An Ordinary Fairy by John Osborne Page A

questions he would like to ask him.
    “Don’t look like much of a day for takin’ pictures,” Lawrence said.
    “No, I don’t think so either,” Noah said. The solid gray sky hung close overhead and a few sprinkles of rain blew against the restaurant windows. Noah refused to work in the rain, unless forced. Screw Richard’s impatience.
    Noah had forgotten to turn his cell phone on until after eleven the night before. Three voice mails waited for him. The first, of course, was from Richard, left about two minutes after Noah hung up on him. Noah didn’t need to hold the phone to his ear to hear. He deleted it before it finished. The second message came about an hour later. From Varney again, still terse but calmed down some, though he still insisted Noah finish within one week. The third message came about nine o’clock in the evening. By then, Varney conceded Noah was the “man on the scene” and knew best what would complete the job, but would he please try to hurry? Noah left a reply message, apologizing for the poor connection they experienced and going on to say he was in such a rush to make progress he hadn’t checked voice mail until late.
    About two o’clock that morning he had determined to see Willow. Now it turned out he couldn’t work today anyway. The man on the scene decided it was too rainy.
    “So what’s a photographer do when it rains?” Harry asked.
    Noah returned from his reverie. “Well, since I work most weekends, like I did this last one, I’ll take the day off. I have a good mystery waiting for me, after I have a hungry man’s breakfast.” His stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten last night.
     
    Noah walked to the motel as rain arrived in earnest. He climbed into the truck and drove off, heading south on Route 1, then east on Route 9. A couple of empty factory buildings, the high school and the hospital flanked his route, but he didn’t see them. Images of a beautiful little fairy danced through his mind. Or actually, flew.
    Noah turned the truck through the trees into the hidden lane. Rock in the right places prevented bogging down in mud. He arrived at the tree across the lane and turned the truck around, lest the ground become too wet to do so before he returned. He pulled his poncho over his Carhartt jacket and ball cap and climbed out.
    The rain had developed into a steady drizzle. Under the trees, it became large random drops. Noah walked quickly down the cottage path. Water from the brush and branches soaked his poncho.
    Noah’s research told him fairies always knew when a human was near, which had allowed them to remain elusive for centuries, but he had surprised Willow the first time he came here, and she did not seem to sense him at the pond the night before, until Shadow smelled him. He also read that iron was deadly to fairies, but this one had an iron gate on her door. So was this little woman a fairy … or something else?
    He reached the cottage, strode across the small clearing and rapped on the heavy door, determined to confront Willow with the facts and get the truth. Two loud barks sounded from inside.
    “Ms. Brown?” he shouted. “It’s Noah Phelps. Could I have a word with you please?”
    The latch moved after a few moments and the door swung open. The instant she appeared all his resolve to play the inquisitor vanished as the now familiar energy washed over him. Barefoot, she wore white exercise shorts and a loose dark blue sweatshirt. She had cut her hair short since yesterday. She looked puzzled.
    “Hello, Noah,” she said. “You certainly are good at sneaking up on me. Something told me I would see you again, though.”
    Scratch the no-one-can-surprise-a-fairy legend.
    Noah felt he was a sorry sight, in a poncho and ball cap, dripping water everywhere. His tough mind-set disappeared in a cloud of embarrassment, as images of Willow’s naked form floated through his mind.
    “Uh, good morning,” he said. “Could I speak to you for a few minutes