Page 45 of Nothing Less than Magic
“She blames you for something in her past.” Misty squeezes my hands. She’s focused, frustrated. “I can’t see it. It’s not coming to me.”
“For leaving her when I went away to boarding school?”
“Yes. But it’s something else, something more significant,” Misty says.
“For her marriage? For the record, I thought her marrying Brent was a terrible idea. A disaster waiting to happen.”
“Maybe her marriage . . . or her divorce. It’s there . . . right in front of me . . . I just can’t see it. Give me a second.”
“Does it have something to do with Uncle Sylvester?”
“Shush.”
My palms are sweaty from Misty holding them so tightly, but I don’t dare pull them away. I can feel each second tick away in the pit of my stomach.
“Ugh, I still don’t see it.” Misty loosens her grip.
“Well, don’t give up.”
Misty opens her eyes. “You put up a lot of blocks. It’s like concrete inside of you. It’s hard to get through.” She lets go of my hands. “I need a break.”
She stands up and paces the living room. “I think we’re done for today.”
“But we were so close.”
She pins me with a look and shakes her head. “I’ll give you some exercises to do, stuff that will help you let down your guard. Because until you get rid of the concrete, I can’t get through. And it’s exhausting.”
“Sorry.” I don’t fully understand what I’m apologizing for, but it seems like the right thing to say.
She goes off through a hallway, leaving me alone, only to return a few minutes later with a packet of papers that she hands to me. “Follow these instructions every night before you go to sleep and come back in a week.”
“I don’t have a week. I’m leaving on Friday to go back to San Francisco. Then I have a speaking engagement in New Mexico.”
“Can’t you postpone it?”
“It’s sold out. I can’t just not show up. It would be the height of irresponsibility.”
“Okay. Come on Friday before you leave. But there’s no guarantees. You’re a tough nut to crack.”
I reach for my purse and rifle around inside the front compartment for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
She waves her hand at me. “I’ll bill you at the end.”
I drive down the mountain, going fifteen miles an hour with my heart in my mouth.
Chapter 11
The first thing I do when I get inside the cabin is call Lolly. I’ll just ask her myself.What’s been eating you these past few years? What did I do besides leave for boarding school to make you hate me?
We would’ve gotten it all out in the open if she hadn’t been rushed away over Taylor’s pukefest, anyway. I can persuade her to meet me in New Mexico. Santa Fe. We can go to a luxurious resort in Santa Fe after my lecture. My treat. And talk until the cows come home.
But after five rings and Lolly’s voice telling me to leave a message, I say, “Call me,” and hang up. It’s almost five o’clock; she’s probably at one of the kids’ soccer games or at happy hour with some of her Malibu Barbie friends. For the record, that’s what she calls them, not me.
I guess I should think about dinner, but I’m still recovering from the drive down the mountain, which was somewhat better than the drive up. Still, my stomach didn’t like either.
Just the same, I pop my head inside the fridge. It looks like Knox made a good start on the leftover pasta. When I feel like it, I’ll eat the rest. For now, though, just another glass of wine. There’s a bottle of white from the other night in the door, and I pour myself a healthy serving.
I remember the wreath that’s still in my back seat and go outside to get it. Somewhere in the junk drawer, there’s one of those adhesive hooks that advertises that it won’t leave a mark. I stick it to the front door and hang my new wreath with its miniature orange and white pumpkins and inhale the fresh scent of juniper. Voila. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart.
