Page 19 of Nothing Less than Magic
I find the bottle in my nightstand drawer and wash down three tablets with water from the bathroom sink. It’s funny, I think as I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, that the swelling and bruising in my face is gone. My skin looks the same as it did before the accident, which I take as a positive sign. It means I’m a good healer.
I plop down on the sofa and switch through the TV channels while I dissect every word of my conversation with Austin. Who knew he was so judgy? What’s it to him if I want to hang out in bars? It’s not like he and I painted the town red when we were together. Most nights, we were too tired to have an in-depth conversation, let alone grab a drink at the cute Irish pub down the street from our condominium. Maybe I’m making up for lost time.
Then it occurs to me that the one thing he didn’t ask me about, the one thing that would’ve meant the most to me, is about the twenty-fourth anniversary of my parents’ death. While there’s always been a pact between us that we don’t talk about it (my rule, not his), he knows the date as well as I do. He can set his clock by it. Every October it’s the same. The melancholy sets in around the twelfth, and on the actual day of their death, I basically go MIA. No speaking engagements, no book signings. No professional or social interactions whatsoever.
And to ease my pain, Austin sends me a bouquet of white calla lilies, my mother’s favorite. It’s his way of silently commemorating their death with me, so I don’t have to talk about it. Even last year, in the midst of our breakup, the flowers came.
But this year, nothing. Not so much as a simple note like,I know today is difficult. Thinking of you.
It should convince me that he’s moved on, that we’re truly over. But instead, I find myself making up excuses for him. FTD doesn’t deliver this far out. He was distracted by my accident and forgot about my parents.
But the reality of it is he’s with someone else now. It would be disrespectful to Mary. How would I feel if my fiancé was still sending flowers to his ex-wife?
And for the first time, I let it sink in. Really sink in. I’m alone now, truly alone.
Chapter 6
Knox doesn’t come today. I keep expecting to hear the whir of the coffee grinder or to smell the scent of fresh brew coming from the kitchen.
I get up and make my own coffee and listen for any sign of him up on the roof. But other than a woodpecker tapping on the side of the cabin, it’s quiet. I peek out the front window for his truck, but the driveway is empty.
The man could’ve at least called. I take solace in the fact that there’s no rain in the immediate forecast.
It’s a good day to go to town, I decide. Though for the life of me, I don’t know what I’ll do once I get there.
I dress warmly and grab a coat and hat on the way out. A slight breeze ruffles my hair, and I let myself inhale the crisp air. It’ll be good to be out and about, rather than stuck inside the cabin all day.
The driveway is rutted with big potholes from all the rain we’ve been having, and I make a mental note to add it to Knox’s honey-do list. That is if he still wants the work. I suspect he’s playing hooky from me today to dive into that book of his, which is good. Procrastination is more stress than it’s worth.
I skip the shorter route, a two-lane highway, for Miner’s Lane, a winding country road that acts as a detour to town. It’s more scenic, and there are fewer cars—not that Ghost has traffic. But since I don’t have anything to do today, I may as well take my time.
In the five years of owning the cabin, I’ve gone to town this way many times. Today, the lighting is almost dreamlike, awash in brilliant sunlight with pink and white stripes brushing the sky. Lush, green incense cedars dot the mountainsides, making me think of a Christmas card. And the water in Bear Creek is so clear that if I wasn’t paying attention to the road, I’d swear I could see the fish swimming all the way down to the rocky bottom.
There is definitely something to that old adage about taking time to smell the roses. Just a brief drive in the country has me humming along to the music on the radio. It’s a local station that plays everything from The Rolling Stones to Kacey Musgraves. Today, it’s Linda Ronstadt.
On the rare occasion Uncle Sylvester was home, he would play her music in the kitchen while making Lolly and me scrambled eggs and bacon. It’s one of the few memories I have of the three of us together. For the most part, Lolly and I were cared for by a string of nannies and babysitters. It wasn’t Uncle Sylvester’s fault. He hadn’t asked to be a father. But he’d stepped up when no one else did and took on two orphaned, traumatized little girls. He did the best he could.
I head to the public lot and park my car with no idea what to do next. Ultimately, I decide to stroll Main Street and window-shop. There’s a flurry of activity, city officials and volunteers making last-minute preparations for Saturday’s Halloween parade. Crowd-control barriers are being unloaded and stacked in an alleyway at the end of the street, and shopkeepers are changing out their window fronts to pick up on the themes of the scarecrow displays. It’s so small-town and quaint that it’s easy to forget that Ghost is only an hour away from the state’s capital and two hours away from San Francisco.
There’s a sweets shop on the corner that I don’t remember from previous visits. I’m still recuperating from last night’s chocolate binge, but it doesn’t stop me from going in for a look-see. Rows of bins offer up a variety of old-fashioned candies, and a series of glass showcases line the store with homemade fudge, chocolate-dipped fruit and pretzels, and at least ten different kinds of truffles. A freezer counter stands on the other side of the store with ice cream and gelato.
A pretty teenager in a pink-striped uniform that reminds me of the Hot Dog on a Stick cashiers at the mall Lolly and I used to frequent when we were kids wants to know if I’d like to try any of their two-dozen flavors.
“No thank you,” I say, but don’t leave empty-handed. On my way out, I buy a big bag of caramel corn, which I snack on as I slowly amble down the street, taking in all the activity.
The stores are a mishmash of touristy gift shops with the usual bric-a-brac and T-shirts, utilitarian mercantile that sells everything from kitchen gadgets to farm equipment, and clothing boutiques with designer jeans and three-hundred-dollar handbags. It’s that last one that offers the greatest clue that Ghost is transitioning from unassuming cow town to a chic vacation enclave for the wealthy. It’s happening all over rural California; Ghost just took a little more time to catch up.
Calvin, the guy who bought me a drink at the Ghost Inn the other night, waves from across the street. I turn to see if his greeting is meant for someone else, but there is no one behind me, so I wave back. He’s helping a group of men line the sidewalk with more straw bales, presumably so the parade spectators will have more places to sit close to the action.
A woman in an orange apron is arranging carved pumpkins on a small antique table outside a floral shop called Flower Power.
“Hey, Chelsea, you up for the weekend?”
“I am,” I say, even though I don’t recognize her. I’m learning that it’s just better to go with the flow. Besides, I rather enjoy feeling like I’m part of the fabric of this town. In San Francisco, I couldn’t pick my neighbors out of a police lineup. Other than the crazy lady who walks her cat on a leash and likes to complain about her various allergies, I haven’t said more than a few words to any of the residents in my building. Everyone is always in a rush.
“Beautiful pumpkins.” I crouch down to have a closer look at the intricate carvings of sunflowers, sprigs of wheat, and a fruit cornucopia, all backlit with battery-operated lights. Adorable.
“Thank you, but the credit goes to Ginger. She did the carvings.” The woman straightens and rests her hand at the small of her back. “Katie says Knox is working over at your place. When he’s done, send him over to mine.” She laughs.
