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Silver Chimera (Silver Shifters: Godiva's House Book 1), page 1
SILVER CHIMERA
SILVER SHIFTERS: GODIVA’S HOUSE #1
By Zoe Chant
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
SILVER DRAGON
First edition. July 31,2023.
Copyright © 2023 Zoe Chant.
Written by Zoe Chant.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Table of Contents
SILVER CHIMERA
SILVER SHIFTERS: GODIVA’S HOUSE #1
By Zoe Chant
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ONE
WENDY
TWO
ALEJO
THREE
WENDY
FOUR
WENDY
FIVE
ALEJO
SIX
WENDY
SEVEN
ALEJO
EIGHT
WENDY
NINE
ALEJO
TEN
WENDY
ELEVEN
ALEJO
TWELVE
WENDY
THIRTEEN
ALEJO
FOURTEEN
WENDY
FIFTEEN
ALEJO
SIXTEEN
WENDY
SEVENTEEN
ALEJO
EIGHTEEN
WENDY
NINETEEN
ALEJO
TWENTY
WENDY
TWENTY-ONE
ALEJO
TWENTY-TWO
WENDY
TWENTY-THREE
SAM
TWENTY-FOUR
WENDY
TWENTY-FIVE
ALEJO
TWENTY-SIX
WENDY
TWENTY-SEVEN
ALEJO
TWENTY-EIGHT
WENDY
ONE
WENDY
“Shoulders back, and sparkle!” Wendy’s mom said in memory. “Whatever you have to face will go better with a smile!”
Wendy had tried her entire life to live according to Mom’s maxims. She consciously straightened up, firmed her smile, and marched into the fourth-grade classroom. She caught sight of a group of chattering women, the teacher’s bright red hair at the center.
Wendy joined the group, giving them her best sparkle.
“Ah, Ms. Poulet,” Ms. Nelson, the teacher, exclaimed. “I’m glad Sam gave you the message to stop by. Very responsible, Sam. And here we are, Baili and Maggie and Elizabet were just discussing our Barnyard Fundraiser, which you know, is coming up in a few days. We have a few last-minute things to arrange.”
The women exchanged quick looks with one another, drawing slightly together as Wendy reflected that the teachers and other parents—all twenty years or more younger than she was—invariably used first names with each other, but she was “Ms. Poulet,” as if she were a grandmother, not a mother. But then, no doubt some of these women had mothers around Wendy’s age. Surely she was not the only woman in town who’d had a child at forty-two?
“As Sam has probably told you,” Ms. Nelson trilled, “we’re completing our unit on heathy foods and how they are grown, which we always end with this fundraiser for disaster relief.”
“I remember,” Wendy said, using her Bright Voice. “Sam handed in his report on Friday, right?”
“Of course he did. Sam is always conscientious about his work. But we have to make sure the Barnyard Fundraiser goes smoothly.”
Another exchange of serious side-eye. “Fourth-graders tend to either get silly, or get stage fright,” Elizabet said. “This is my third time. And last, thank fu—uh, fun.” She caught herself with a guilty glance, but the kids playing around nearby paid the circle of moms no attention whatsoever.
Baili and Magda tittered, and Wendy added the well-bred tee-hee-hee that her mother had made her practice before the mirror. Ladies don’t hoot or guffaw, Mom had said. It’s not just the dress but the details that make you a lady, and if you are ladylike at all times, when you meet the right gentleman he will recognize a lady at first glance.
Well, look how that turned out. But habit was habit.
“Oh, guaranteed my Declan will try to get silly,” Magda said.
“And my Jayden will be just like his big brothers,” Elizabet said, with more pride than regret.
“Which is why we began having an adult right with the children,” Ms. Nelson said brightly in her own version of the Bright Voice. “In case we have a problem with the recital.”
Another exchange of looks.
It can’t be about me, Wendy thought uneasily. That was paranoid thinking.
She stiffened her shoulders as Ms. Nelson uttered a tinkling laugh that harrowed Wendy to the soul. Come on, girl, she scolded herself. How bad could it be? This was fourth grade at her son’s little elementary school, not the Snake Pit of Doom in some horror videogame. “Sam has been practicing his poem every night,” Wendy said. “He was so glad you let him be a squirrel. He loves squirrels,” she said.
“He does,” Ms. Nelson exclaimed. “He’s told us that he feeds the squirrels in his grandmother’s garden. This is why we encouraged the children to choose their animal, and we’ve been constructing their costumes in class. The parents have been wonderful about pitching in to make it the best year ever. But we are especially grateful to the generous parent who comes forward to be the centerpiece of the entire show, the children’s favorite—Flossie!”
As Ms. Nelson gave this speech, Baili and Magda vanished, and Elizabet was busy restacking the wooden blocks with a concentration and precision usually found in a brain surgery arena.
Ms. Nelson finished up by handing Wendy a huge and rather battered department store bag. Wendy took it, puzzled. It was heavy enough for a couple of overcoats designed for winters in Russia.
“As Mr. Champlain probably told you, it is a very, very simple part. There are no lines to be memorized. The children will each recite a poem and all you have to do is stand there, and thank them in your best Flossie voice. Thank you so much, Ms., uh, Poulet.” Did her voice just quiver on the name ‘Poulet?’
Wendy squashed down the urge to run. Whatever Flossie was, Wendy was very certain she did not want to be it. She said, quickly, “Unfortunately, I do work, so there is no way I can be here during the school day...”
“Oh, but there is no need for you to rehearse,” Ms. Nelson said, so quickly Wendy knew that this objection was not new. “I’ll give you a list before the fundraiser, and all you have to do is read the names, then thank the child after their poem.” She lowered her voice. “The teacher’s aide used to be Flossie, but then the county-wide budget cuts got rid of the aides, so we have to ask for parent volunteers.”
Wendy accepted her fate, aware that she had to be at work in twenty minutes. She hoiked up the bag full of Flossie, and made her escape.
As she lugged the heavy bag out to her car, she was thrown back to her own school days in this same sleepy little beach town, specifically her many, many dance recitals. She was fairly certain she knew why there was a Flossie, who would be a neutral figure, freeing up the teacher to be in the background making sure the kids didn’t wander off, or ruin each other’s costumes, or to dry tears if someone got stage fright, which Elizabet was right about. It could happen at age nine. And a costumed figure not only went over bigger with the kids, but in her own remembered experience, even if everybody knew whose mom or dad was inside Santa, or the Halloween witch, they accepted the mask as neutral in a way the more competitive parents might not accept another parent acting as host for a classroom event.
The question was, what was Flossie supposed to be? If the costume was cute, surely those moms always hanging around would have been offering to play the part? Instead, as soon as Ms. Nelson zeroed in on her, those moms had started slinking out as if they’d been caught with their hands in the lunch money. No, really, they had escaped. Flossie. Barnyard. Flossie the Farm Woman?
Oh lord, Flossie the Cow?
No—she’d glimpsed bright red felt at the top of that bag, and orange beneath. Wendy had never seen cows except on TV, but she would swear there were no neon red or orange ones.
Wendy got another surge of uneasiness, as she had ever since Sam had been dropped off by her ex after Parents’ Night, and nine-year-old Sam had peered up with his earnest, innocent face behind those thick glasses as he said, “And Pater said to tell you he signed you up for the classroom fundraiser.”
With Bill Champlain, her ex, anything could go wrong. At least when he got petty, he aimed it at her.
Wendy had taken a deep breath and said as encouragingly as humanly possible, “That was very nice of ... your father.” Wendy did her best, but there were limits, she had discovered. One of which was the Champlains’ pretentious insistence on Sam using the outdated term “Pater” for Bill, as if they had all tripped and fallen into some snobbish British boarding school novel of a hundred years ago. But then Bill’s mother—who wasn’t even British—was a pretentious snob. Wendy had noticed over the years that not once was she as Sam’s mother ever referred to as “Mater.” If the Champlains had to refer to her at all, when talking to Sam, it was always “your mother,” in the tone usually reserved for “your lice problem.”
Wendy had cupped
Sam’s eyes had blinked behind the thick glasses. “He said he couldn’t, ‘cause he had important meetings. But you could. Because the fundraiser is at night. And your work ends before it begins.” Sam blinked in puzzlement. “What does that mean, ends before it begins?”
Wendy had become an expert at translating Bill’s petty sniping into neutral words for Sam’s sake. “It just means I get home from the bakery early, so I can be there when you get off the school bus.”
Bill’s signing her up for anything having to do with Sam’s classroom was highly suspicious—until now he had shown little concern for Sam’s schooling once it became plain that their myopic little son was never going to take any interest in competitive sports, or any subject Bill considered properly “manly.”
In the last year or two, Bill seemed to be having more frequent ‘work crises’ on the weekends of his parental visits. Which had suited Wendy just fine. She’d thought Sam was all right with it, too, as most of his visits to Pater seemed to be boring, but one day Sam had come home from school and confided, “The other kids don’t believe I have a dad.” Wendy had nerved herself to confront Bill, pointing out that he hadn’t had Sam over for almost three months, and it was important to Sam that Bill be there for Parents’ Night.
Another glance at Flossie in her bag was a reminder that the very rare times Wendy prevailed, Bill would get back at her. Flossie might be the latest torpedo.
She pulled into the parking lot behind Playa del Encanto’s most popular bakery, and glanced at her cell phone. Ten minutes till opening time. She’d just have to wait before introducing herself to Flossie.
As always, the smell of Linette’s pastries coming fresh from the oven began to drain the tension that anything having to do with Bill always caused. She did her relaxation breathing, telling herself that she would have signed up for the fundraiser, offering to bake, if she’d attended Parents’ Night. But if she’d gone, Bill would not have. They obviously had called for volunteers, and Bill had signed her up for a different role. That was all.
She put on her apron, hat, and gloves, and settled into work mode. The doors opened two minutes later, a stream of regulars flowing in, and that was the tenor of the day until closing time.
Wendy’s shift ended half an hour before the fourth graders were dismissed from school. She couldn’t afford to pay for the school bus twice a day, so she’d opted for dismissal time. Assuming her old clunker of a car started—iffy—she’d get back right ahead of Sam.
As always when Wendy left the bakery, she held her breath when she turned the key in the ignition. The engine whined as it chugged once. Twice. Then it caught, popped and kicked fretfully, then decided to work. One good thing about living in a small town—she didn’t have far to drive.
Maybe by next month—assuming no expensive disaster arrived on top of the debt she was already paying off—she could afford to have the car overhauled yet again, though her mechanic’s face fell every time she drove it in. The car was older than he was.
The school bus delivered Sam to Godiva’s place, where they had been staying ever since discovering that Wendy’s house now had a leaky roof in addition to all its other problems. Godiva Hidalgo was a very popular mystery writer—it was she who had encouraged Wendy in her writing when Wendy was young, living on the beach below Godiva’s large palisade property. Godiva was old, but still a firecracker, fiercely loyal and just as fiercely protective. Her rambling ranch house served primarily as a haven for women who found themselves in trouble and had nowhere to go. Currently, Wendy was acting as caretaker for Godiva’s house, while Godiva and her husband Rigo paid an extended visit to his horse ranch in Kentucky.
Wendy parked off to the side of the house in her usual spot. Then she carried in the Flossie bag, dumped her purse, and started the electric kettle.
She had just finished pouring a cup of tea when the front door banged open and Sam shot through. He saw her, smiled, pushed his heavy glasses back up his nose, tossed down his school backpack, and jetted out the back way. As usual, leaving the front door and the sliding glass doors wide open.
The breeze coming in off the ocean below the garden actually felt good. Wendy was severely temped to open her computer and put in some time on her pilot screenplay. The story was fighting her, but at that last screenwriting workshop she had attended up in LA, the agents talking to the class had assured the writers that everybody was looking for smart and sophisticated series.
The problem was, she had trouble making the dialogue sophisticated. Stilted, yes. She glared at her screen, then slammed the lid of her laptop down, looked away—and her gaze fell on Flossie’s bag.
Though her feet hurt from standing behind the counter all day, maybe it was better to determine Flossie’s barnyard presence before Sam came back in. She went to the service porch to change in case Sam appeared. He’d reached the age when the very idea of seeing a parent in underwear was horrifying.
She threw her sweaty, sugar-stained bakery outfit into the washer, and pulled out her cleaning clothes, consisting of a ratty pair of cheap jeans that were much too tight, and a shapeless old T-shirt with a giant owl on it that she’d had since college. The big round eyes of the owl rested right over her breasts, an unfortunate design flaw, so she had never worn the thing in public. It had done its time as her work-at-home shirt for years.
Thus equipped, she padded barefoot to the living room, where Flossie’s bag still sat. Okay then. Moment of truth.
Muttering, “Please don’t be a cow, please don’t be a cow, please don’t be a cow,” she pulled the red thing out. It was stiffened felt in triangles, attached to a hood. With eyeholes. And a ... beak?
She pulled the rest out. Oh-h-h-h-kay, then.
Flossie was a chicken.
A huge, traffic-cone-orange chicken, but instead of a puffy chest, the stuffing had sagged so that it looked like Flossie was 18 months pregnant and about to deliver herself of a couple dozen dinosaur-sized eggs at one go.
Now Wendy understood the tremor in Ms. Nelson’s voice as valiantly suppressed snickers. “Okay, that’s fair,” Wendy muttered, eyeing the horrible costume. Poulet, her dad had been fond of saying proudly, was a respected name in the north of France, where his ancestors had come from. But there was no getting around the fact that in French, poulet meant chicken. She could even make a joke as she handed back the bag the next day before school, “Ha ha, I’ve ‘chickened’ out ... I’d rather bake treats for the class, or do something backstage.”
Then she remembered those moms slinking away, and who could blame them? There wasn’t going to be any way to trade Flossie for some other fundraiser activity. She thought of Sam’s trusting eyes, and sighed in defeat. There was no getting out of this, not without putting Sam in the middle. Once again, Bill was going win a battle in his one-sided war.
All right, she could handle an evening of being Flossie the Chicken. For Sam.
She sniffed inside the costume. At least it had been cleaned, though it was going to be a tight fit.
She wrestled the ungainly thing over herself, one wing, then two. A very tight fit. Sweat began running down her back as she struggled to get the zip done up. Her body strained inside the costume, the jeans giving her the wedgie of the century as she yanked the chicken head over hers.
Then she straightened up, the seams straining as she spotted bright yellow gloves lying at the bottom of the bag on top of the big orange feet, which apparently had been cut out of swim flippers.
Gah, this thing was tight. Unwelcome, Bill’s voice in memory whined, If you get pregnant you’ll get fat ... I can’t have a fat wife at company parties—I’ll look like a total loser—
Don’t go there, she scolded herself. Just don’t.
More seams creaked as she stuffed a foot into the left orange flipper. “Oh, snit-biscuits. I should have put the feet on before—”
“Knock knock,” came an unfamiliar voice. A man’s voice. From the wide-open front door, she realized a second later.
She shot upright.
R-R-R-I-I-I-P! went the jeans.
The chicken head flew off, thumping against the wall as she gazed straight into the eyes of the handsomest man ever born. He stood framed in the doorway, a black tee-shirt and low-slung jeans molded to a long, lean body with muscular curves that made her palms itch to touch. Tousled, wavy dark hair above a chiseled face dominated by a pair of long-lashed dark eyes that caused her heart to stutter. And below those eyes, a gorgeous mouth wide in the sweetest smile she had ever seen.
