!

—
SO IT SHOULDN’T TAKE YOU LONG TO REEL
ONE OF THEM IN. MEN THINK WITH THEIR NETHER REGIONS, MY GIRL,
IT—”

The plug gave way. Finally.

The screen went blank, the room went as
silent as death, and then: the clatter of high-heeled shoes, the
harsh, heaving breath of a dragon in human form, and a rawboned,
be-ringed, long-nailed hand gripping and twisting the flesh of
Isadora’s upper arm. In the next instant, she was yanked through
the black void, tripping and stumbling across the ballroom floor to
the exit just to the side of the riser.

* * *

Rain poured from the purple-clouded autumn
sky, pounding the roof of the limousine as it took the corner at
the end of the private drive. Isadora repositioned the drooping
strap of her emerald colored satin gown onto her shoulder. Her
heart tripped against her breastbone and a lump of dread clogged
her throat as she determinedly kept her eyes on the passenger
window. It was swathed in a silver-gray watered silk veil of fog
and wet.

As her mother arranged herself on the seat
beside her, she tossed Isadora’s clutch in her lap and said,
“Explain yourself.”

With effort, Isadora turned her attention to
the woman beside her, whose feral amber eyes shot fire from beneath
the angry hand-drawn brows. The much-cultivated blasé mask was off,
revealing age-and-tension lines around the terse set of her
rose-tinted lips. Time to come clean.
I’ve been cursed, Mother.
My life is ruined.
“I curse you, Mother. You’ve ruined my
life.”

In the dizzying millisecond that followed,
the harsh hissing sound of indrawn breath pierced through Isadora’s
spinning consciousness.

“Driver,
stop
the car.” Her mother’s
damp, yellow silk-chiffon covered arm snaked around her and the
door flew open. “Get out. You are
no longer
my
daughter
.”

The car was still rolling to a stop as her
mother shoved her from the limo. Isadora’s foot caught on the
rubber doorjamb and she ended up facedown in the front flowerbed of
God-only-knew-who’s River Oaks mansion. She lifted her face out of
the mud and opened her mouth to beg for forgiveness just as the
limo wheels squealed and sent an arc of gutter water down her
throat and up her nose. She hacked, gagged, coughed and sneezed for
a good minute.

The frigid rain pelted her skin and stung
her eyes, blinding her and making her even more miserable. With
shaking hands, she dragged the hair off her cheeks and tried to get
her bearings. After another several seconds of sitting there
quaking and quivering, she crossed her arms over her chest and
scrubbed at the gooseflesh.

Shelter. But where? She couldn’t knock on
the door of any of the homes in the neighborhood in the state she
was in and expect to be allowed entrance. Besides which, she
couldn’t trust her tongue to say what it should.

She tried to stand, but her spike-heeled
slingback pump sank into the mud, all the way up to her ankle, and
she fell back hard on her elbows. As she tried to rise again, a
sharp tingling pain shot through her wrist and hand and she toppled
over once again with a yelp.