After the rain, a beautiful afternoon at Abuelita’s.

“True, he was a sweet soul and an angel of a husband; but it could try one’s patience, when the Toad in him returned, amid those days of our connubial bliss, and took my angel’s place! “

Carabosse recollected the tale of her late Prince Charming. Half the time he was a kind wonderful creature, and at other times a hideous monster. Against everyone’s good advice, she had taken a chimera to be her better half.

Fairy listened to the laments flitting across her table and almost began to drift away. Fairies have shorter attention spans than most children. Neither should be medicated, just gently reminded of what they were supposed to be doing before they got distracted…

Carabosse looked askance at her friend and poured her another margarita which revived the Fairy enough for the most important part of her news.

“So painfully acute was my sense of being snubbed by the Court, and after all I had done for their Excellencies.” Her cheeks began to flush red just at the memory of those days of shame and innuendo. “All that was required of them was a simple invitation!”

She waited for the waiter to bring another pitcher of margaritas to their table before continuing.

”I am certain it was because I had married a Bullfrog! It shocked everyone that I could, of course! But there was just that awful risk of my getting no husband at all. I was not after all in the fresh bloom of youth. My biological clock was ticking!"

Fairy gave a sympathetic look although she had heard this tale so many times before.

“In a word, he told me he was a fair prince, a victim of a bitter scorned ex-girlfriend. I thought, poor angel, a Prince from Paradise, and cursed for life, yet I grew to love those green warts of his, and he came to love me and my impetuous ways. So when he offered me his webbed appendage, I married him on a whim, and the promise of a transcendental kiss, where, by what seemed like the best luck in the world, I found myself smitten by, and smote again, and wooed, and won and yes, impregnated by a Bullfrog all in the time it takes for a rose bud to open! “

Carabosse flew up above the table stricken with torment.

“And yet when our baby came, I just could not overlook her inherited defects which were so offensive to our fairy circle. Owing to those extempore circumstances, I rashly gave my baby up for adoption for what? For some ridiculous trifling imperfections? And I have spent most of my life grieving for our long lost child, warts and all!”

Fairy looked longingly at the empty pitcher on the table with the hope that the waiter might soon reappear.

“My dear,” Fairy said, tenderly, “Perhaps then this is why you were so precious and wicked at Princess Aurora’s christening?”

“All I ever wanted was to have my little Princess back. And I have made the decision – at last! I want her to know that I am her true mother! She will never get to meet her true father, the Prince Bullfrog, may he rest in peace! But it’s not too late for me! I have flown into Topanga Canyon for this very reason! I must find our dear little Princess Thunderthighs!”

"Oh, no, my sweet potato!" cried Fairy, wings aflutter.

"Yes! It is true!" repeated Carabosse, "Princess Thunderthighs is my long lost daughter!”

It was chilly enough to warrant a bon fire. They invited their friends to come. Fairy filled the vases of the house with the bulbs of the season, grape hyacinths, daffodils, jonquils and ranunculus. A delicate pot of Lily of the Valley looked lovely between the wood bowls of mulled wine at one end of the candlelit table and her chocolate fondue pot on the other. The children descended upon the basket of enormous strawberries placed there for dipping like pirates on a treasure chest. Elf makes his coq au vin with three plump kosher chickens from Trader Joes. He has been baking them in olive oil, caramelized onions, and red wine with fifteen whole cloves of garlic and a pound of Portobello mushrooms a coupé rudement in a moderate oven for hours. He was out in the garden taking cuttings for his bouquet garne when the guests begin to arrive. He has been weeding all day and planting the bare root plums. After fifty, a man is either a drunkard or a gardener. An old French proverb. Three loquacious fairies sitting in the garden chairs around the roaring fire felt some pity for poor Princess Thunderthighs. What shrewish gossips held court in Topanga coffee shops! Could she help leaving those slimy tracks when climbing out of her scum covered pond? Was her greenish hue something she could change? The magician had got her to wear her hair just like the short shaggy gamine look the fairy had worn. He’d bought her a shirt exactly the same as the one fairy had loved. But these feeble attempts of fine finishing were fruitless. Her ways were still so loud and vulgar, her laughs a course croak. She was and always would be a bullfrog. As much as he longed for his Pygmalion, it was quite clear to the wags that she would never become a fair lady. And yet they all agreed she was good for him. A bullfrog was exactly what he needed in his life! Who else would have helped him get his life up and running? Before her, all he had ever known was the amateur magic left over from his college days. For years, since his wife divorced him, he’d been living off of a trust with no ideas of professionalism or responsibility. His wife paid for everything the children needed. His grandmother bought his clothes. As the troll pointed out, his studio was in a converted garage competing for space with the washing machine and dryer amid empty bottles and cans waiting to go to be counted up at the recycling vendor. Who else could have sobered him up? Who else would have wanted him? He was lucky to have her. And what are a few slimy tracks on your sheets or on the piano when you have someone who can pay their own way? Princess Thunderthighs was definitely someone with enterprise and energy and invaluable connections and in light of their latest internet evil, obviously shared his shady moral compass. Who else would have helped him so convivially with his attention-seeking charity stunts? It was a perfect match. So why couldn’t they just go back to their stagnant pond and leave Fairy and Elf alone? So why the flame jobs, and why the hang up calls? Why the random emails? Why the lurking beneath their tree? Why the lies and games? Why be a cowardly troll when one could become a real magician? None of it made sense. When the guests left and the children were sound asleep, elf heated up her lavender warmer and put them on his fairy’s feet. She felt loved and safe.
	Things for a mortal to do once the storm has passed: Make a lattice for the sweet peas. Put some bone meal on the perennial border and cultivate it. Spray the delphinium shoots with Bordeaux. Finish pruning the bush roses. Buy a new pair of gardening shears and find a hiding place for them. With this in your mind, you may go to the market to make gingerbread on parade for afternoon tea. You drain the juice from one can of mixed fruits and put the fruits in a well-buttered baking pan. Mix and sift two cups of flour, one teaspoon ginger, a quarter cup of sugar, a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon, three quarters of a teaspoon of baking soda. Add a quarter cup of shortening, one cup of molasses or golden syrup, one egg and half a cup of sour milk which you will stir until smooth. Pour the mixture over the fruit and bake in a slow oven. Serve cut into squares and covered with whipped cream. If the sun comes out in the late afternoon, take a walk into Red Rock, but avoid the urge to go in the creek. Even the fairies cannot bathe for weeks after a rain. The frogs are not sure they want to stay. The humans do love their grey water.

Carabosse had something very important to confide to the fairy.

They suggested sweetly that Elf go practice his flying. He had spent the morning making certain the guest was comfortable and that everything was in order. Carabosse was known for her quick temper and impetuous spells.

A garden book on her table. Clean linen on the bed which he liberally doused with lavender scent. Fresh towels in the bathroom, and lavender bath powder and salts and fresh soap.

Boxes of tissue and fine linen hand towels.

Thimble and thread and despite his misgivings, needles and pins.

Someday they would have a chaise longue for the guest to nap on without disturbing the bed.

When she wanted to be, Carabosse was a charming, serious-minded fairy, and although her attention to details was perfunctory at best, she could cast an almost perfect spell.

For lunch, Fairy made her fromage a la crème. (This will show her dear friend that she hadn’t completely lost all refinement while living out in the woods, as Carabosse called Topanga). She served a pound of cottage cheese molded in her best china bowl, with powdered sugar and a bowl of thick, sour cream.

Fairy admired her dear old friend for her relentless interest in new spells.

Long ago Fairy exhausted that enthusiasm.

“Let’s go to the Waterfall this afternoon and absorb a lecture on turning gossips into harps. You didn’t know that the earliest harp was just a common bored wife and if we go around to the Waterlily or Café Mimosa, I am sure we might find one or two. Wouldn’t you love just casting that one naughty spell again, for old time’s sake?”

“Not without some fine-tuning,” Fairy answered, laughing.

“Oh well, if you won’t go to the coffee shops, we could go to that Mexican restaurant!”

“I thought you had something terribly important to tell me!” Fairy said, gently, to change the subject.

She did, and what Carabosse told the Fairy that afternoon was absolutely shocking.

Shocking news is pleasant taken with a pitcher of margaritas served on the sunny deck at Abuelitas overlooking the sun-dappled creek.