Page 20 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Actually, he didn’t show up today. I think he’s working on his book. But I have something for him. You wouldn’t happen to know the address of his family’s farm, would you?”
“Well, of course I do. It’s out on Old Ranch Road. Come inside, and I’ll draw you a map.”
I follow her into the shop, which smells like a combination of eucalyptus, apples, and cinnamon spice. The wall behind the counter is filled with autumn wreaths made with tiny pumpkins and colored leaves.
While the woman goes in the back room to find a pen, I look for a trash can to toss my caramel corn, which wasn’t as tasty as it looked.
I’ve never been in the floral shop (I didn’t even know Ghost had one) and take the time to explore. It’s lovely and clearly does a brisk business, judging by the refrigerator case filled with floral arrangements of all kinds.
My face is practically pressed to the glass, counting the bouquets and vases, when the woman returns. “We’ve got two weddings, and all the hotels and restaurants in the area want flowers for the parade.”
It makes sense, given how many people will flood the town this weekend, many of whom will stay the night and eat here.
“You do good work,” I tell her.
She beckons me over to the counter, where she’s drawing a rudimentary map on the back of an old receipt. “It’s a little hard to find. Do yourself a favor and don’t use your GPS. Otherwise, the dang thing will get you hopelessly lost. Best to follow the map.”
“Okay,” I say, though her map is unintelligible, just a series of squiggly lines. To be frank, I don’t even know where Old Ranch Road is.
She slides the scrap of paper across the counter at me. “Look, we all know about you and Austin. I’m very sorry, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” She looks up at me and lets out a breath. “Am I being too forward? My husband is always telling me that I need to shut my mouth.”
“You’re not being too forward.” She is, but I’m too curious to care. “Why weren’t you surprised?”
“Because every time I saw the two of you together, you seemed perpetually unhappy. Miserable, actually.”
Unhappy? Miserable? Ha, I don’t bother to tell her that Austin is the one who dumped me. Until then, I was blissfully happy. Okay,blissfullymay be an exaggeration. But I loved him. Sure, there were times I felt lonely, even unseen, but I’ve studied enough marriages to know that’s perfectly normal. Every day can’t be a honeymoon. All that mattered was we were well on our way to having the life we’d carefully planned. In my marriage courses, I call it the threeSs. Stability, safety, and satisfaction. That’s what it takes for a successful marriage.
And I thought we’d knocked it out of the park, made it look easy. I guess I was wrong.
“Hon, when you’ve been married as long as I have, you know what the face of misery looks like. I see it every morning in the mirror.”
“Then why do you stay?” I ask.
She hitches her shoulders. “Kids, guilt, the hope that if I hang on, I won’t be seen as a failure.”
But there’s more. I see it in her eyes. Desolation, hurt, betrayal.
“You should attend one of my lectures.”
“I read one of your books once.” She makes a face that says she was less than impressed.
“I take it it wasn’t helpful.”
“The picture of you on the jacket was nice, though.” She smiles and points to my ponytail. “You ought to wear it down, like it is on the book, more often.”
I should be crushed but oddly appreciate her candor—about my book, not my hair.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work for you,” I say.
“Hey, you win some and you lose some. How long are you up for?”
“At least a week.” I have another nine days before my lecture in Albuquerque.
“Nice. If you find yourself with nothing to do Wednesday night, a few of us ladies meet for happy hour at the Ghost Inn. You should join us.”
“I might just do that,” I say, but probably won’t, because I don’t even know her. “Thank you for the invite.”
Before I leave, I buy one of the autumn wreaths to hang on the cabin’s front door, then head back to the car. A few minutes later, I’m on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, worried that I made a wrong turn. I pull over on the shoulder and study the map, not even sure if I have it turned the wrong way. Reading maps is not one of my skill sets, and this one is more like hieroglyphics on the side of an ancient monument than something you’d find in Rand McNally. But I see a mailbox up ahead that looks similar to the florist’s diagram, so I persevere, tempted to ignore her advice and turn on the GPS.
