Page 10 of The Lovers
I’m pulling off the freeway when Zoe FaceTimes me. I’ve ignored her last few texts, something I never do, which immediately signals suspicious behavior.
“You’re in the car.” She squints into her camera to get a better look at me. The phone is on the dash in my hands-free holder, so she can easily see the scenery behind me. “I recognize that hill of sand and scrub. You’re almost to Joshua Tree. Oh!” she exclaims. “That was a Joshua tree you just passed. You’re basically here.”
“Did you confirm that Millie secured entertainment for this evening?” I don’t have a roster of tarot readers to draw from, but I do have Google and I will use it in a pinch.
“If you had looked at my texts…” she begins, her tone playful despite the annoyance flaring up her nostrils and making her already massive eyes bug out a little.
“I was driving,” I say. “That’s illegal.”
“Ha, wow, you text and drive all the time, Julia,” she says with a grunt of amusement. “The other day you texted while driving with your eyes slightly dilated.” I don’t need glasses, but sometimes stress makes me think I do, which leads to an eye exam that is largely unwarranted.
“You’re straying from topic,” I counter. She huffs.
“Yes, Millie confirmed Mystic Maven last night.”
I cough, choking on a laugh that catches in my throat. “What a name.”
“She’s really good,” Zoe says coyly.
“I didn’t know you were into that stuff.” I have one eye on the road, but the other is focused on her and the way she’s squirming at being found out.
“This is LA.” She shrugs. “Everyone is looking for answers in the stars.” Or the cards, if you’re consulting tarot. When my face screws up again, she rolls her eyes. “Anyway, what I’m getting at here is that you did not have to leave until at least noon. I am holding down Homebase just fine.”
Homebaseis what we call the central meeting point at any wedding venue, on location for a whole weekend or just for a single day at a single site. For the Morgan-Hayden wedding, it’s my hotel room. I feel a pang of remorse in my gut that Zoe thinks I’m coming in early because I don’t trust her. “It’s not about whether you can handle it or not. This wedding has a lot riding on it for me. I just need to personally make sure all goes well.”
Zoe’s face softens and she nods. “See you soon.”
In the time I’ve been talking to her, the number of Joshua trees sprouting from the sand has multiplied exponentially. I can almost see the outline of Celestial Sands in the distance. I’m not a person with a sixth sense. My five normal ones work great, but trying to stretch beyond those is like trying to dig up concrete with a shovel. I wish I could reach out now and sense whether Piper has arrived yet, how she is feeling, if she knows I’m the wedding planner. When we split I said I’d rather eat glass than ever see her again, but Piper promised worse.Vindictiveis a word I’d use to describe her.Cutthroat, too. And scorned, carrying a grudge, she might be lethal.
It’s nothing I can’t handle. I just wish I could make a plan of attack ahead of time.
I pull off the road to a more rugged dirt path. I rented an all-terrain vehicle for this weekend, used my per diem for the expense. My Jag would not be able to handle this rustically magical setting.
Celestial Sands was built from an existing estate once owned by a TV medium from the late ’80s. The home was designed with spiritual flow in mind. Drawing on Asian and Moroccan influences in its sculptures, carved trim, stained glass windows, organic contours, log-beamed ceilings, and colored tilework, the original main house was a five-bedroom oasis of tranquil energy and artistic embellishment. It was turned into a hotel in the early 2000s, at which point they added multiple guesthouses, a yurt, and even a few luxe-designed Airstream trailers.
The gate into the property opens, and I pull through onto the winding road that leads to the entrance. The green canopy feels like a jungle oasis in the middle of this desertscape, unfolding into a succulent garden planted around an ornate fountain plumingfrom the center. I then take a curve in the drive that directs me through a grove of date trees, which clears to reveal the white stucco cutout design of the Celestial Sands entrance.
Two strapping males wave me forward, both wearing loose, heavily patterned pants and thin tank tops. One has a septum piercing, the other a smattering of tattoos. Both have buff pecs and biceps. They wear woven raffia sun hats to stave off the heat, and sunglasses to protect their eyes. As soon as I stop the car, they shoot into action. Opening my door, welcoming me in, asking if these are all my bags.
“Julia Kelley, arriving for the Morgan-Hayden wedding,” I say, unhooking my phone from the charger and climbing out. I’m dressed in jeans and a crisp pin-striped button-down—my go-todressed down but still on dutylook. The jeans ride up my ass and I adjust them. This guy, the driver’s side greeter, notices.
“Just the bag in the trunk, plus the garment bag hanging,” I say, ignoring his interest. “I can take this monstrosity.” I yank out my catch-all purse. It’s vegan leather, covered in pockets, and still manages to look sleek, sophisticated but practical. I hate it, and not just because I bought it with careful guidance from my ex-girlfriend. It’s form and function on all points. It’s also boring as fuck.
“We were told you’d be arriving soon.” The driver’s side greeter extends a small envelope that is clearly made from that compostable paper you can plant to sprout wildflowers.Nice.Millie’s guests will love this detail. “Room information and key inside. We’ll make sure your bags arrive shortly.”
I feel a small smile creep up. There’s nothing like pro greeters at an on-location wedding venue. When the staff is well trained, our events always run more smoothly. They are easier tocoordinate with and are usually willing to work with us to problem solve while also not getting in our way when we can handle it on our own.
I hoist my purse over my shoulder and walk through the double door entrance into the lobby. My eyes take a second to adjust to the new dimness of this room. Furnishings sit low and sexy—it’s the only way I know how to describe them. Mixed textures, velvets, burlap, funky glass sculptures, candles. A grouping of Reiki singing bowls are situated on a round table at the entrance with a sign that saysUNLEASH YOUR SONG. The interior designer is famous for his mixed-media approach to décor, utilizing sculpture, glass, antiques, and modern one-of-a-kind pieces.
My eyes search the room while I walk. There’s a sunflower-yellow-painted fireplace decorated with brightly colored lanterns hanging in a staggered pattern in front of it. On the wall is a towering piece of colorful artwork. To the left are double doors covered in velvet and studded with iron buttons. They lead to Oasis, the main bar and lounge on the property. I peek inside as I pass, curious.
Sleek dark countertops. Low light. Candles.
And Piper Cunningham, a ray of sun in the atmospheric, dreamy space.
She looksgood. Her long red hair is up in a tight pony, cascading over her bare left shoulder. She wears a light green strapless jumpsuit that makes her creamy, freckled skin glow. Her breasts mound, full and soft, showing tasteful cleavage beneath the strands of gold chains around her neck.
Her lips are the perfect red.
