Accidental Cinderella

Yeah, right. And it could be a dead end if he hired her and later decided to go with someone else—as he’d fired the previous Diva host.

Lindsay closed her eyes, trying to get Sophie’s voice out of her head. “Cinderella certainly didn’t get to the ball by locking herself away in the tower. She saw the opportunity and she took it.”

Lindsay couldn’t help but smile at the Cinderella metaphor. Wouldn’t it be nice if life were simply one big fairy tale?

Then she wouldn’t have to worry about cads who lied and cheated to get what they wanted.

Lies that cost Lindsay her fiancé, her job as a television reporter and her dignity.

“Chandler knows if he does you wrong he’ll suffer the wrath of the future queen of St. Michel.”

Lindsay sounded a humorless chuckle. God, Sophie almost sounded serious.

“Should I call you Ann Boleyn?” Lindsay had asked.

“Nah. Your royal highness will suffice.” Then it was Sophie’s turn to laugh. But her laugh was genuine. “You know I’m right, Linds. You’ve been hiding behind the reception desk. You’re wasting your talent answering phones.”

Really, when it came down to it, it wasn’t the bad taste her foray into journalism left in her mouth as much as it was the uncertainty of the job in question.

Even if The Diva Dishes did have the potential to morph into a full-fledged television show, Chandler seemed too likely to change his mind midstream. His vision seemed too fickle. Sure, she had the future queen of St. Michel on her side—she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the reality of Sophie’s new life—but Chandler was a businessman and he’d make decisions based on what he deemed good for business, as evidenced by the way he fired the former host when she didn’t live up to his expectations.

What if Lindsay couldn’t pull it off? Her job at Trevard Social Services wasn’t ideal, but she’d been there so long. It was comfortable—well, as comfortable as Mary Matthews allowed you to become. Lindsay’s salary, though not huge, was enough to make ends meet, and you couldn’t beat the government benefits.

Plus, she wouldn’t be able to give two weeks’ notice. Mary was certain to get her panties in a wad over that. She’d fussed over Lindsay taking time off for the wedding—even though Lindsay had more than enough accrued vacation.

No. Quitting on a whim just wasn’t practical.

Sheila’s number was one Lindsay wouldn’t need, except for possibly making a courtesy thanks-but-no-thanks call.

An awkward uncertainty bubbled to the surface. Carson Chandler hadn’t invited her to a party. So it wasn’t as if she needed to RSVP, but he’d offered her a good opportunity. And she was the only one they were seeing at the St. Michel audition. Surely they’d have to arrange a camera ahead of time. It was rude to not call and tell them she wouldn’t be there Monday.

The pang of missed opportunity pierced her, as she decided to call. If she’d learned one thing this month in St. Michel it was when in doubt, err on the polite side.

Lindsay pulled her cell phone out of the bag and switched it on. It had been off the entire week of the wedding when the battery had died, and she’d been too busy to worry about recharging it. She wasn’t expecting any calls.

This morning, she’d remembered it needed charging and plugged it in, an afterthought as she prepared to leave. But she’d only bothered to turn it on now. And what she saw made her flinch: thirteen missed calls had gone to voice mail. All from her boss Mary Matthews over the past two days, Lindsay discovered, as she flipped through the call log.

Undistilled dread coursed through her as if someone had uncorked a bottle of something bitter and upended it into her system. What did Mary want? What was so darned urgent it couldn’t wait until Lindsay was back in the office?

A multitude of possibilities sprang to mind, ranging from Mary wondering where she could find fresh file folders to her asking, “what’s the phone number of that little sandwich shop that delivers?”

To Mary Matthews, a paper clip could be urgent if she couldn’t put her fingers on one when she needed it.

Lindsay tapped a French manicured nail on the phone, debating whether to pick up the messages now or wait until tomorrow morning. When she was back on the clock.

After all, what could she do from this side of the Atlantic?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

But what if it truly was an emergency?

She struck the key that connected her to the voice mailbox.

The first message contained no greeting. No I’m-sorry-to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but to-bother-you-on-your-vacation-but niceties.

It simply consisted of two words: “Call me.”

After not hearing Mary’s voice for so long, it was both familiar and strange, grating and startling in Lindsay’s ear. It reminded her of how long she’d been away, and worse yet how she hadn’t even missed home.

Not once.

The second call was a bit more forceful: “Lindsay, did you receive my message? I need you to call me.”

Followed by: “Lindsay, this is the third time I’ve called. I don’t understand why you’re not returning my calls.”

Which was followed by: “Lindsay, I am furious. We agreed you could take a month off as long as you remained available to me. You’re not upholding your end of the bargain. Call me ASAP or—”

Lindsay clicked off the phone.

Call me ASAP or—or what?

How like Mary to call before Lindsay’s vacation was over, assuming it would be no bother, no imposition to drop what she was doing and serve her.

Mary’s voice had been adamant and crackling in that last call, like a live wire one wouldn’t dare cross. But it was that call, that self-righteous tone of voice that suddenly shocked some sense into Lindsay.

Like a bolt out of the blue…

Shining a bright, hot spotlight on her cold, pathetic life.

This was what Lindsay was going back to. No family, a handful of lukewarm friendships, Mary Matthews and an unfulfilling office manager job that she’d fooled herself into believing was important. Rather than the dime-a-dozen job it was.

And if that realization wasn’t enough, then…

She didn’t waste time thinking about the consequences of ignoring this epiphany. As the limo driver turned left onto the runway access road that led away from the public portion of the airport back to the private hangars that housed the royal jet, Lindsay dialed the number Carson Chandler had written on the card.

Chapter Three

Never before had Lindsay landed a job that fast. After placing the call on Sunday, she went in the following day for a test taping. Now, here she was on Tuesday morning, standing amidst a maze of white tents that an army of workers were busily erecting on the St. Michel Parc Fête green.

She’d called Ida May, who had graciously agreed to continue looking after the house. And with that squared away, she was the new host of Chandler Guide’s Diva Dishes. Rather than sitting behind the Trevard Social Services reception desk taking orders from Bloody Mary, she was on assignment at the St. Michel Food and Wine Festival.

Oh. My. God.

She shuddered as a giddy sense of possibility seemed as if it might lift her off the ground.

In the distance a symphony of hammers and power tools rang out a determined song. Drawing in a deep breath, she inhaled the scent of lumber, freshly mowed grass and the odor of the hard work that was happening all around her.

Tomorrow the place would be filled with epicures and delectable aromas from the various booths and cooking shows and demonstrations, but today the place more closely resembled a construction site.