Mindy Klasky - To Wish or Not to Wish

Praise for the novels of Mindy Klasky

How Not to Make a Wish

"Fresh and often hysterically funny, this story also has a solid emotional core. Heroine Kira's first-person perspective keeps it all real for the reader."

-- RT Book Reviews

When Good Wishes Go Bad

"Klasky continues her adorable As You Wish series with this nearly cinematic romantic comedy.... With broadly comic characters, even pacing and a charming romance, this cozy evening's read will leave readers smiling."

-- Publishers Weekly

Girl's Guide to Witchcraft

"Mindy Klasky's newest work Girl's Guide to Witchcraft joins a love story with urban fantasy and just a bit of humor.... Throw in family troubles, a good friend who bakes Triple-Chocolate Madness, a familiar who prefers an alternative lifestyle plus a disturbingly good-looking mentor and you have one very interesting read."

-- SF Revu

Sorcery and the Single Girl

"Klasky emphasizes the importance of being true to yourself and having faith in friends and family in her bewitching second romance.... Readers who identify with Jane's remembered high school social angst will cheer her all the way."

-- Publishers Weekly

Magic and the Modern Girl

"Filled with magic--both of the witch world and the romance world--complicated family relationships and a heavy dose of chick-lit humor, this story is the perfect ending to the series."

-- RT Book Reviews

Also by
MINDY KLASKY

Jane Madison

GIRL'S GUIDE TO WITCHCRAFT

SORCERY AND THE SINGLE GIRL

MAGIC AND THE MODERN GIRL

As You Wish

HOW NOT TO MAKE A WISH

WHEN GOOD WISHES GO BAD

TO WISH OR NOT TO WISH

MINDY KLASKY

To Wish or Not to Wish

To Mark,
who discovered Garden Variety Cafe with me, on our honeymoon

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

THEY SAY THAT BAD THINGS COME IN THREES.

One . Like every good aspiring actress, I arrived early for my four o'clock audition. I spent the time in the hallway with all the other hopefuls, running through my monologue. Again. For the thousandth time. What was I worried about? I knew my lines cold.

Precisely ten minutes before my time slot, the audition monitor appeared with his clipboard. "Erin Hollister!" he barked, squinting at his computer printout and refusing to look any of us aspiring stars in the eye. I leaped forward with a professional smile, handing him a pristine folder that contained my head shot and resume. He took it without a word and disappeared into the sanctified privacy of the audition room.

I bowed my head and shook out my hands, trying to relieve the tension that had crept across my shoulders and down my arms. I could do this. I could read for a role in David Mamet's newest Broadway play. I could impress the casting director with my raw power, my vigorous style, my willingness to grapple with thorny texts and thornier social messages.

The door to the audition room opened, and the monitor barked out my name again. Quickly, before he could even notice, I crossed the fingers of both hands and muttered, "Please, just this once." I wasn't quite certain who or what I muttered to, but I'd had the habit of wishing, ever since I was a little girl.

The silly ritual centered me, settled me into place. I pasted a professional smile on my lips before I said, "Thank you," to the monitor. I preceded him into the space, knowing enough not to offer my hand. If he wanted to shake hands, he'd extend his first.

Inside the room, three people sat on chairs, gazing at me with bored expressions. I forced myself to smile as I took two precise steps forward. I knew this audition room well; I'd read for roles here at least a half dozen times before. A half dozen unsuccessful times before.

I hated this room. It was tiny, apparently carved out of the much larger dance studio next door, a sort of architectural afterthought. The wall to my right was covered with mirrors, and a ballet barre bisected my reflected waist. In the past, I'd described this room as the "Check Your Teeth" audition venue--every single person in those chairs would instantly be able to spot a stray fleck of spinach across the cramped space. Or catch a whiff of garlic, for that matter.

I threw back my shoulders. I'd fortified myself with a Wint-O-Green Life Saver in the hallway, for I was wise in the way of auditions. Knowing that I had a total of three minutes to impress the watching trio, I said, "My name is Erin Hollister, and my monologue is from The End of My So-Called Affair by Jeanine Thompson Walker." I took a deep breath, trying to ignore my own reflected image as it loomed in my peripheral vision. I began: "'I can't take it anymore!'"

The casting director waved her hand dismissively. "That's enough. Thanks for coming in."

Thanks for coming in?

Thanks for nothing.

"Thanks for coming in" was the universal kiss of audition death. The supposed politeness meant that they'd sized me up from my head shot, already made a decision before I even walked through the door. I wasn't the "type" they were looking for. There was no room in their show for straight blond hair, for blue eyes, for a fresh, Middle America-wholesome actress. I wasn't worth three minutes of their time.

"Thank you," I said, pasting an automatic smile across my lips. New York might be the largest city in America, but it was still too small to alienate a single casting professional. I didn't wait for them to nod, or to shrug, or to grimace, or to do whatever they would do to prove that they were Much Too Busy to pay further attention to me.

Two . (Remember those bad things, coming in threes?)

I tugged on my light jacket--just right for late May in New York City--as I ducked out of the Equity Audition Center, glancing dispiritedly at my watch. I was late for my Survival Job, the employment that gave me money for food, shelter and general life expenses while I waited for my big break onstage. Or my medium-size break. Or even a little one--who was I to complain?

Concerned Caterers had been a godsend for the three years I'd been trying to break into New York theater. I could schedule my catering gigs around auditions; I would even be able to remove myself from the schedule for a few weeks if I ever landed a real role.

When I landed a real role, I remonstrated with myself firmly.

I slipped into my pavement-eating New York stride, doing my best to ignore a blossoming headache as I dug my cell phone out of my cavernous tote bag. I punched a single button and waited for Sam to pick up.

Ring. Ring. I was going to get his voice mail. Ring.

"Hey, babe," he said, just as I was preparing to leave my sad little message. He sounded rushed.

"Hey."

I heard him suck air between his teeth. He'd obviously parsed my tone. That was the advantage of dating a guy for two years, living with him for nearly ten months. "I'm sorry," he said. "I know how much you wanted that role."

"Yeah--" I said, but he interrupted.

"Can I put you on hold? Opposing counsel's on the other line. I think we're going to settle the Lindstrom case today."

"Go," I said. "I'll see you tonight." He clicked off without saying goodbye, obviously eager not to let his opponent's feet grow cold.

I shoved my phone back into my bag, trying not to take the dismissal personally. Sam had been working on the Lindstrom case forever. Settling that monstrous litigation was a big deal, especially for a guy who was up for partner at the end of the year.

It wasn't like I had tons of time to talk, anyway. I was a block away from the Van Bleeker Mansion, where the Knickerbocker Alliance was holding its annual awards dinner. I glanced at my watch again. Half an hour late. I'd hoped for an earlier audition slot but had taken the only time open for a nonunion actress.