If Wishing Made It So

Table of Contents

 

 

‘‘Finn displays promise and personality to spare in her debut novel. . . . Fans of high-concept, multilayered fantasy romance populated with quirky, comical characters will find this novel a charmer and Finn an author worth watching.’’

—
Publishers Weekly

‘‘This wonderful twist on the genie-in-the-bottle story features a very human genie and an intelligent heroine who must make some hard decisions. It’s a warm, sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, and sometimes heart-wrenching magical love story with a touch of mystery.’’

—
Romantic Times
(4½ stars)

‘‘Finn’s paranormal romance provides fast-paced entertainment, and the various subplots . . . add depth and complexity to this new twist on Aladdin’s lamp.’’ —
Booklist

‘‘Sexy and fun . . . the perfect read. . . . A wonderful mix of suspense, comedy, true love, and second chances,
Careful What You Wish For
has all the elements that make it a keeper.’’

—Michele Bardsley, author of
Don’t Talk Back to Your Vampire

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, July 2008

Copyright © Charlee Trantino, 2008

All rights reserved
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‘‘The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.’’

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
The Tempest
, V, i

Chapter 1

Like a writ of execution, the light green sheet of copier paper announced the end of the world as Hildy Caldwell knew it. Her breath became shallow, her knees turned weak, and her feelings skittered toward panic every time she passed the place where it lay atop the old upright piano.

The invitation to the tenth reunion of her class at Lake Lehman High School had come in April, the cruelest month. On that day silver sheets of rain flattened the butter yellow daffodils to the ground, their bloom ending prematurely in the violence of an early-season thunderstorm. The omen could not be more obvious. The minute Hildy opened the envelope, the paper started shaking in her hand.

How could she go? How could she face her old classmates with the truth? They had expected so much from her that they had voted her the Girl Most Likely to Succeed.

She could lose the extra five (okay, it was more like ten) pounds she had gained since she had graduated. She could buy new clothes. She could get streaks in her long tawny hair. But how could she change her life? Look at the Girl Most Likely to Succeed now—the Woman in a Rut on the Road to Nowhere.

She faced the facts as others would see them. She still lived in the small town where she had been born. Although her older sister had helped out, the long illness of Hildy’s mother had kept her living at home and commuting to college while most of her friends moved far away. She had never followed her dreams to become a painter in Paris, New York City, or Gauguin’s Tahiti.

Instead, last year after her mother passed away Hildy had taken her small inheritance and put a down payment on an old white clapboard house with pink roses crawling up a lopsided trellis. The 1920s Craftsman-style home looked so romantic to her; it had such potential, but it needed paint, a new bathroom, plumbing work—the list was as long as Hildy’s arm. And the rustic dwelling sat on a muddy lane so rural it was nearly ten miles from the nearest grocery store and had access only to dial-up Internet service.

As for her job—talk about a yawn! Hildy taught English at the same high school where she had graduated a decade ago. Nothing exciting or unusual had ever happened to her, unless she counted a blue ribbon at the Luzerne County Fair for her portrait of a neighbor’s pet sow.

Worse, she had no kids; she had cats. As much as she adored Shelley and Keats, few of her old classmates would ooh and aah if she showed off their baby pictures on her camera phone.

Worst of all, she had no honey to handle her honey-do list—no boyfriend, husband, or for a while now, even a date. Her last serious relationship had ended when the admittedly gorgeous but neurotically neat Procter & Gamble engineer she had been seeing for months issued an ultimatum.

‘‘It’s me or the cats,’’ he had demanded, looking down at the patina of Shelley’s white fur on his black jeans.

Hildy chose the cats.

To tell the truth, the breakup had been a big relief. She resented spending her leisure time cleaning the house to his level of satisfaction. And as much as she had trouble admitting it, Hildy knew the real reason why the breakup was inevitable. The invitation to her high school reunion brought it to the fore like an avalanche of cold realization crashing down with chilling truth on her heart.

The reason was Michael Amante. Big Mike. Six feet tall, with auburn hair and eyes the warm amber of a good bourbon, Mike had been the best dancer in high school, the best athlete, the best kisser. All the girls went crazy for him.

Hildy should know. She had been one of them. He had been her first crush, her first steady boyfriend, and, she was beginning to fear, the only man she might ever love. How pathetic was that? Hildy shook her head at the thought. She was heading for the Big Three-Oh and she was still hung up on her high school sweetheart.

And Mike had been wild for her too, or so he had said. But then there was that one awful day— Oh, what was the use of remembering?! It all had happened long ago, and even if Hildy was still carrying a torch for Mike, he had no similar secret fire burning for her. Last she had heard, he had made a name in real estate, lived in Manhattan, and had become engaged to a famous celebrity photographer who looked like a supermodel. What was her name? Kiki? Tiki? Wiki?

Whatever it was, the name was a far cry from Hildy—short for Hildegard. What had her mother been thinking? All through grammar school she had been tormented by kids calling her Hildegarden, Hill-da-Garbage, or Hillygarter. Finally in seventh grade she had a teacher—he was young and handsome—who had volunteered at her tiny school to teach a class in writing. The first day of the semester, he glanced down at the class roster, saw her name, and said, ‘‘Ah, Hildy. Right out of
His Girl Friday
!’’ After that she was Hildy, and no one dared to call her anything else.

So, it was a particularly painful turn of the screw that Mike—once
her
Mike—had chosen a woman who lived a life of glamour and excitement
and
whose entire name was just one word, like Cher.

That wasn’t
my
world,
Hildy thought as she pried her eyes open first thing in the morning, climbed out of bed wearing her Penn State football T-shirt, and dragged herself into the kitchen to stick a cup of coffee made yesterday into the microwave. While she waited for it to heat up, she steeled herself to face scooping out the cats’ box—a job best done when she was half-conscious.

After doing the dirty deed, she held the plastic bag of scooped poop at the end of her outstretched arm and ducked barefooted out the back door to put it in the trash.

No one would see her ‘‘half-nekked,’’ as they said around here, except for the squirrels and birds. When she deposited the bag, her thoughts turned once more to what she would say if she ever ran into Mike again. She would act as if she barely recognized him.
Mike?
She’d furrow her brow.
Mike? Oh yes, Mike Amante, I remember you now.

Poised outside the screen door, the sun pouring down on the budding leaves above her, Hildy let her thoughts wander to that well-planned moment. She would raise her chin and extend her hand coolly to take his. She would be wearing very high heels to show off her legs, always her best feature. And she might not be a supermodel but she still had bright blue eyes, a turned-up nose, and looked young enough to be mistaken for her own students when the class went on field trips.

Hopefully Mike would eat his heart out. And even if he didn’t, he’d never know how much she ached inside whenever she thought of him.

A bloodcurdling scream from inside the house shook her from her reverie. Her heart beating fast, Hildy rushed inside and followed the cacophony of murderous yowling into the dining room.

Shelley and Keats had crowded together on the sill before the open window. Their fur stood on end, their tails swished back and forth in unison like two metronomes, and their full-throated voices let the neighbor’s cat Chief—who was standing on the porch rail on the opposite side of the screen— know how much they despised him. They hated Chief especially much, Hildy thought, because he still clearly sported the testicles they no longer had.