Chapter 1 — Annabelle

“Annabelle Astaire, Happiness Fairy—at your service.” I do a crooked curtsy, introducing myself to the fitting room mirror. “Here to help you find your joy.”

“What are you doing in there, ya weirdo?” my best friend, Sasha Harley, calls from the other side of the fitting room door.

“I’m seeing if I can justify buying this jumpsuit for work.” I spin and lift my wavy hair off my shoulders to see the outfit I’m wearing from all angles. “It seems like the kind of thing people would expect a Happiness Fairy to wear, you know?”

“Well, what does it look like?”

I part my lips with an exaggerated cringe she can’t see. “You don’t want to know. You’d hate it.”

She laughs. “Of course I would.”

“Is there a legal limit to the number of sequins you can wear on one body?”

I sway and watch the sparkles dot the freckles on my face. My hair, usually a dusty blond, looks more vibrant than I’ve ever seen it, catching the light with deep gold strands.

“Let’s see it!” Sasha’s not answering my question. Maybe she wants to see the look for herself before deciding if she needs to make a citizen’s arrest for excessive sequin violations.

I step out and hold my hands behind my back for her assessment. Now there are three different mirrors around me, all of them glittering brightly. It’s kind of silly, how happy wearing this makes me, and though I’m certainly not one to hold back on happiness, I’m trying to play it cool.

Sasha arches her eyebrows, her jet-black bangs falling over her pale face.

“Annabelle, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she deadpans. Her dark lipstick contrasts sharply with my own bubblegum pink pout.

“Isn’t this absolutely scrumptious?” I twirl around, basking in the kaleidoscope of sparkles reflecting off the walls. “I feel like a disco ball!”

I giggle, already imagining how the sequins will shine as I twirl for the kids at my next birthday party gig.

“More like a walking migraine,” Sasha says, her dry wit shining through. She’s dressed head-to-toe in black, her combat boots scuffing against the linoleum floor as she sifts through a clearance rack. Sasha may not understand my style, with her ripped black clothes and heavy eyeliner, but she supports me no matter what.

“Okay, seriously though, do you think this is too much?” I have to ask, because let’s be real—it’s a one-piece jumpsuit made of glittery golden leggings with a sequined silver top, and the phrase “too much” could’ve been invented just for describing this very thing.

“‘Too much?’” Sasha repeats incredulously, eyeglasses glittering with my reflection. “Remind me again, you’re a Happiness what?”

“…Coach?” I supply, knowing that’s not the word she’s looking for. My official job title is happiness coach, but during the holiday season, my title gets an upgrade.

“A Happiness what?” she prods again.

I smile. “I’m a Happiness Fairy,” I concede.

“Exactly. Which means there’s no such thing as ‘too much’ for you. You get to wear all the glitter and sequins and brightness you want. It’s your signature style.”

“True.” I take another look in the mirror, admiring how the jumpsuit catches the light. The sequins seem to wink at me, as if to say, “Take me home!”

I pull the price tag off without even thinking, because I’m so sure this baby is mine—until I look down to see the price. My spirit falls.

“Oh, no. It is too much.”

“Annabelle Astaire, what did I just tell you?” Sasha eyes me sternly.

“No, I mean, too much in terms of cost. When did thrift shopping get so expensive?”

It’s not just thrift stores. Prices everywhere, from the grocery store to the tire shop, seem to be going up these days. I guess that’s why you can’t tell the difference between shopping secondhand and buying designer clothes straight off the runway.

“Whoa.” Sasha has snatched the price tag from me, and her eyebrows lift at the number on it. “Okay, so there’s no way I’d pay this much to look like a tree ornament, but you should. You add so much to everyone else’s happiness, so don’t you think you deserve to go for something just because it makes you happy, too?”

“True…” I concede the point, because denying it would make me a hypocrite for sure. “I don’t know why I feel weird about it. It’s just… Maybe I’m starting to wonder if I’m getting too old for all this.”

Sasha snorts. “Why, because you’re looking to fit in at the retirement home at the ripe old age of twenty-six?”

“No, just…” They’re not my own words, but they’re echoing in my head, so I say them out loud, anyway. “Don’t I have to grow up at some point?”

“Annabelle.” Sasha sets her haul down and walks toward me. “You are the most unique person I’ve ever known. Your style is a reflection of your soul. Don’t change for anyone.”

She reaches out and lifts my chin. “Besides, and isn’t this your prosperous time of year? You can use your bonus holiday income to pay for it.”

I bite my lip, nodding. Ordinarily, she’d be right. From just after Halloween through January, it’s the best time of year for my business. There’s nothing like the holiday season to inspire people to find some joy. Plus, everyone’s reflecting on the last year and looking for changes to make the best of a fresh new one.

It’s the perfect time for the Happiness Fairy to shine.

But I haven’t told Sasha yet that this year, things feel… off.

It’s the end of November, and I have less than half the clients I had booked at this time last year. At first, I assumed it was because money is tight right now, and I could understand that. People are pinching their pennies instead of spending, so I can’t blame them for cutting my services first, before essentials like food or gifts.

But something told me there was more to this. Even some of my regular clients, the ones I count on working with every year, haven’t called to book time with me yet. I should be practically fighting them off with a stick, struggling to find time to schedule them between the holiday events that book me to show up and play a real-life holiday fairy.

Instead, I’m out shopping. Splurging at a thrift store might make me feel better if these steep prices weren’t staring me in the face, asking, “Didja forget your miserly bank account is playing the role of the Grinch this year?”

I’ve seen business fluctuate before, but it’s never declined this sharply. And finally, I figured out why.

Someone is deliberately pulling my clients away.

But that’s okay, because I have some ideas for getting them back.

Oh, speaking of Operation Woo My Clients Back, I don’t have all day for shopping.

“Let’s get going,” I tell Sasha.

“With your new sparkles or without?” The look on her face tells me there’s only one right answer to this question.

I grin at her. “I’m the Happiness Fairy at holiday time. Of course I’m taking the sparkles!”

“Atta girl.”

Orbs of shimmery light brighten up the brick walls of the entryway as I ring Mr. Whimby’s doorbell and step back.

I decided to wear my new jumpsuit out of the store. Then I decided to keep it on while I ran errands. And, considering how much money I spent on it, I might decide to never take it off for the rest of my natural life.

I’m gonna get my money’s worth out of this outfit even if I have to out-twinkle every Christmas light in town to do it. Can I write this thing off on my taxes? I could have a whole category just for sparkles. The IRS would love it.

It just so happens that these sparkles pair perfectly with the silver and gold sprinkles on the festive cupcakes I frosted last night. They glisten like tiny jewels under the winter sun. I’m taking these sugary delights around to several of the regulars who haven’t called me yet this year, starting with Mr. Whimby.

I figure I might as well start off on a positive note, since Mr. Whimby will be the easiest one to get through to. The truth is, he probably doesn’t even realize he hasn’t gotten around to scheduling with me yet. He’s an elderly man and his memory’s not the best, but he’s also been my most reliable client since I started. Ever since his daughter hired me to help him re-learn how to find joy after his beloved wife died, he’s been part of my biweekly schedule.

We took a break from working together at the end of the summer and I haven’t heard from him since. But I’ve kept his usual time slot open, every other Thursday morning. It’s too important—especially now, because the holidays are so hard for him—to miss it.

“Hello? Mr. Whimby?”

He’s not answering the door, but I sense stirring from inside the house. Someone’s definitely in there. I try peering into the little window beside the door, but I can’t see anything past the solid white curtain.

Maybe he didn’t hear the doorbell. I’m about to knock, but it only takes the slightest bit of pressure for the door to slide open.

This is weird.

“Mr. Whimby? Are you there?” I call out, tentatively stepping into the house. “I don’t mean to intrude. The door was unlocked…”

I freeze when I hear a male voice from down the hall.

That voice is not Mr. Whimby’s. Mr. Whimby has a soothing, whispery voice. This voice is a deep baritone that rumbles through your bones when you hear it. And it’s yelling.

No wonder nobody heard me at the door. Some blowhard is taking up all the audio real estate in the vicinity.

What in the world is happening in there? Is Mr. Whimby getting robbed? Attacked? Am I his only hope?

If so, he’s in serious trouble. I’m not sure what I could do besides throw one of my positivity mantras at the assailant and hope it sinks in that assaulting old men does not fit the vibe.

When the deep voice sounds again, it makes an animal noise. One that sounds something like “Graaaaugh!”

It’s followed by a whispery echo, Mr. Whimby grunting, “Graaaaugh!”

That’s it. I may be a paltry match for whoever’s in there, but I’ve got to do something to help. I grip the best weapon I have, the most formidable of three cupcakes, and hold it at approximately human eyeball height as I round the corner with a warrior’s holler.

“Haaaaa-kyaaa!”

I’ve miscalculated a few things.

For one, this human’s eyeballs are much higher than average human height, so instead of blurring his vision with sprinkle frosting like I’d planned, I end up smooshing the cupcake into the front of his rather sturdy neck.

Also, it doesn’t look like I interrupted an assault here. Not unless Mr. Whimby stripped down to his long underwear and poured two glasses of beer in preparation for his assault.

“Annabelle!” Mr. Whimby cries out. “Don’t hurt Grayson.”

“Who? You mean the intruder?” I snort. As if I could stand any chance of hurting this unnaturally giant lunk of a man.

I glance back at the frosting-smeared guy, who’s now glaring daggers at me. But despite his intimidating scowl, I can’t help but notice the way the red and green frosting contrasts starkly against his chiseled jawline, giving him an unexpectedly festive appearance.

“He’s not an intruder,” Mr. Whimby says. “He’s my, erm, he’s a consultant.”

And for the first time, my eyes lock on to the bold, blue, and very angry eyes of the tall man beside Mr. Whimby. I know instantly who he is. The local newspaper has run articles about this life coach who crushes unrealistic dreams.

This is the jerk who’s been stealing my clients.