Once Upon Stilettos (Enchanted, Inc. #2)

Once Upon Stilettos (Enchanted, Inc. #2) Page 43

I got them checked into the hotel, then led them down the street to my apartment building. “I live less than a block away, so this is the next best thing to staying with me,” I said, trying to sound chipper, even as I dreaded them seeing the way I lived. My parents were nowhere near rich, but they lived in the lap of luxury, comparatively speaking. My whole apartment could easily fit into the living room of my parents’ house.

I reached the doorway to the side of the nail salon. “Here we are. See, this key unlocks the front door to get into the building.” I demonstrated. “Visitors ring the doorbell here, and we can then buzz them through. It’s like an extra layer of safety.”

Once we were all inside, I led them up the stairs. I was intensely conscious of the dingy paint on the stairwell walls, the worn dips in the stair treads, the stained linoleum on the landings. Seeing through my parents’ eyes, I couldn’t imagine how anyone would want to live in a place like this. I glanced over my shoulder at my mother and could see her eyes narrowing in judgment. Oh yeah, I was going to hear about this. I dreaded seeing her face when she got a look at our apartment.

“And here we are!” I said brightly when we reached the third floor. “See, another couple of locks here—just in case. It’s actually a very safe neighborhood and nobody has tried to break in since we’ve lived here.” I didn’t tell them that my apartment had yet another layer of protection. It had been warded against magical attack. No one could use magic to break into or damage the building. Somehow, I doubted they’d find that bit of information particularly reassuring.

I flung the door open with a game-show-hostess gesture. “Marcia, Gemma, we’re here!” I called out. My mother greeted my roommates with a big hug. My dad shook their hands and nodded silently.

“How was your flight?” Gemma asked.

“Long,” my dad replied.

“Ready for dinner?” Marcia asked. “Our treat, since you’re doing Thanksgiving for us.”

“We made reservations at one of our favorite New York places,” Gemma added. “It’s not too far away, and it’ll give you a look at the neighborhood.”

My mother made a show of protesting that they didn’t need to go to any effort, but she was helpless against the relentless force that was Marcia and Gemma. My dad and I looked at each other and smirked. Eventually, Mom gave in and we all headed out.

Mom walked with Marcia and Gemma, who gave her a running narrative on every place they passed. I followed behind with Dad. When we reached Union Square, Gemma said to Mom, “You’ll have to come over here Wednesday morning for the market. It’ll be the best place to stock up on food for Thanksgiving. Katie shops here all the time.”

“The farmers bring their produce in to sell, and they’re fun to talk to,” I added. Anything that reminded my parents of home was sure to make them feel better about me living in New York.

“There aren’t any muggers in the park?” Mom asked nervously, cradling her purse against her chest.

“It’s pretty safe,” Marcia assured her. “It’s busy, and you’re generally safe wherever you see a bunch of people.”

The restaurant was on the other side of the park. We crossed the street and reached the awning-covered entrance. “And here we are!” Gemma said, before stepping forward to check in with the hostess.

“This is a typical New York bistro,” Marcia explained.

It was a long, narrow room with mirrors on the walls to visually widen the space and a low ceiling made of old-fashioned pressed-tin tiles. The tables were close together, so we could overhear a hodgepodge of discussions about everything from politics to movies. I’d been fascinated by restaurants like these when I first moved to New York, for they were so different from the chain restaurants on the freeway that dominated dining out in my part of the world.

Mom looked nervously at the white tablecloth as we took our seats at the table. “You girls don’t have to take us out for dinner,” she said.

Gemma put her hand on Mom’s. “Mrs. Chandler, we insist. We simply demand at least one homemade pumpkin pie for each of us in return.”

She knew exactly how to work my mom, who instantly looked better. If she could pay off a debt, she was much happier. After we’d given our drink orders to the waiter, Mom beamed at Gemma and Marcia. “You girls look so glamorous! You really fit into the big city.” She then put an arm around my shoulders. “But I’m glad our Katie is still just the same. You haven’t changed a bit.”