Chapter 9 KELSEY LOSES AN EYE
Chapter 9
K ELSEY L OSES AN E YE
By the time I leave Good Brew, which was anything but, the sun has slanted enough that I can’t see into the windows of the other businesses.
I shield my eyes from the glare and drop into the driver’s seat of my car, pulling up a map to see where I should go next.
Do I try again? Or call it a day?
I’m in range to make it to Arizona. I didn’t book hotels because, for one, this was a very last-minute trip, and two, I wasn’t sure when I might end up stopping for a while if something worked.
It definitely isn’t going to be in Briston, Nevada.
On the map, just across the border to Arizona, I spot a lodge and a bar not far off the interstate.
Done.
I like the idea of meeting my future husband at a lodge. We could go there for every anniversary.
The tires crunch as I pull away from the crumbling curb and leave the town of bad coffee, feeling optimistic despite the failure. I got the first attempt out of the way, and didn’t spoil any real prospects with my missteps.
This is good, right?
Totally good.
I go back to my girl-power playlist and sing along.
As the afternoon wears on, I subsist on snack mix and warm Diet Coke. My hybrid switches to gas, but there’s nothing anywhere by way of a charging station on this tiny highway, so I let it go.
When I pull up to the Pitchfork Lodge, I wonder if I’ve made the right choice. It’s rustic and small town, but the aesthetic is heavy on taxidermy. Huge antlers make a rather ominous archway at the entrance, and every window has a stuffed bear in it, looking out, jaws open, arms up.
I sit in my car a full minute trying to gather the gumption to go in.
Come on, Kelsey. It’s miles to anywhere else.
I blow out a breath and reach in the back for the smaller overnight bag I prepared so I didn’t have to haul a big suitcase around. I need to be nimble in case I happen to trip and fall into someone’s arms, or have to hurry to catch up with someone so I can then trip and fall.
Or reach for the same magazine in the lobby. Or perhaps a cup at the water station.
So many possibilities.
But as I enter beneath the antler arch, I wonder if I’ve stumbled into Gaston’s lair from Beauty and the Beast . Inside, everything is rough-hewn wood. The floor is covered with rugs made of dead animals, and there are so many glass eyes. So many.
There isn’t a single woman anywhere, but quite a few men lounge about, all holding big beer steins.
Some are in jeans, real-life distressed, not artificially, mostly Levi’s, $55. Others are in camouflage, and definitely not Co?t De La Liberté, which clocks in at $1,900. A couple of the men sport full coveralls. I can’t put a price on those.
One is cleaning a shotgun, right there in the lobby.
I consider backing out slowly, but really, this is a meet-cute waiting to happen. I don’t have to marry them. It’s practice.
So, I swing my day bag around, planning to have it bump my leg so I can take a cute, controlled tumble right into the middle of them all.
And see who catches me.
But I misjudge the weight of the bag. It knocks me off kilter, and I reach out to grab anything I can to steady myself. My hands wrap around the stiff, creepy fur of a stuffed beaver.
I let go, and the dead critter starts to tumble. I drop my bag to snatch at him, but I’m not quite fast enough, and he topples.
He hits the ground with a crash of his heavy base on the hardwood floor, and one of his glass eyes dislodges and rolls across the lobby.
“Oh, God,” I say, scrambling across the wood planks to capture the errant marble, feeling the air on the backs of my thighs. I’m bent over too far for a short skirt and probably flashing the whole room, trying to trap the glass eye with my hands.
I finally nab it, although my knees crack against the floor with a bone-jarring thud. The beaver is still on the ground, right next to my ridiculously Barbie-pink bag.
I would like to die now.
Someone clears their throat. Then several somebodies.
I look up, and no fewer than six men are offering their hands to help me get up. A couple of them jostle each other for position.
Well. Okay.
I take them in. Two have wedding bands. I’ll skip those. One fits the bill for Gaston, with shiny black hair and a rock-hard jaw.
But next to him is a boy next door, clean cut and sandy blond with the bluest eyes. His expression is earnest and concerned, while Gaston is bemused.
Boy Next Door, it is.
I take his hand, and the others step back.
Okay. They’re gentlemen.
“You all right?” Boy Next Door’s voice is like melted butter.
“Yeah,” I say. “A little embarrassed. There’s nothing like taking a fall in front of an audience.” But even as I say it, I’m singing inside. It worked!
The man releases me to set the beaver back on the table. “I told Watson he needed to bolt down the critters. He doesn’t listen.”
“I have his eye.” I hold out the glass ball.
He takes it. “Scottie is losing his touch if his eyes aren’t staying put.” He pops it into the beaver’s empty socket.
“His name is Scottie?”
The man turns. “The beaver? No. He’s Ace. Scottie is the taxidermist in town. He did all the work in here, other than the rugs. His wife handles those.”
Wow. The couple who skins together, wins together, I guess.
“So, the beaver really does have a name?” I ask.
“For sure. All the critters do. You want a tour?”
A tour of the taxidermy? I glance at the entrance, then the front desk, where an older man watches with what my daddy would call a shit-eating grin.
“I haven’t checked in.”
“Oh, Watson can wait.” He calls out, “Can’t ya, Watson?”
The man shrugs.
“See?” He picks up my bag. “We’ll set this behind the counter for a minute. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
I guess I’m staying.
“I’m Kelsey,” I say.
“Grant.” He holds out an elbow. “Shall I introduce you to the former wildlife of Pitchfork?”
“Sure.”
Why not? I slide my hand into the crook of his arm.
INT. PITCHFORK LODGE LOBBY—EVENING
GRANT, 25, good looking, outdoorsy, in jeans (Wrangler, $55) and a mint-green polo (Gap, $20), leads KELSEY, 25, blond, in a blue dress, around the various taxidermy of the lodge. They smile at each other. It’s a meet-cute.
Grant points over the fireplace to a deer head with an enormous rack. “So that one is Buck the First.”
“Buck, really?”
He looks confused. “Male deer are bucks.”
“I know—I meant that’s sort of on the nose.”
Grant tilts his head. “There’s something on his nose?”
All right. The bulb might be a little dim.
It’s practice, Kelsey. Just practice.
“Never mind. Is there a Buck the Second?”
He whirls us around. “Right over here.” We walk to a side wall, where another deer is centered in a bookshelf, otherwise filled with leather-bound volumes.
“Buck the Second likes to read?”
“What makes you think he likes to read?”
“He’s by the books.”
“Oh.” Grant takes in the shelves like he’s never noticed their contents before.
Whew, boy.
Grant leads us to the back corner with a collection of smaller animals.
They must be older than the beaver, because their fur seems to be rubbing off, making them look like they have mange. Or maybe something has been slowly eating them.
Grant gestures to the animals. “Here we have Scrubby the Squirrel, Rudy the Raccoon, and Freddy the Fox.”
“I guess alliteration makes it easier to remember.”
Grant’s expression collapses into confusion. “You lit what?”
I should stop trying. “I like their names.”
His face brightens. “Me too!”
Yeah, I’ll be racing out of town in the morning.
I turn to a shelf with a second beaver, much larger than the one I knocked over. “What about him?”
This sends a roar of laughter through the room. We’ve apparently been the subject of everyone’s attention.
“That one’s a girl beaver,” someone shouts.
“Tell her, G-spot!” says another voice.
“G-spot”? I assume they mean Grant. I really don’t want to know the origin of that nickname. At least, I think I don’t.
He is pretty.
“Nah.” His cheeks pink up adorably. “We’ll skip that one. Let’s go look at the bears.”
I have a feeling whatever this beaver is named is not going to be very female-friendly. There aren’t any women here.
I don’t feel uncomfortable right now, though, so I head for the front windows, my arm still tucked in Grant’s elbow.
“Who is this?” I ask when we arrive at the bear I first saw from the parking lot.
“Horndog.” His face gets pinker.
I pretend not to get it and point to the one on the other side of the front doors. “And that one?”
“Dick.” He’s gone beet red.
“I see.” I turn us away. “Thank you for that very educational tour. I should check in.” I release him. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll be down here.”
I wonder where they’re refilling their beer. “Is there a restaurant?”
“There’s a bar through those swinging doors. They have burgers and chicken wings.”
Of course they do. “Great. That sounds good.”
“You want to have dinner, like, with me, maybe? No big deal, just down here?”
The room goes quiet. The man at the front desk pretends to sort through a drawer of plastic key cards.
I hesitate. Do I want to have a burger and beer with G-spot under the watchful gaze of Horndog and Dick?
It’s what I’m here for.
“Sure,” I say. “Is seven good?”
“Yeah,” he says. “See you at seven.”
He wanders back over to the circle of chairs by the fireplace. Several men reach out to give him high fives.
“G-spot’s gettin’ lucky tonight,” one of them says.
They’re not even trying to be subtle.
“Can I book a room?” I ask Watson, assuming that’s actually his name. They seem to like their nicknames here at the Pitchfork Lodge.
“Sure. How many nights?”
“Just the one.”
At that, the men burst out laughing. “Better make it a good one, G-spot. She’s a runner.”
I pass Watson my credit card, and he scans a key. “Second floor. Elevator’s busted. Stairs are behind this wall.” He aims his thumb behind him. “Right beyond Dick.”
Awesome. “Thanks.” I take my key and reach behind the desk to grab my pink bag. I’m glad that I didn’t roll in the larger luggage. It would have been a beast to get up the stairs. I avert my eyes from Dick the Bear as I pass by.
Once I’m in my room, fake-wood paneled and decorated with paintings of ducks, I flop back on the bed.
It might not be smooth or easy following a fortune teller’s directions across the country to find true love, but I’m doing it.