Chapter 7 Maggie
MAGGIE
The night before I leave, Etta Jo and I have dinner at the touristy restaurant where Giselle works. I’m hoping to get some more information about the job and what to expect, but between the full dining room and her flitting around the state with her football boyfriend lately, she’s been scarce.
All I know is her cousin’s name is Cateline, the finishing school provides room and board to its employees, and Concordia is famous for its chocolate cake. Sounds like my kind of place.
After enthusiastic goodbyes—Etta Jo is happy for my bold step into the unknown and I’m excited for her new studio space—I go to the airport early the next morning.
As I gaze out the window at an arriving airplane as it taxies toward the gate, a little thrill of excitement replaces my uncertainty. The flooding feelings of failure recede and the sadness and loneliness that occasionally crowd my mind and heart hide in the shadows.
I’m going on an adventure and won’t miss the palmetto bugs either.
“Mommy, mommy.” A little girl’s voice trickles into my thoughts. “It’s Cinderella. I saw her the other day.”
I startle but quickly smile, slipping into character one last time. “Shh. I’m on a secret trip to...” I bite my lip, thinking fast. “To visit the Princess of Concordia, but I can’t let my sisters know, otherwise they’ll be jealous.”
“They’re so wicked,” the little girl whispers. “What will you do while you’re there?”
“I’d like to go dress shopping. Do you think I look better in blue or pink?”
“Definitely blue. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”
I ought to advise against that, but hope crests inside. Maybe my directionlessness and uncertainty about what I’m supposed to be doing with my life, are about to change. After all, I have a boarding pass in my hand.
When my flight is called, I wave goodbye to the little girl, but her words stick with me.
I want to be just like you when I grow up.
I am grown up and almost halfway through my twenties.
Since graduating high school, I’ve had over a dozen jobs.
I’m a woman who owns little more than what I fit into three checked bags and two carry-ons.
In the days since I fell in the fountain, there’s no avoiding the fact that I’ve become an internet meme, a laughing stock. Maybe Concordia doesn’t have YouTube. Or perhaps that’s just wish-upon-a-star thinking.
I recall my days working at the theme park and at the funny and meaningful things kids said. But that little girl’s comment is like an arrow, piercing my inner troll that routinely seeds my mind with doubt.
Who am I? What do I want to do? Am I a role model?
Almost eight hours and several thousand miles later, I still don’t have answers, but mountains loom as the plane descends in Concordia. They’re much like the ones I’d imagined when I needed to cool off on that hot Florida day not too long ago—or hide under. Either would’ve been fine.
Before I have a chance to get my bearings and admire the picturesque postcard surroundings, my phone beeps. I’m late for the meeting at the school. I glance at the time and realize I made a mistake calculating the time zone difference and it isn’t long before I have to meet my client.
I rush from the airport to a train, briefly taking in how clean everything is and the prominence of golds and blues, from the compartment to the signage. Once outside, I see that the Concordia flag, flying high and rippling in the wind, matches those colors.
As I hurry to find a taxi that will take me to Blancbourg, everyone is friendly and proper as though they, too attended the finishing school. Despite this, being in a strange place, I’m on alert, flipping on my city-girl-smarts switch. A woman traveling alone can never be too careful.
But the taxi driver puts me at ease as I hear a snippet of his life’s story as the cab winds up a cobblestone driveway to a stone building that looks vaguely like a miniature version of the royal castle set in the Concordian mountainside—which interestingly also resembles the Cinderella castle.
I blink a few times, getting major Cinderella vibes.
The fading light outside catches my reflection in the cab’s window.
I sink a little in my seat—looking more like the fairytale princess before her grand makeover—or after having fallen into a fountain.
My hair is a frizzy mess and my clothes wrinkle like I just peeled myself off a waffle iron, but the air is fresh, the scenery spectacular, and for the first time in a long time, I can take a breath.
A strange sensation ripples through me. I stagger back. Not like Concordia wants to send me back. Rather, it’s like I’m suddenly tethered, anchored, and sense that in my bones I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Which is odd since it all happened so unexpectedly and quickly.
A valet wearing a blue uniform with brass buttons leads me through the grand entryway of the school. There’s an arch overhead supported by pillars and lots of shiny stone. Golden hardware gleams like it’s recently seen a microfiber cloth.
I smooth my hair, which has been subject to humidity for far too long, and brush my hands down my waffle-ironed clothing.
The interior of the building is fancy with polished wood, candelabras, and oil paintings.
I don’t quite feel like I fit in, given my rough-from-the-plane appearance, and cannot claim any etiquette teaching experience.
But I’ll keep this job even if it means I have to play the role of someone who knows what she’s doing.
“By the way, I’m Arthur Fitzgerald, the doorman, butler, and jack-of-all-trades here at the old manor,” the man in the blue uniform says proudly.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, introducing myself.
“If there’s anything you require, please don’t hesitate to inquire. I’m here to help.”
“Thank you, sir,” I add, hoping Cateline isn’t behind a two-way mirror watching and evaluating me.
“Unfortunately, we’re short-staffed. For now, it’s just Miss Berghier, Regina Harrow, the bursar, the chef, Shonda, our on-call stylist at the on-site salon and spa, and yours truly.
However, we do have a housekeeper, who now only comes biweekly.
The other two new teachers are settling in and I expect you’ll meet them soon.
If only you’d seen this place in its prime,” he adds softly.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Miss Berghier is in a meeting at present, but you’re welcome to get familiar with the manor, including the employee rules and guide to etiquette.” His sharp nod suggests he runs a tight ship and expects me to behave myself. He excuses himself and strides down the hall.
I glance at the grandfather clock as it chimes. It’s probably the jet lag, but those few minutes passed in a flash and I’m hurrying downstairs to meet my new student like Cinderella when the clock strikes midnight.
In the center of the meeting room sits a table, two chairs, and a folder.
Having missed the orientation, I do a panicked and brief internet research and assume I’m like a life coach for a wayward celebrity, CEO, or some other public figure.
Hopefully, after my Cinderella viral sensation, they don’t recognize me.
Before I have a chance to skim the file, laughter echoes from the hall.
I brace myself and then get to my feet for a proper greeting like a professional etiquette teacher.
I never had one myself, but got the gist from the many events I attended when I was younger.
However, this time, I won’t let myself shrink or shrivel like a wallflower.
I won’t step back in time to my ten-year-old self who existed in my parents’ shadow.
I shift from foot to foot like a boxer, psyching myself up before I step into the ring. Standing tall, I tell myself I can do this. I’ll do it for the little girl I met at the airport. To make her proud...and that version of myself who was made to feel too small to be seen.
On another peal of laughter, the door to the meeting room flies open.
Water flies in my direction.
Before I wince and close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of a man with blondish-red hair. He’s made entirely of muscle.
Why did I close my eyes? Because he entered the room with squirt guns blazing. He howls like a cowboy from the wild west as he blasts the room and everything in it with water, including me.
Where was he on those hot days in costume when I worked at the theme park?
Doused, my first instinct is to shriek, but like Cinderella in character, I force myself to smile as I open my eyes. Then I gasp, because I cannot believe who fills the doorway.