Chapter 4
Chapter 4
I’m fast asleep when the phone rings. At first, I decide it’s a dream and roll over to drown out the sound of my cell vibrating on the nightstand. But the noise doesn’t stop, and I bolt upright, realizing it’s real and not a dream at all.
I glance at my alarm clock. It’s two in the morning. No one calls that early unless it’s an emergency. I reach for my phone, but it stops ringing. Before I can check who the missed call was from, the ringing begins all over again.
Lolly.
“Hello.”
There’s no response, but I know she’s there. I can hear her breathing.
“Cut the shit, Lolly.”
“What are you doing?” she finally says.
“What do you think I’m doing? I was sleeping.”
“You know what day it is, right?”
The day was yesterday, but I don’t correct her. Who am I to quibble over a few hours. “I do.”
“I went to the cemetery.”
I take a moment to absorb that, surprised. Then I wonder whether I’m a bad daughter . . . a bad sister . . . because I didn’t go, too. But even twenty-four years later, I’m angry. I’m still so damn angry.
“Did Uncle Sylvester go?” I assume he’s the one who suggested it.
“No, just me.”
“Why?” I ask. “You’ve never gone before.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice is quiet, almost contemplative, if Lolly can ever be contemplative. “I guess I just thought it was time to let it go, to let them go.”
“Did it work?”
“I don’t know.” She lets out a sigh.
She was only nine when it happened. I don’t think it scarred her as much as it did me. But it’s wrong of me to compare. Everyone experiences pain differently. At the time, the deaths of our parents traumatized both of us. How could it not?
“What was it like?” I ask.
“What do you mean what was it like? It was Forest Lawn, two headstones in a sea of graves. I stood there for forty minutes like an idiot not knowing what to say, trying to feel something other than contempt.”
It’s more than I could ever do, and I’m supposed to be the evolved one. “It’s good that you did it, Lolly. I’m proud of you.”
“Save me the psycho mumbo jumbo, Chelsea. I pay a king’s ransom for that. It would’ve been nice if you’d come with me. They were your parents, too.”
“You didn’t ask me,” I say, knowing full well that even if she had, I wouldn’t have gone.
“You’re always too busy to take my calls.”
That isn’t true, but arguing the issue is fruitless. Lolly believes what she wants to believe. “I’m taking your call now, aren’t I?”
Lolly lets out a not-so-nice laugh. “Why do you think I called at this god-awful hour? I knew you’d have no choice but to pick up the phone.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose, tired of this. Tired of the animosity between us. We used to be so close; then sometime after college, Lolly started running hot and cold where I was concerned, but mostly cold. First, she thought I was being a bitch because I didn’t approve of her marriage to Daddy Warbucks. Then it was because I didn’t spend enough time with her kids. Her biggest complaint, though, is that I’d become too big for my britches (my father’s favorite phrase) and had left her behind, which simply isn’t true.
“For once, can we not fight?” I say. “I’ve had a bad week.”
I wait for her to tell me her week was worse, because that’s how it usually goes with Lolly. But instead, I get a long pause, then, “What happened?”
“I got run over by a cable car.”
She laughs, as if it’s a joke.
“I’m not kidding,” I say. “I literally got mowed down by a cable car.” I tell her about my meeting with Austin and how he’s engaged to someone else now and how I walked in front of the streetcar before it had time to stop.
“Are you alright?” She sounds genuinely concerned, which surprises me.
I was expecting her to downplay the accident and gloat about Austin, whom she never really cared for. Why? I don’t know. Austin was never anything but nice to her. But I suppose we’re even, because I like her ex, Brent, about as much as I do leukemia, which is to say not much, though I never gave him a lot of thought, to be honest. And other than being my niece’s and nephew’s father and Lolly’s bottomless wallet, he’s out of the picture, so I don’t have to like him.
“I’m fine,” I say. At least physically I am, although that’s debatable, too. I’m seriously starting to suspect I have brain damage. Still, I refrain from telling her about the incident with the boat and dock or how I’ve stopped recognizing people. Why scare her?
“You should get a good lawyer.”
“For what? Austin and I worked out the settlement for our divorce nearly a year ago.”
“Not Austin, for the cable car. You should sue the city.”
I lie back down, pulling the covers up to my neck. “It was my fault, not the conductor’s. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“He could’ve killed you, Chels.”
“Well, he didn’t.” I quickly change the subject. “What about you? How are the kids?”
“They’re spoiled little shits and take me for granted, but other than that, they’re great.”
I can hear a smile in her voice. “You should come to the cabin, Lolly. Bring them. The town is decked out for Halloween, and there’s a big parade. They’d have a ball.”
She sighs. “They’re in school. Besides, I give you and me ten minutes before we’re at each other’s throats.”
I want to say, whose fault is that ? That’s the other thing. She’s never completely forgiven me for going away my freshman high school year to boarding school. But I thought we’d moved past that and all my other infractions, until a few years ago when she found a new perceived slight to be angry over. And instead of telling me all the things I’ve done wrong so we can hash it out like adults, she’s been giving me the silent treatment. It seems like our relationship went from bad—but tolerable—to worse in the blink of an eye.
I know how to pick my battles, though.
“At least think about it,” I say.
She doesn’t say no, so I take that as a win. Progress.
“I have to go now.”
Before I can say goodbye, she’s gone.
I roll over and go to sleep, only to be awakened at seven in the morning by the patter of rain on the roof.
The roof!
For the second time this morning, I bolt upright, then rush out of bed to inspect whether there is a swimming pool in the middle of my cabin, padding first into the living room and then into the kitchen where the original leak was. But all appears dry.
It’s coming down in sheets now as I stand at the window, staring out at the lake, watching the rain make ripples in the water. I hear the crunch of gravel in the driveway and rush into my room to shower and dress.
Thirty minutes later, I find Knox in my kitchen and coffee brewing. The smell makes me instantly happy. I reach in the cupboard for two mugs and place them on the counter next to the machine, impatient for my first cup.
“It’s too wet to work on the roof,” Knox says. “But I can fix your dock.”
“Sounds good.” The rain isn’t as hard as it was before, but it’s still falling fast enough to make puddles on the deck outside the kitchen window. “I didn’t see rain in the forecast.”
Knox shrugs. “Me neither. But I knew it was coming, that’s why I tarped the roof yesterday.” He gazes out over the backyard and lets out a breath.
The coffee is ready, and I pour us each a mug, then grab a carton of milk from the fridge. “You want eggs or something?”
“Nah, I ate before I came.”
It dawns on me that I know very little about Knox Hart. Not where he lives or whether he has any children, or if he can support a family, picking up handyman jobs. I’m guessing we’re similar in age, though he’s definitely more fit than I am. He’s a nice-looking man in a rugged sort of way, in the way men look around here. Austin used to joke that the guys in Ghost single-handedly keep the plaid industry afloat. It is true that Pendletons are the uniform of choice here.
I grab a bag of cookies from the pantry and take them and my coffee to the table. “Where do you live, Knox?”
“A few miles from here on my family’s farm.” He joins me at the table and snags a cookie from the bag.
“What kind of farm?”
“It used to be a goat farm. Now it’s just where I live.”
“And do you have a family?”
“Yep. A one-hundred-and-twenty-pound Great Pyrenees.”
“Why don’t you ever bring him . . . or her?”
“Not everyone likes dogs.”
I may be in that camp. But I don’t know, because I’ve never owned a dog . . . or a cat. Growing up, Uncle Sylvester didn’t allow us to have pets. Not because he was an ogre, it just wasn’t practical in a high-rise apartment in Century City. And when I went out on my own, the opportunity for a pet never arose.
“So no wife, huh?”
“No wife. Why? You interested?”
I laugh. “Would it disappoint you to hear that I’m not?”
He grabs his heart. “I guess I’ll have to muddle along without you, then.”
I laugh again. “How did you become a handyman?”
“I didn’t. I’m a biophysicist.”
I start to say, yeah, good one, but something tells me not to. “Wait, you’re not joking, are you?”
He shakes his head. “Nope, not joking. We biophysicists are humorless. I’ll prove it to you. What’s the fastest way to determine the sex of a chromosome?”
I shrug.
“Pull down its genes.” He waits for a laugh, and when he doesn’t get one, says, “See what I mean?”
“That was actually kind of funny.” I lock eyes with him, because I’m still not sure if he’s pulling my leg. “Are you out of work, then?”
“Out of work? Oh, no. I’m on sabbatical to write a book.”
“Then why are you fixing my roof?”
“Have you ever written a book about plant-based biofuels?” He hitches his brows, then pops a second cookie in his mouth.
“Can’t say I have. Boring stuff, huh?”
“Not boring, the opposite of boring. Try mind-blowing. So mind-blowing that sometimes my brain needs a rest.”
“So you swing a hammer?”
“I swing a hammer.”
“Never once while writing one of my books have I felt the need to swing a hammer,” I say.
“It’s a process. It doesn’t necessarily work for everyone.”
“Or maybe I’m doing it wrong. Maybe you’re onto something.”
“Could be.” He steals a glance out the window, where the rain seems to have let up. “Let me see what I can do about that dock of yours.”
He’s nearly at the back door when he does an about-face and swipes the bag of cookies off the table. “I’m taking these for the road.”
After three tries, I manage to get a decent fire going. It has rained off and on all day, and I feel as if there is a dampness in my bones. I drag a chair in front of the wood-burning stove and try to get warm.
I spent most of the day under the covers, reading. What I wouldn’t do for a little television right now. But the satellite is down, so it’s up to me to entertain myself. I consider calling Lolly and picking up where we left off but know it’s futile with her. Besides, she’s probably at Pilates or yoga or pole dancing, or whatever they do in Malibu to keep in shape. I could call Uncle Sylvester, but he’s probably on a set or in a meeting, or deep into a script somewhere, too distracted to be good telephone company.
Instead, I while away the hours surfing the web, searching for news of Austin and Mary’s pending nuptials. I would tell my clients to stop, that it’s not helpful and even destructive. But I do it anyway. Once again, I find nothing.
I switch over to my email. Nothing there worth reading, either.
I may as well go to bed, but it’s only six and I’m not the least bit tired. If it wasn’t dark and wet outside, I’d stroll over to the lake and watch the geese duck in and out of the water. I wonder what Knox is doing alone in his farmhouse, if he’s working on that book of his, or if he’s bored like I am. I’m tempted to drive over there just to see, but I don’t have his address. Probably for the best. Last thing he needs is me showing up, uninvited. I could go to town, but what would I do once I got there? There’s a bar in the Ghost Inn, a gorgeously remodeled building from the 1800s. I heard somewhere that the new owners spent nearly a million dollars on furnishings alone.
And just like that, I have a burning desire to see it for myself. I quickly change out of my sweats into a pair of jeans and a presentable sweater and hop in my car. Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on a stool, waiting for a Fool’s Gold, a jumped-up version of a margarita with mezcal and jalape?o-infused tequila.
The place really is spectacular. Dark and moody, with lots of cow rugs and brick walls. There’s a roaring fire in the big stone fireplace, and Miles Davis is playing on the sound system, which seems somewhat incongruous with the whole Old West vibe of the town. But sophisticated is okay by me.
The bar is pretty quiet, just a couple canoodling in the corner and a few men—who, judging by their plaid shirts, are local—at the other end of the bar. At this rate, it’ll take a century to recoup the million bucks the owners sunk into the renovation. But maybe it’s too early. Maybe the real action starts after eight. No doubt the hotel and bar will be packed to the gunnels next weekend for the Halloween crowd.
My Fool’s Gold appears, and I order the chips and guacamole, even though I made myself a frozen pizza for dinner before I came.
“You on break from the old ball and chain tonight?” asks the bartender, a woman in her mid-twenties with a bough of flowers tattooed across her chest and flaming red hair not found in nature.
“Uh, I’m divorced.”
“From Austin?” She does a double take. “When did that happen?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, Do I know you? She doesn’t look even a tiny bit familiar. The only time I’ve been in the Ghost Inn was to have a peek while contractors were gutting the place. Austin and I had gotten burritos at Flacos, and I was curious about the work, so I popped in and wandered around until someone told me the hotel was closed for renovations. That was at least two years ago.
There’s a chance she saw one of my talks or read one of my books and thinks she knows all about me. It’s not at all unusual with public people. And while I’m not Jay-Z or Bey-oncé, I have touched a number of lives.
She reaches across the bar and squeezes my hand. “Let me get those chips and guac for you, and I’ll be right back.”
One of the men on the other side of the bar flags her over, and she’s gone, leaving me alone to enjoy my drink.
The couple in the corner have gone from canoodling to arguing. They’re trying to keep their voices down, but I’m still able to catch snippets of their conversation, which is getting exponentially louder.
She wants him to stop something, and he swears he will but that she should stop nagging him. I never get to find out what the “something” is, because the bartender returns with my chips and another drink, making it impossible to eavesdrop.
“From Calvin and the guys,” she says, and motions down the bar at the men in plaid. “They heard about you and Austin and are really sorry.”
By “heard about,” I assume she means she told them, along with who I am and what I do for a living. I’m sure the irony of it wasn’t lost on them, either. Don’t get me wrong, the drink is an incredibly sweet gesture, but I’m mortified.
“I shouldn’t have come here alone,” I say, realizing that I’ve said it aloud. But I don’t want these guys getting the wrong idea that I’m here, looking for a hookup.
The bartender laughs. “Of course you should’ve. We’re your friends, Chelsea. I mean, we love Austin, too. But we want to be there for both of you.”
Friends? To be honest, I don’t have too many friends, unless you count Austin, which I don’t anymore. And while Ghost makes a good chunk of its change off tourism, the townies don’t exactly love us flatlanders, who’ve flocked here from the Bay Area, hiking their once-affordable housing into the stratosphere. Don’t love may actually be an understatement; they hate our guts.
And now the bartender is acting like we’re all the greatest of pals. I don’t even know her name. I swivel in my barstool and give Calvin and the plaid shirts a thank-you wave, then turn back to the bartender, who has parked herself in front of me on the other side of the bar.
The angry couple is leaving, and the man mutters something to the bartender about putting their tab on their hotel bill. He calls her Katie, which is helpful.
Katie follows them with her eyes as they leave the bar. “Looks like they could use a couple of sessions with you. I give them a year max.”
“I only caught snippets. What were they fighting about?” I don’t know why I ask. I’m on vacation and not looking for a busman’s holiday. I suppose there’s something soothing, though, about focusing on someone else’s dumpster fire of a relationship instead of my own.
“He’s been day trading, using the kids’ college funds. The wife found out about it from their financial planner, who noticed some discrepancies in their bank accounts.” Katie pulls a face. “First-world problems, if you ask me.”
“How’d you get all that?”
“I have supersonic hearing, not to mention mad lip-reading skills.”
I chuckle. “So basically, he’s a compulsive gambler.”
“Sounds like. She thought a weekend getaway would work as an intervention. He thought a weekend getaway was going to get him laid. Neither is getting what they came for.”
I withhold my opinion but think Katie is one heck of a perceptive bartender.
“Hey, when you two are done gossiping down there, maybe you could get us another round,” Calvin calls from the other end of the bar.
Katie gives him the finger, then draws four pints and delivers them to the plaid shirts.
“Put it on my tab,” I tell Katie, who then shouts, “This round is on Chelsea.”
The four men salute me and go back to talking amongst themselves.
“Knox told me he’s working over at your place,” Katie says as she wipes down the bar, a gorgeous live slab of wood that’s been epoxied to a high shine. “At this rate, he’ll never get his book done. But that’s Knox for you.”
Clearly Knox is the reason everyone seems to know who I am. Small towns; people talk. I don’t hold it against him. But I am curious how Knox and Katie fit in together. She seems a bit young for him.
“Are you two an item?”
She seems startled by the question. “Ew.” She looks at me long and hard. “Knox said you were in some kind of an accident. Must’ve banged your head.”
Obviously, I’m missing something here. But when one of the plaid shirts calls, “Hey, Hart, how about some of those smoked chicken wings?” I put it together. I don’t know why I didn’t see the resemblance before. I guess I was distracted by Katie’s bottle-red hair. But she and Knox have the same hazel eyes, same crooked smile.
She disappears into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with a plate of hot wings large enough to feed the entire town of Ghost, then wanders back over to me. “You want anything from the kitchen?” She eyes my barely eaten chips and guac. “We’re slow tonight, so they’re closing early.”
“I’m good. Is it usually this slow?”
“It can be in the offseason. We’re booked solid for Halloween, though. Everyone coming up to see the ghosts of the Ramseys.” She laughs, but it’s clear as a local, she finds the fascination with the legend of the town tedious. “You going to the parade?”
“Yeah, sure.” Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do, and in the five years we’ve owned the cabin, I’ve never been to Ghost’s annual Halloween parade. I’m sure it’s hokey as hell but when in Rome . . . right? “How about you?”
“I’ll be here, serving the likes of them.” She tips her head to the plaid shirts. “Come in and say hi. The rush won’t start until after the parade when the flatlanders want their martinis and cosmopolitans.” Katie snorts.
It’s funny that she isn’t counting me as a flatlander. I don’t know when I became a local, but I like it. I like sitting here in this bar, having human contact with people other than paying clients or colleagues I’m trying to impress. I like talking about something other than marriage and how to keep it alive. Perhaps now that Austin is out of the picture, I should start finding some balance in my life.
“I will,” I say. “I invited my sister, but I’ll probably be flying solo.”
“I didn’t know you have a sister. Knox never said anything about her.”
“We’re sort of estranged. But I really miss her. We used to be close.” It’s not like me to talk about Lolly, especially to a stranger. But Katie doesn’t feel like a stranger.
“Well, you should work things out with her. Life’s too short to hold grudges or to hang onto a lot of meaningless bullshit. She’s your sister. Whatever came between you can never erase that.”
She’s right, of course. I only wish Lolly would see it that way. But she thinks I deserted her, and she’s not the type who forgives and forgets. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to know that both she and I have abandonment issues because of our parents dying when we were young. And while Uncle Sylvester tried, he wasn’t much of a surrogate.
I used to think it was Lolly more than me. But I’m starting to wonder.
“I’m trying,” I tell Katie, but honestly, I haven’t tried very hard. How many times did I prioritize a lecture or symposium or a looming deadline over Lolly and her family? How many times did I blow off one of her kids’ birthday parties or weekends at Uncle Sylvester’s getaway home in the desert?
“Try harder,” Katie says.
On my drive home, I make a pact with myself to do it, to try harder.