Page 42 of Nothing Less than Magic
I shower, then check for my itinerary from Ronnie. Still nothing. I’ll call her later, after I come back from town. But right now, I’m on a mission.
Instead of the scenic route, I take the highway to Ghost, park, and climb the hill to the florist shop. Sadie is behind the counter, and a red-haired lady, who I presume is Ginger, is removing thorns from more than a dozen long-stem roses at a table in the corner.
Both women greet me like we’re the oldest of friends. I still haven’t gotten used to how warm and chatty everyone is.
Sadie and Ginger are deep in conversation about a local boy who rescued a dog from drowning in the river and nearly got swept under himself. At the last minute, he managed to hang onto a branch until help arrived. Apparently, it is headline news in theGhost Advocate, in which the boy is being hailed as a hero.
“I’d whoop his ass if he were my kid,” Ginger says. “Risking his life like that for a damned dog. Boy ought to have his head examined.”
“That dog is probably his best friend. Wouldn’t you save your best friend?” Sadie looks over at me with a conspiratorial smile. “What’s a matter with you, Ginger? Grow a heart.”
Ginger gives a dismissive swat of her hand. “You people and your dogs. Give me a cat any day.”
Sadie shakes her head. “What brings you in today, Chelsea? Because if you’re looking for something to do, Ginger and I will put you to work.”
“Not today. I was actually hoping you could help me with something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m looking for someone. Her name is Misty, and she had a booth at the farmers’ market yesterday.”
“What was she selling?” Sadie asks. “The name isn’t familiar.”
“She does palm readings, fortune-telling, that kind of thing.”
“I know her,” Ginger says, and makes the crazy sign with her finger. “Used to work up at the hospital when I was taking Floyd in for treatments. Now she does the woo-woo thing. Nuts, if you ask me.”
Sadie shakes her head at Ginger “Don’t listen to her. Why are you looking for this woman?”
“Uh, we got to talking at the market, and she seemed interesting, that’s all.”
The door chimes, and a customer walks in, pulling Sadie away. The client wants a fall assortment to give as a hostess gift, and Sadie is rattling off a list of flower options.
“She has a place up on the ridge,” Ginger says. “An old bungalow that’s about ready to fall down, where she keeps office hours.” She shakes her head. “I use the termofficelightly. I can give you directions if you want.”
“Yes, please.”
Ten minutes later, I’m taking a grade so steep above Ghost, I keep one hand on my emergency brake. Had I’d known Misty’s bungalow was this high up, I would’ve waited for the next farmers’ market. I’d turn around if there was a place to do it, but the road is so narrow and twisty, my only option is to go full-bore ahead.
Don’t look down.
If I do, I’ll make myself sick. I try to distract myself by searching address signs. Ginger thinks Misty’s is in the 900s. Two minutes ago, I passed 640. Not too much farther, I tell myself.
I bet it’s pretty up here; I bet if I were brave enough to look down, I’d see the whole valley stretched out before me. Lakes and rivers, even irrigation ponds that dot the landscape like freckles.
Keep your eyes on the addresses.
I only have a vague description of what I’m looking for. A decrepit bungalow, which may or may not have Misty’s shingle hung out front. Ginger wasn’t altogether sure. Most of the homes are perched above an ancient stone retaining wall covered in green moss. I’m sure the views are spectacular, but who the hell builds on the side of a mountain?
I follow the switchback and hold my breath as I ascend even higher. This has got to be the universe thumbing its nose at me. As the road starts to plateau, I see it on the right. Misty’s shingle, a wooden sign that says MADAMMISTY, UNIVERSALDIVINER.
There’s a small, empty driveway and I pull into it, taking a moment to collect myself before cutting the engine. As soon as my pulse returns to normal, I grab my purse and head up the driveway. Ginger wasn’t kidding; the place is a dump. The front porch alone should be condemned.
I take the steps gingerly and ring the bell, which doesn’t work, so I try the knocker, a bronze mermaid. The fact that there is no car in front (I did not see a garage) tells me there’s no one home. But I stand there waiting anyway, not ready to get back in the car. I’m never making this drive again.
I’m just about to give up when the door flies open, and it’s her. Misty. She’s wearing a pair of leggings and a poet’s blouse, her hair pulled back in a messy bun held together with a giant clip.
“Sorry to just drop in like this.” I stand there awkwardly, wishing I’d rehearsed something better to say.
