Page 14 of Nothing Less than Magic
He’s nearly at the back door when he does an about-face and swipes the bag of cookies off the table. “I’m taking these for the road.”
After three tries, I manage to get a decent fire going. It has rained off and on all day, and I feel as if there is a dampness in my bones. I drag a chair in front of the wood-burning stove and try to get warm.
I spent most of the day under the covers, reading. What I wouldn’t do for a little television right now. But the satellite is down, so it’s up to me to entertain myself. I consider calling Lolly and picking up where we left off but know it’s futile with her. Besides, she’s probably at Pilates or yoga or pole dancing, or whatever they do in Malibu to keep in shape. I could call Uncle Sylvester, but he’s probably on a set or in a meeting, or deep into a script somewhere, too distracted to be good telephone company.
Instead, I while away the hours surfing the web, searching for news of Austin and Mary’s pending nuptials. I would tell my clients to stop, that it’s not helpful and even destructive. But I do it anyway. Once again, I find nothing.
I switch over to my email. Nothing there worth reading, either.
I may as well go to bed, but it’s only six and I’m not the least bit tired. If it wasn’t dark and wet outside, I’d stroll over to the lake and watch the geese duck in and out of the water. I wonder what Knox is doing alone in his farmhouse, if he’s working on that book of his, or if he’s bored like I am. I’m tempted to drive over there just to see, but I don’t have his address. Probably for the best. Last thing he needs is me showing up, uninvited. I could go to town, but what would I do once I got there? There’s a bar in the Ghost Inn, a gorgeously remodeled building from the 1800s. I heard somewhere that the new owners spent nearly a million dollars on furnishings alone.
And just like that, I have a burning desire to see it for myself. I quickly change out of my sweats into a pair of jeans and a presentable sweater and hop in my car. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on a stool, waiting for a Fool’s Gold, a jumped-up version of a margarita with mezcal and jalapeño-infused tequila.
The place really is spectacular. Dark and moody, with lots of cow rugs and brick walls. There’s a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace, and Miles Davis is playing on the sound system, which seems somewhat incongruous with the whole Old West vibe of the town. But sophisticated is okay by me.
The bar is pretty quiet, just a couple canoodling in the corner and a few men—who, judging by their plaid shirts, are local—at the other end of the bar. At this rate, it’ll take a century to recoup the million bucks the owners sunk into the renovation. But maybe it’s too early. Maybe the real action starts after eight. No doubt the hotel and bar will be packed to the gunnels next weekend for the Halloween crowd.
My Fool’s Gold appears, and I order the chips and guacamole, even though I made myself a frozen pizza for dinner before I came.
“You on break from the old ball and chain tonight?” asks the bartender, a woman in her mid-twenties with a bough of flowers tattooed across her chest and flaming red hair not found in nature.
“Uh, I’m divorced.”
“From Austin?” She does a double take. “When did that happen?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say,Do I know you?She doesn’t look even a tiny bit familiar. The only time I’ve been in the Ghost Inn was to have a peek while contractors were gutting the place. Austin and I had gotten burritos at Flacos, and I was curious about the work, so I popped in and wandered around until someone told me the hotel was closed for renovations. That was at least two years ago.
There’s a chance she saw one of my talks or read one of my books and thinks she knows all about me. It’s not at all unusual with public people. And while I’m not Jay-Z or Bey-oncé, I have touched a number of lives.
She reaches across the bar and squeezes my hand. “Let me get those chips and guac for you, and I’ll be right back.”
One of the men on the other side of the bar flags her over, and she’s gone, leaving me alone to enjoy my drink.
The couple in the corner have gone from canoodling to arguing. They’re trying to keep their voices down, but I’m still able to catch snippets of their conversation, which is getting exponentially louder.
She wants him to stop something, and he swears he will but that she should stop nagging him. I never get to find out what the “something” is, because the bartender returns with my chips and another drink, making it impossible to eavesdrop.
“From Calvin and the guys,” she says, and motions down the bar at the men in plaid. “They heard about you and Austin and are really sorry.”
By “heard about,” I assume she means she told them, along with who I am and what I do for a living. I’m sure the irony of it wasn’t lost on them, either. Don’t get me wrong, the drink is an incredibly sweet gesture, but I’m mortified.
“I shouldn’t have come here alone,” I say, realizing that I’ve said it aloud. But I don’t want these guys getting the wrong idea that I’m here, looking for a hookup.
The bartender laughs. “Of course you should’ve. We’re your friends, Chelsea. I mean, we love Austin, too. But we want to be there for both of you.”
Friends? To be honest, I don’t have too many friends, unless you count Austin, which I don’t anymore. And while Ghost makes a good chunk of its change off tourism, the townies don’t exactly love us flatlanders, who’ve flocked here from the Bay Area, hiking their once-affordable housing into the stratosphere.Don’t lovemay actually be an understatement; they hate our guts.
And now the bartender is acting like we’re all the greatest of pals. I don’t even know her name. I swivel in my barstool and give Calvin and the plaid shirts a thank-you wave, then turn back to the bartender, who has parked herself in front of me on the other side of the bar.
The angry couple is leaving, and the man mutters something to the bartender about putting their tab on their hotel bill. He calls her Katie, which is helpful.
Katie follows them with her eyes as they leave the bar. “Looks like they could use a couple of sessions with you. I give them a year max.”
“I only caught snippets. What were they fighting about?” I don’t know why I ask. I’m on vacation and not looking for a busman’s holiday. I suppose there’s something soothing, though, about focusing on someone else’s dumpster fire of a relationship instead of my own.
“He’s been day trading, using the kids’ college funds. The wife found out about it from their financial planner, who noticed some discrepancies in their bank accounts.” Katie pulls a face. “First-world problems, if you ask me.”
“How’d you get all that?”
