Your Every Wish

by Stacy Finz

Genres: Holiday Romance; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

In this heartwarming and whimsical novel, two very different half-sisters discover they have one thing in common: they’re both in hot water. To get out of it, they may have to learn that life’s hidden treasures aren’t always so hidden—and that dreams can come true even when wishes don’t . . .

Scrappy, worldly Kennedy Jenkins and soft-hearted Emma Keil barely know each other, but when life throws them each a curve ball, they’re suddenly living together—in a rundown trailer park they’ve inherited from their late father, in a nowhere California town aptly called Ghost. After all, their neighbor, Madam Misty, is a soothsayer-witch, and Halloween is just around the corner.

A casino host, Kennedy is hiding out from a high roller who wrongly thinks she stole tens of thousands of dollars from him. Emma, a flat-broke advice columnist who can’t take her own advice, has lost her apartment, and her on-again, off-again, commitment phobic boyfriend, Dex, is no help. Still, she’s charmed by Ghost, its quirky residents—and the enigmatic guy who lives in trailer 510—while Kennedy is sure their father hid a fortune somewhere. She’s determined to find it—even if it means turning to Madam Misty . . .

When Madam Misty grants them three wishes, they’re clear: Kennedy wants money; Emma just wants Dex. But as the nights get chillier, and Halloween descends, a special kind of magic ensues—one that will reveal surprising truths about their father, themselves—and what they really want out of life . . .

Release date: July 29, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

“Please hold for Mr. Sterling.”

I stop shuffling the papers in front of me, take my phone off speaker, and press the receiver to my ear. Mr. Sterling is one of my high rollers. And when I say “high” I mean the kind of gambler who doesn’t blink an eye at losing a few hundred Gs at a craps table or blowing a thousand bucks on dinner at Fleur. In other words, a good chunk of my business.

“Kennedy?”

“Hello, Mr. Sterling. How may I help you?” My mind automatically flips into planning mode. The penthouse at Caesars is already booked, I know this because I’m the one who reserved it for one of my other whales. There’s always one of the executive suites. Sterling won’t like it as much, but I didn’t expect him back so soon.

“Well, let’s see,” he says, letting the words hang in the air in that pompous way of his. “You can start by returning my thirty thousand dollars.”

I laugh, trying to remember if that’s how much he lost last weekend. “I have a good feeling that luck is upon you this time. Would you like me to book you something near the pool? I know Mrs. Sterling would enjoy that. And I’d love to gift you tickets for Celine Dion. I think Mrs. Sterling mentioned that she’s a big fan.” Last weekend, he was accompanied by a blonde half his age. But in my line of work that’s not unusual. Besides, I’m paid to look the other way. Not that his marriage is any of my business.

“How about we cut the crap here, Kennedy?”

I’m startled by his hostility. Brock Sterling is arrogant, demanding, even dismissive, but I’ve never heard him raise his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull. But if you think you can jack me up for thirty grand, you’ve got another thing coming. I want my winnings back, Kennedy. Every single cent of them. I expect to have it in my account by the end of day, do you hear me?”

“Mr. Sterling, I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” Yet, there’s a sick feeling in my stomach as suspicion starts to creep in.

“Don’t play stupid with me. Our arrangement doesn’t include you helping yourself to my money. I tip you handsomely for that.” By arrangement, he means “what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” including his bevy of young blondes and his dipping into his kids’ college funds behind his wife’s back when he’s on a winning streak. Or, for that matter, a losing streak.

“I certainly hope you’re not accusing me of theft,” I say, knowing that’s exactly what he’s accusing me of. But I’m trying to buy time, so I can think. So I can fix this before it bites me on the ass.

“Call it whatever the hell you want. Just put the money back where it belongs.”

“I’m sure it was just an accounting error. Someone in the back office probably put your winnings in the wrong account,” I say, even though it’s highly unlikely. Money wires at Caesars are foolproof. “Let me look into it.”

Goddamn you, Madge! Damn you.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone, then, “Yeah, you do that. I’m giving you until the end of day to make this good.”

Click.

I sit there, trying to breathe while I gather my thoughts. Then I grab my purse and keys off the console table and rush out of my apartment. Ten minutes later, I’m on the Strip, battling midday gridlock and cursing under my breath.

My back is sticking to my leather seat, even though it’s September. I’d crank up the air conditioner in my car but it’s on the fritz. Seven hundred dollars for a new compressor, highway robbery if you ask me.

I slide into my parking space at Caesars and take the service elevator up to the accounting office, bypassing the casino, the crowds, the clouds of cigarette smoke, and the constant jangling of slot machines. As I make my way through the brightly lit bowels of the hotel, I try desperately to rein in my temper, muttering greetings to a few recognizable faces as I brush by them.

I burst into accounting and scan the bank of bookkeepers for Madge. She’s not in her usual cubicle.

“Hey, hon. You need something?”

“Hi, Dorothy.” I do my best to mask my fury. “Do you know where my mom is?”

Dorothy does a double take. “Mexico. She left this morning with Max.” She waggles her brows, then waits for me to acknowledge my mother’s trip, which I’m just hearing about for the first time now.

“Right,” I say and attempt a weak smile. “I forgot. Mexico.”

Dorothy rises from her cubicle and holds her arms out for me. “Bring it in, hon. I know you’re under a lot of stress because of your dad. The girls and I just want you to know how sorry we are for your loss. And if there’s anything we can do, just say the word.”

It takes me a few minutes to register what she’s even talking about, because to say I hardly knew my father is an understatement. To say that I’m mourning his death would be a flat-out lie. But knowing Madge, she wove some cockamamie story that dear old Dad and I were as thick as thieves. A real father-daughter love story.

“Thank you, Dorothy. It means a lot. Did Mom say when she’s getting back? I mean she gave me her itinerary, but with everything going on . . . well, I’m a bit scattered.”

“Of course you are.” She gives my back a maternal rub. “Two weeks. Can you believe Max getting them a suite at the same hotel where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton stayed when they were filming Night of the Iguana? It’s just so flipping romantic.”

“It sure is.” If my smile gets any tighter, I fear my face will crack in half. “I’ve got to run. But thanks.”

“You take it easy, hon.”

I start for the elevator but duck into a utility room to avoid Brad Cass, Caesars’s night floor manager, who all the girls call “Grab Ass.” He must be punching in early.

As soon as the coast is clear, I make a beeline for my car, where I sit in the parking lot, trying to reach Madge on her cell phone.

“Mom, call me as soon as you get this message. For the love of God! . . . Just call me.”

I hold my phone in my hand and let my finger hover over my bank app, afraid to open it. Afraid to call up my balance. Sure enough, I’m $24,314.10 short of Brock Sterling’s thirty thousand.

I pull out of the garage and drive to the other side of town, a dodgy area with run-down casinos, shady-looking card rooms, and topless bars. I’d be better off doing business on Las Vegas Boulevard but don’t want to run the risk of bumping into someone I know. Someone who wouldn’t be caught dead in this part of town.

Because here is where the rock-bottoms go for one last chance at redemption.

I toss my laptop in the trunk, clutch my purse tighter to my side, and cross to the other end of the street. Except for a paunchy guy in a wifebeater and an eagle tattoo, presumably the proprietor, Bubba’s Pawnshop is empty. I eye the guns in the case and the guitars on the wall before I land on a mannequin dressed in a gaudy Western suit with embroidered cacti, desert roses, and rhinestones.

Paunchy guy follows my gaze and pounces. “That right there is a genuine Nudie worn by the King himself.”

I doubt it but nod in acknowledgment.

Paunchy guy gives me a once-over. “You interested?”

“Nope. I’m here to sell, not buy.”

“Whatcha got?”

I remove a pair of diamond studs from my ears. They were a gift to myself when I landed my first whale, a Dallas oilman who loved him some Texas Hold’em. Unfortunately, he loved Glenfiddich more. He died last year of cirrhosis of the liver. I unclasp the matching pendant from my neck—another gift to myself—and lay all three items on the glass showcase.

The man, probably Bubba himself, squeezes behind the counter, slides open a drawer, and begins examining my jewelry with a loop. “Nice. A little cloudy, though.”

“It’s eye clean, VVS1,” I say. “I can get the certificate for you if you’d like.” I don’t know where the certificate is but will drum it up if it means getting a better price.

“I’ll give you six thousand.”

“What about for the earrings?”

“For all of it.”

“Six thousand?” I say. “The earrings are two carats each. And the necklace another two. They’re a G color. I paid a king’s ransom for the set, and that was a few years ago. It’s worth at least twenty-four thousand now.”

“It’s worth what someone will pay, and I’ll only pay six. If you have a better offer, you should take it.” He nudges his head at the plate glass door. “There’s a jewelry store down the street. Maybe they’ll take ’em.”

He knows full well that the only reason I came to a pawnshop instead of a diamond dealer is because I have every intention of getting my jewelry back. I just need a short-term loan to hold me over long enough to pay back Mr. Sterling by the close of today. In a few days, I’ll have enough money to get my earrings and necklace out of hock. Hell, I’ll have enough to buy Bubba’s Nudie knockoff and the whole damn store.

“You sure you can’t do better?” I push the pendant closer to him so that the diamond’s facets catch the fluorescent light overhead.

He pretends to deliberate, then says, “Seven thousand. Best I can do.”

“What if I throw in a Hermès Birkin bag?” I own a copycat, but a really good one. Even the most discerning eye wouldn’t know the difference. And Bubba here . . .

He brushes his hand across his whiskered chin. “Not a big market for Birkin bags around these parts. But if it’s real and you’ve got a certificate of authenticity, I’ll throw in a deuce.”

“A deuce? You’re kidding me, right? I paid twenty-eight thousand for it. And Birkin bags don’t come with certificates.” I turn to the mannequin. “You got proof that this is a real Nudie?”

He squeezes back around the counter, reaches for the collar of the suit, and turns it inside out, showing off the label.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, and I’ve got a bridge I can sell you.”

He flips the collar of the suit back down and presses his hand against the crease for good measure. “Take it or leave it.”

What good would it do? Even with the $5,685 in my checking account, I’d still be $15,315 short.

Goddamn you, Madge!

“Never mind,” I say and grab my jewelry off the counter and hightail it out of Bubba’s with whatever modicum of dignity I still have left.

In my car, I try Mom again. All I get is a recording of her chipper voice, promising to call me back. By now, the money is long gone anyway. Between pricey plane flights, Night of the Iguana hotel suites, fruity margaritas and Max, there’s not a dime left of Mr. Sterling’s winnings.

I pull away from the curb and drive around for an hour to think, getting as far as Henderson before turning back home. My usually spacious apartment feels claustrophobic. Like the walls are closing in. I pop a Diet Coke and go out onto the balcony and look out over the Las Vegas skyline. It’s one of those perfect September days, mild and clear as the eye can see.

My phone rings, startling me. I race inside and check caller ID. “Mom?”

“Do you hear that?” There’s loud music and before I can answer, she says, “It’s a mariachi band. They play every afternoon in the lobby of our hotel room. Oh, Kennedy, it’s beautiful here. Just divine. Stop it, Max.” She giggles. “Max says hi.”

“Mom, I need Mr. Sterling’s money back. I need it back, like yesterday.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey. What money?”

“The thirty thousand you were supposed to deposit into his account but instead pocketed for your little trip to Mexico. I’m in real trouble here. He wants it by the end of the day.”

“Honestly, Kennedy, why would you think I would take the man’s money? I could lose my job for that.”

“Lose your job? You could go to jail.” If I could reach through the phone and strangle her I would. “Mom, stop. Just stop! We both know you took the money and left me holding the bag. What am I supposed to do?”

The mariachi music is fainter now, like my mother is moving away from the band.

Finally, Madge lets out a sigh. What sounds to me like a guilty sigh. “Max needed this, honey.”

“Needed what?” But I already know. It’s always a man with Madge. Donovan, Larry, Kevin, and of course my father. Losers, every last one of them.

“He wanted this vacation for us so bad. And when his deal was put on hold, he was crushed, I mean absolutely devastated. Try to understand, Kennedy. Max is a very proud man.”

Yeah, so proud that he let his girlfriend pay for an expensive trip on stolen money.

“Understand what, Mom? That putting Max’s fancy vacation before me, your daughter, your own flesh and blood, was more important? Besides my livelihood being on the line, I could be arrested for this. Prison, Mom! Did you stop to think about that?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Kennedy. Your whole world is about to change in a couple of days. Then you’ll take care of this, and everything will be fine. I was only borrowing the money for a day or two. How was I supposed to know your client would notice the discrepancy so soon?”

“Then why did you lie about it a minute ago?”

“Because I didn’t want us to fight while I’m on my trip. You’ll have Willy’s money in a matter of days, then you can pay your client back. I wouldn’t have taken it if it wasn’t for the inheritance. Willy owes me this . . . he owes both of us. All those years, and he never paid a dime for child support. For God’s sake, don’t I deserve a little happiness?”

There is no sense arguing with her. No, what’s done is done.

“Have a nice time, Mom. And just a word to the wise, Max’s deal is never going through. He’s never selling his business. You know why? Because no one gets their television repaired anymore. It’s cheaper to just buy a fucking new one.” With that I hang up.

I fetch my Diet Coke from the balcony and pour the rest of it in a glass with ice. It’s stuffy in my apartment, so I open a few windows, letting in a warm breeze. I signed a lease here two years ago. It was more for the address and convenience than for the apartment itself, which was probably all that and a bag of chips in the early 2000s.

I sprawl out on my white leather sofa, a hand-me-down from one of my mother’s old showgirl friends. The couch is older than I am and, like the apartment, is starting to show its age. I probably should have bought new furniture instead of diamond stud earrings, but half my job is looking the part of a classy casino host.

To this day, I remember Lorelie Cummings, my first mentor in the business and now my best friend, telling me, “Kennedy, your clients’ clothes cost more than your car. It’s futile trying to keep up with these people. Buy yourself a few good pieces. Quality with a little flash. And hold your head up high. That’s all you can do, girl.”

Words to live by, I suppose.

I snatch the papers off the coffee table, the ones that I received in the mail this morning from a lawyer in California. The ones I was trying to read before I got the call from Brock Sterling and my day went from promise to shit.

In two days, I’m supposed to meet this lawyer for the reading of my father’s living trust. Then, everything I ever wanted will be at my fingertips. But what good will that do me today?

Dex is moving around his bedroom like a tornado. He’s always like that after sex. A twister with boundless energy. Almost manic.

“Come back to bed,” I plead, feeling immediately bereft of his body warmth.

“Emma, it’s five a.m. I’ve got to get to work, and you have to go.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Can’t we have breakfast together?” I sit up, clutching the blanket around my bare breasts. “I’ll make us biscuits and eggs. ”

“I don’t want biscuits and eggs. I want my bedroom back. Come on, it’s time for you to skedaddle.”

“Okay. But let me make the bed first.” I slide my legs out from beneath the covers and immediately regret it. “It’s freezing in here.”

“Then get dressed.”

I force myself out of bed and press my naked self against Dex. “Mmm, you’re nice and toasty.”

He squirms away. “Don’t you have that little column of yours you have to write?”

I pretend not to hear the condescension in his voice. Dex doesn’t approve of my job writing “Dear DilEmma Girl,” an advice column for the local paper. He thinks I’m woefully underpaid, which I am, and that I’m in no position to be doling out advice, which I’m probably not.

“My deadline isn’t until five.”

“Well, maybe if you get done early you can spend some time looking for a better job,” he says as I slip into the shirt he wore last night. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Getting dressed, like you told me to.”

“Uh-uh. That’s a two-hundred-dollar Façonnable. Here.” He reaches into a puddle of clothes on the floor and tosses me my blouse.

I finish getting dressed, and make Dex’s bed, tucking the top sheet underneath the mattress just the way he likes it.

Dex is in the kitchen, making one of his green protein shakes. His apartment is in a high-rise with big glass windows that look out over San Francisco Bay. From the living room you can see the Bay Bridge. I love to watch the boats with their billowing white sails glide along the water.

Everything is neat as a pin. Dex is kind of anal when it comes to cleanliness. No glasses in the sink or books off the shelf, or stray shoes on the floor. Everything is tucked away exactly where it’s supposed to be. He has a lady come twice a week to clean and is the only person I know who has a laundry service.

“Have you thought more about what we discussed last night?” I ask, running my hand through his hair. Dex has the best hair. It’s thick and a rich mahogany, more brown than red, and reminds me of fine antique wood.

“There’s nothing to think about. As I told you, it’s a bad idea, Emma.”

“It would only be for a few weeks. Just until I get my inheritance and have enough money for a first and last month’s deposit on a new place. Besides, it would be so much fun. I could cook you dinner when you get home and we could binge-watch stuff on Netflix.”

“We can do that without you living here, you know?”

“I wouldn’t be living here, just staying until I can make other arrangements.”

“That’s the thing, Emma, you’ve had months to make other arrangements and . . . well, here we are.”

He has a point. Like all writers, I’m a procrastinator. But finding a place to live in this city on my budget isn’t easy. Because like most writers, I’m broke.

“I’ve tried to find something.” I plop down in the barstool next to his. “I really have. But . . . I don’t have to tell you how expensive San Francisco is.”

“It wouldn’t be if you had a job that actually paid a living wage. But you insist on working for peanuts. Look, we’ve been over this a million times. I’m not in the market for a roommate.”

“A roommate? Jeez, Dex, I would hope I’m more to you than a roommate.”

“You’re right. You are. So think of this as tough love. You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure something out.” He gets up, rinses his glass out in the sink, and kisses the top of my head. “And why are you still here?”

“I’m going,” I say and reluctantly get to my feet. “Are we still on for Friday?”

“Change of plans. I got Giants tickets.”

“Oh, okay, maybe we can meet the gang after the game. I think the band plays until midnight.”

“Uh, I’m taking Forbes. He took me last time. And I know baseball bores you.”

“I don’t know where you got that from.” I wrap my arms around him for one last hug before I go, then sling my backpack over one arm. “Tonight, then?”

“I’ve got to work late. Maybe tomorrow night.” He pats my butt and gives me a playful shove toward the door.

I’m halfway out when he crooks his finger at me to come back, then wraps me in his arms and kisses me so thoroughly that it leaves me breathless.

“I’ll call you later,” he says and brushes a light kiss on my neck.

It’s barely light outside and nippy. I stand at the curb deliberating on whether to Uber home or take a bus. In the end, I decide to walk. Why not get my steps in for the day? Besides, it’ll give me time to think, time to come up with a plan of where to live until I find something permanent.

The city is changing at a rapid pace. I’ve lived in the Bay Area my whole life and never saw so much construction. Even the building I’m living in, a former 1920s boardinghouse for single working women that was converted into apartments in the 1960s, is being torn down to make way for luxury condominiums. Hence the reason I’m about to be homeless. Seven days and counting.

By the time I reach my neighborhood, the sun is out with the promise of another balmy day. Nothing like San Francisco in September. I take the old cage elevator up to the fifth floor of my building, wend my way around the packing boxes scattered across my studio floor, grab my laptop, and head back down.

Perk Up is on the corner, my office away from home. There’s a line today and all the café tables on the sidewalk are taken, so I set up shop at a two-top in the corner, next to the window.

“Your usual?” Leon the barista calls to me.

“Yes, please.”

“Any luck finding a place to live?”

“Not yet. You have any leads?”

“A couple of friends of mine have a place in the Haight.” Leon brings over my latte and a poppy seed muffin on a white ceramic plate. “They’re looking for a third roommate. If you’re interested, I could hook you up.”

It’s been a while since I did the roommate thing and would prefer to live alone but don’t want to seem ungrateful. “Okay.” I rifle through my backpack and hand him a dog-eared business card. “Here’s my contact info.”

He tucks it in the pocket of his apron. “I’ll pass it along.”

“Thanks, Leon.”

I turn on my laptop and wait for it to fire up as I nibble on my muffin and send Dex a heart emoji text. He doesn’t respond but the market just opened on the East Coast.

I open my DilEmma Girl inbox and scroll, trying to decide which letter to answer today. Jerry, my editor, likes me to mix it up. In other words, he wants a broad array of problems, not just the angsty lovelorn ones (his words, not mine). I could do those all day long.

I write the column five days a week but try to do an extra one to keep in what we journalists call an evergreen file to publish on holidays, vacation days, or sick days. Or sometimes, I’ll just thread together a greatest hits of columns past. Readers seem to love those. I’m hoping someday to be syndicated, like Dear Abby or Carolyn Hax (my personal favorite). In the meantime, it’s just SF Voice, an alternative newspaper that lives in the shadows of San Francisco’s two larger, mainstream papers.

The pay is crap, but the work is great. And the perks are nothing to sneeze at. I get to write from home, am occasionally allowed to take fun junkets, and despite Jerry’s grumpiness, he’s a terrific editor. And at the end of the day, I hopefully help people, which is its own reward.

Dex of course thinks I’m wasting my life. But I’m only thirty-two. Most writers my age would kill for a job like this.

My phone vibrates with a text message, and I grab it off the table, hoping it’s from Dex. Not Dex, Mom. Diana wants to know if I’m available for dinner tonight. She and Sam are making pad Thai, one of the recipes they learned in their cooking class. Since Dex is working late, I accept her invitation with a thumbs-up emoji and a “What should I bring?”

“Just your lovely self,” she responds, making me smile.

She and Sam have already offered up the couch in their one-bedroom bungalow until I find a place. But as much as I love my mother and her boyfriend, she can be stifling with her overprotectiveness. Plus, their cottage is already so cramped that having me underfoot would be a major imposition. If need be, though, it’s a solid last resort.

The thing is, my financial situation is about to change for the better. And then I’ll be able to afford a decent place to live.

I rifle through my backpack, searching for the lawyer’s letter. I’ve read it so many times that I should know it by heart now. The gist is that Willy Keil, the man who spent his time gambling and doing God knows what else instead of being a father, died and left me in his will. From everything I know about Willy, which isn’t a whole lot, his estate is considerable. Kind of ironic because all I ever wanted was for him to know me. Love me.

I used to dream that we’d do daddy-daughter things, like he’d be the one to teach me how to drive or fix the tires on my bike when they went flat or take me ice-skating in Union Square at Christmastime.

My mother spent much of my youth making excuses for him. That he was out saving the world or some other tall tale. I used to think it was because she never got over him leaving us, that she still loved him. But the excuses were for me, so I wouldn’t feel unwanted. Or ashamed.

Now, the only piece of him I’ll ever see is his money. I suppose I should be thankful because the bequest, his parting gift to me, couldn’t come at a better time.

It’s hard not to fidget in the waiting room of my late father’s lawyer’s office. I have a lot riding on this meeting, and Mr. Gene Townsend is taking his sweet-ass time. I got to Harry Reid International at five this morning to catch my flight to San Francisco and should be exhausted. Instead, I’m so pumped, I can literally feel adrenaline rushing through my veins.

There’s a small coffee bar next to the reception desk and I help myself to a cup. My third one today. I clearly don’t need the caffeine but it’s something to keep me busy while I wait.

And wait.

The office is tasteful. And by that, I mean it’s sparse. Just a love seat and two swivel chairs for clients, offset by dark-paneled walls and a Persian rug. Every few minutes the receptionist, an elderly lady with curly gray hair, meets my gaze and flashes an apologetic smile.

“We’re just waiting for Ms. Keil.”

The name is jarring. Keil is the surname of my late father. Becau. . .