Chapter 2 #2
“I said I see the place, but maybe this isn’t the right place?
” I ask, my hope petering out as I squint up at the large farmhouse ahead.
Stones. Lots of stones with moss peeking out, and a large wraparound wood porch with rocking chairs, under the orange glow of the aging day.
At the moment my mom starts talking, my eyes land on a small, worn sign, barely hanging onto an aged piece of wood. My lips move as I read, SABLE SKY INN.
“You’re in the right place. 118924 Turnbull Road.” She pauses. “Why did you go quiet?”
Rustic maroon metal awnings protect each window, and around the perimeter are lots of green plants and even a few tall trees blooming over the top of the old tin roof.
There are no other vehicles around, not that I can see, but smoke plumes from the chimney in short bursts, so years of watching Matlock on the couch while being fake sick tell me someone’s in there.
Dahmer, maybe.
No, Dahmer’s dead.
Not wanting my mom to worry because if there is one thing Diane Farley can do, it’s get anxiety so bad I can feel it from states away.
I clear my throat and put on a smile that she can’t see, but one she’ll definitely be able to hear.
“Oh, it’s quaint. It’s charming. Really…
adorable,” I say, smiling like a complete weirdo alone in my car, luggage and camera junk stacked to the roof.
Shifting back into drive, I slowly approach the edge of the property as my mom lets out a sigh of relief.
At least when I get my organs harvested in this place, she won’t be worrying about it.
She’ll be watching Love Is Blind with Lane while knitting her hundredth pot holder that doesn’t even work because she buys the wrong yarn. Seriously.
“Oh good, good. I’m so relieved. And I’m glad you got there. You made great time,” she says, then ends the call with, “go get comfortable. Call me before bed.”
Ending the call, I shift into park just as a gigantic chicken appears from behind the house, pecking its way toward me.
“Damn, that thing is big,” I comment, my throat tightening as it screams an awful angry-sounding cluck at me.
Popping open my car door, I step out, the pungent scent of manure hitting my nose immediately.
I bring my finger beneath my nostrils and inhale the scent of my body lotion—cashmere and strawberries. Ahh, it’s heaven in a bottle, I swear.
With the heel of my new adorable pink cowboy boots, I nudge the car door closed and bend down to greet my new friend who is rapidly approaching.
He’s going to stop and I’m going to pet him.
Right?
“Whoa, whoa there, Mr. Welcome Wagon,” I greet warily, my voice shaking like a scared city girl with a mean chicken about to peck her lights out is running full speed at her.
Just like that.
Reaching out, preparing to stroke it or choke it—I was a poet before I was a filmmaker—I step back. I take another few steps back, but the chicken keeps coming.
The chicken is now charging me.
I wasn’t really going to choke the chicken. I can’t hurt an animal, even if it has evil beaming from its beady little eyes and its claws are coming at me like homicidal lava.
I am not getting attacked by some fucking Hulk-sized chicken. No way. “Hey! Hey! You little monster!!” I scream, running in circles around the car as this devil chicken pecks at the heels of my new pink boots. “Quit! Quit or I’ll turn you into nuggets, asshole!”
This chicken apparently consumed pre-workout this morning. I jump onto the hood of my 1997 shitmobile and pull my knees to my chest, trying to catch my breath.
I walk on the walking pad for three miles a day and take runs here and there, but I’m not cut out for escaping death.
The chicken squawks—or crows? Whatever the hell chickens do—and its beady little eyes seem to be set right on me. I think it smells my hatred of it. Or maybe just my fear of being pecked to death before I have the chance to make this film and show Devin and Camel Toe what I can really do.
A sharp whistle sounds, and I jerk my head up in time to spot an older woman, arm braced on the door of the inn, her white hair down and wild.
She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles again, making the chicken cast one last hateful glare (in my opinion) before turning around and pecking its way back to the house.
The woman saunters off the porch and extends a hand to me, helping me down off the hood of my car.
The devil chicken hovers on the porch, obedient now that the chicken whisperer is here.
Thank goodness. My eyes fall to the tiny cursive Sable Sky Inn logo embroidered on the left corner of her apron, smudged with many colorful things.
Questionable and colorful. I dust my hands along my thighs, which catches her gaze.
A judgmental stare dusts my bare thighs, and coasts along the raw hem of my denim skirt.
She actually laughs out loud when she looks at my boots.
How rude.
I clear my throat, and utterly loathe the way red floods the apples of my cheeks.
I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of getting under my skin if she’s making fun of me, but I can’t help it.
My pale skin—because not all places in California are super sunny, public service announcement—gives away every major emotion.
Sad? Red. Angry? Red. Embarrassed? Red. Drunk? Red. Horny? Red.
You get it.
“This is the Sable Sky Inn?” I ask, then outstretch my hand.
“I’m Quinn Farley. I booked a room online a couple weeks ago.
” She blinks at me, her mouth in a thin line, silent.
Irritation pricks at the base of my spine, burning up, up, up, until the back of my neck is on fire.
My jaw tics. She made fun of me. She laughed at my boots and now she’s being rude.
Well, conversationally rude, but still, that’s rude.
My nostrils flare. “I’m in the right place? ”
She nods. “Yep.” Her face changes as if she’s reading my mind, and she smiles. “I wasn’t teasing you. I love them.” She points at my boots, and my relief ripples through my shoulders, softening my stance.
“Oh.” I swallow against the surplus of idiocy and humiliation taking up my throat.
“I’m sorry, I just—” I shake my head, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, self-conscious now that I wore it down.
This is a ranch. Long, curled hair feels so inappropriate.
And my boots. My boots. I look at her feet—brown, ranching boots.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m doing this all wrong.
My head starts to spin, and I look up to find soft, kind eyes set on mine.
She reaches out, resting her hand on my arm.
“Hey, they’re adorable. I had a pair just like that when I was your age.
” Her smile is soft, and just what I need to see at this precise moment.
It’s like she knows it, too. “Come inside and I’ll dig out some photos.
You’ll get a hoot out of it. They’re exactly the same!
” she boasts, smiling as she links her arm with mine, walking us toward the stone house.
She nods. “I see you met Mr. McCharger.”
“Mister?” I ask, my feet starting to drag the nearer we get to that little demon bird. “I thought chickens are girls?”
She laughs. “They are. But that,” she says, wagging her finger at the fuckface on the porch. “Is a rooster. Roosters are males. That’s Mr. McCharger. He greets all the guests.”
I stop her. “Mr. McCharger?”
“He loves charging people,” she says, shaking her head like she’s just told me her toddler likes clanking two blocks together.
“I don’t like him. He seems mean.”
She laughs. “Oh, he is mean. Very.”
I glare at the bird as we pass him, entering inside the inn where I’m sure something of mine will be stolen, poisoned, or harvested. “Why is he Mr. McCharger instead of just McCharger?”
She closes the door behind me, and her face turns sad. “He had a partner.”
My hand flies over my mouth to catch my gasp. “Oh my god, he was a mister and he lost his missus?”
I think of that little fucker running at my ankles, screaming and pecking, trying to feel something. Trying to feel anything but the deep hole of his chicken wife’s death. Damn, life’s cruel.
“Yeah, but their memories are short. That was years ago.” She shrugs. “He’s always just been kind of a prick.”
I shake my head. “I like lovelorn better. Way better.”
She smiles. “You’re the filmmaker, you know how to tell a story. We can go with lovelorn.” Nodding toward the large room before us, she flicks on the light to reveal upgraded and modern insides, surprisingly utterly gorgeous. “Come on, I’ll show you those photos.” She smiles. “I’m Mabel.”
“Mabel Sable?” I wag my brows, wondering if I’m meeting some black sheep of the Sable family, the namesake of the town. Is this old lady some mysterious, discarded-by-asshole-rich-parents millionaire?
She laughs. “You know it.” Mabel grins, her weathered forehead wrinkling as she teases, “But just a coincidence. I’m unfortunately not the Scrooge McDuck of Sable Sky.”
Mabel gets us some drinks, and even produces a small but mighty charcuterie board.
We flip through old photos and get to know one another a little.
I learn that Mabel is from Sable Sky, has lived there her whole life, has yet to marry, has suffered a few broken hearts, and had a heart attack.
She refuses to tell me her age, but alludes to her retirement nearing.
I love Mabel, and her eagerness to know about me, to know that Devin cheated on me with another filmmaker in the agency of independent documentary filmmakers at United Broadcasting Service, where I work.
I told her that he came clean about it on my final days of filming, which I completely let impact my work.