Page 46 of The Fate Factor

Next, I pull down another coffee mug and fill it with brushes, then a glass with pencils. I spin around, scanning the cottage for something to store my watercolor paper in where it won’t accidentally get creased or have something spilled on it.

There. On the catch-all console near the front door, there’s a two-pocket folder left for guests. Local menus, a list of emergency numbers—that sort of thing. I open the single drawer and dump all of the paperwork into it, then refill the folder with my paper. I stack my sketchbook on top of it and fit it at a right angle beside the paint, then stand back with my hands on my hips to survey the space.

It’s a rag tag set up and it will be pretty damn inconvenient whenever I need to make a meal, but it’s worth it.

I feel loose, even while my cheeks are tight with a mild burn from the sun yesterday.

I feel confused by this thing brewing with Jamie, but in a good way. A curious way.

And when I sit down to paint his weird little hops plants, I feel like it’s maybe not an accident that I might be fated to a man with flowers on his skin.

By the time late afternoon hits, I’ve done two paintings that I’m happy with, and a third remains unfinished for another day. I’m cleaning brushes in the sink when my phone buzzes on the counter behind me. Jamie said he had a work meeting today, but after that he was all mine. I’ve been waiting like a giddy child for his call.

I quickly dry my hands and scoop it up, my chest buzzing like a jar of lightning bugs tipped over.

“Hey, you.”

“Noel!”

The brush slips from my fingers, bouncing into the sink basin. “Mom? Um, hi.”

I’m acutely aware of the way the smile I had tucked in my teeth drops. I’ve been waiting weeks for some sign that she’s alive and not buried in the desert somewhere, but the weight of this conversation feels so much heavier on the heels of the first truly happy mood I’ve had in months. I consider brushing her off, telling her it’s not a good time. A voice inside my head that sounds a lot like a cranky toddler reminds me that if she’s calling, she’s alive.

But I also knowalivedoesn’t meanwell. She was alive on her trip to St. John when she called from the TSA office after being detained for leaving her carry-on bag unattended beneath the seat at the bar. I need to hear for myself. “Where are you?”

“Wait,” she says. “I meant to video call.”

The request comes in and I accept it. Her smiling face fills the screen and she waves while panning the camera around. It’s still midday there, and behind her is a panoramic view of copper-colored mountains.

“Isn’t it pretty? We’re somewhere north of San Diego.”

“Most of the state is north of San Diego.”

Mom leans against the side of the van, ignoring my tone. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine. Normal as ever.” Things are the opposite of normal, actually, but I’m not telling her that.

“Dennis wants to say hi.” She turns, her voice muffled. “Wave, honey!”

In the background, her new friend lifts a hand to me while tossing pretzels to a flock of birds. Dennis Hammond: fifty-two-year-old, single white male from Las Vegas. Former Navy man, current hobby survivalist.

He’s older than the last one. More broke too.

I wave back, but I’m nervous all over again. “How are things with him?” I ask, keeping my voice low, trying to suss out a look or a tone that will convey something true she doesn’t want to admit. I could always read her. That’s probably why she wanted to video call. She wants me to see it.

“They’re great, honey! I did want to talk to you about something, though.”Finally.She’s come to her senses and wants to come home. I’m already making travel arrangements in my head.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“The van is having a bit of engine trouble.”

“Oh, do you need help booking a ticket home? Where is the nearest airport to you?” I turn toward my laptop, waking the screen.

“No. No.” She laughs. “I’m not coming home. I was hoping maybe you could lend me some cash so we can get it fixed up? We still have so much to do, and the mechanic said we could drive it, but it would be a fifty-fifty chance of either making it to the next stop or getting stranded on a dark desert highway.”

She starts twirling, humming the opening line from “Hotel California,” always imagining herself as a character in a story. I wonder if she even realizes this one is about a drug-filled delusion.

“What exactly is wrong with the van?” I ask.

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