Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Knox doesn’t come today. I keep expecting to hear the whir of the coffee grinder or to smell the scent of fresh brew coming from the kitchen.
I get up and make my own coffee and listen for any sign of him up on the roof. But other than a woodpecker tapping on the side of the cabin, it’s quiet. I peek out the front window for his truck, but the driveway is empty.
The man could’ve at least called. I take solace in the fact that there’s no rain in the immediate forecast.
It’s a good day to go to town, I decide. Though for the life of me, I don’t know what I’ll do once I get there.
I dress warmly and grab a coat and hat on the way out. A slight breeze ruffles my hair, and I let myself inhale the crisp air. It’ll be good to be out and about, rather than stuck inside the cabin all day.
The driveway is rutted with big potholes from all the rain we’ve been having, and I make a mental note to add it to Knox’s honey-do list. That is if he still wants the work. I suspect he’s playing hooky from me today to dive into that book of his, which is good. Procrastination is more stress than it’s worth.
I skip the shorter route, a two-lane highway, for Miner’s Lane, a winding country road that acts as a detour to town. It’s more scenic, and there are fewer cars—not that Ghost has traffic. But since I don’t have anything to do today, I may as well take my time.
In the five years of owning the cabin, I’ve gone to town this way many times. Today, the lighting is almost dreamlike, awash in brilliant sunlight with pink and white stripes brushing the sky. Lush, green incense cedars dot the mountainsides, making me think of a Christmas card. And the water in Bear Creek is so clear that if I wasn’t paying attention to the road, I’d swear I could see the fish swimming all the way down to the rocky bottom.
There is definitely something to that old adage about taking time to smell the roses. Just a brief drive in the country has me humming along to the music on the radio. It’s a local station that plays everything from The Rolling Stones to Kacey Musgraves. Today, it’s Linda Ronstadt.
On the rare occasion Uncle Sylvester was home, he would play her music in the kitchen while making Lolly and me scrambled eggs and bacon. It’s one of the few memories I have of the three of us together. For the most part, Lolly and I were cared for by a string of nannies and babysitters. It wasn’t Uncle Sylvester’s fault. He hadn’t asked to be a father. But he’d stepped up when no one else did and took on two orphaned, traumatized little girls. He did the best he could.
I head to the public lot and park my car with no idea what to do next. Ultimately, I decide to stroll Main Street and window-shop. There’s a flurry of activity, city officials and volunteers making last-minute preparations for Saturday’s Halloween parade. Crowd-control barriers are being unloaded and stacked in an alleyway at the end of the street, and shopkeepers are changing out their window fronts to pick up on the themes of the scarecrow displays. It’s so small-town and quaint that it’s easy to forget that Ghost is only an hour away from the state’s capital and two hours away from San Francisco.
There’s a sweets shop on the corner that I don’t remember from previous visits. I’m still recuperating from last night’s chocolate binge, but it doesn’t stop me from going in for a look-see. Rows of bins offer up a variety of old-fashioned candies, and a series of glass showcases line the store with homemade fudge, chocolate-dipped fruit and pretzels, and at least ten different kinds of truffles. A freezer counter stands on the other side of the store with ice cream and gelato.
A pretty teenager in a pink-striped uniform that reminds me of the Hot Dog on a Stick cashiers at the mall Lolly and I used to frequent when we were kids wants to know if I’d like to try any of their two-dozen flavors.
“No thank you,” I say, but don’t leave empty-handed. On my way out, I buy a big bag of caramel corn, which I snack on as I slowly amble down the street, taking in all the activity.
The stores are a mishmash of touristy gift shops with the usual bric-a-brac and T-shirts, utilitarian mercantile that sells everything from kitchen gadgets to farm equipment, and clothing boutiques with designer jeans and three-hundred-dollar handbags. It’s that last one that offers the greatest clue that Ghost is transitioning from unassuming cow town to a chic vacation enclave for the wealthy. It’s happening all over rural California; Ghost just took a little more time to catch up.
Calvin, the guy who bought me a drink at the Ghost Inn the other night, waves from across the street. I turn to see if his greeting is meant for someone else, but there is no one behind me, so I wave back. He’s helping a group of men line the sidewalk with more straw bales, presumably so the parade spectators will have more places to sit close to the action.
A woman in an orange apron is arranging carved pumpkins on a small antique table outside a floral shop called Flower Power.
“Hey, Chelsea, you up for the weekend?”
“I am,” I say, even though I don’t recognize her. I’m learning that it’s just better to go with the flow. Besides, I rather enjoy feeling like I’m part of the fabric of this town. In San Francisco, I couldn’t pick my neighbors out of a police lineup. Other than the crazy lady who walks her cat on a leash and likes to complain about her various allergies, I haven’t said more than a few words to any of the residents in my building. Everyone is always in a rush.
“Beautiful pumpkins.” I crouch down to have a closer look at the intricate carvings of sunflowers, sprigs of wheat, and a fruit cornucopia, all backlit with battery-operated lights. Adorable.
“Thank you, but the credit goes to Ginger. She did the carvings.” The woman straightens and rests her hand at the small of her back. “Katie says Knox is working over at your place. When he’s done, send him over to mine.” She laughs.
“Actually, he didn’t show up today. I think he’s working on his book. But I have something for him. You wouldn’t happen to know the address of his family’s farm, would you?”
“Well, of course I do. It’s out on Old Ranch Road. Come inside, and I’ll draw you a map.”
I follow her into the shop, which smells like a combination of eucalyptus, apples, and cinnamon spice. The wall behind the counter is filled with autumn wreaths made with tiny pumpkins and colored leaves.
While the woman goes in the back room to find a pen, I look for a trash can to toss my caramel corn, which wasn’t as tasty as it looked.
I’ve never been in the floral shop (I didn’t even know Ghost had one) and take the time to explore. It’s lovely and clearly does a brisk business, judging by the refrigerator case filled with floral arrangements of all kinds.
My face is practically pressed to the glass, counting the bouquets and vases, when the woman returns. “We’ve got two weddings, and all the hotels and restaurants in the area want flowers for the parade.”
It makes sense, given how many people will flood the town this weekend, many of whom will stay the night and eat here.
“You do good work,” I tell her.
She beckons me over to the counter, where she’s drawing a rudimentary map on the back of an old receipt. “It’s a little hard to find. Do yourself a favor and don’t use your GPS. Otherwise, the dang thing will get you hopelessly lost. Best to follow the map.”
“Okay,” I say, though her map is unintelligible, just a series of squiggly lines. To be frank, I don’t even know where Old Ranch Road is.
She slides the scrap of paper across the counter at me. “Look, we all know about you and Austin. I’m very sorry, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” She looks up at me and lets out a breath. “Am I being too forward? My husband is always telling me that I need to shut my mouth.”
“You’re not being too forward.” She is, but I’m too curious to care. “Why weren’t you surprised?”
“Because every time I saw the two of you together, you seemed perpetually unhappy. Miserable, actually.”
Unhappy? Miserable? Ha, I don’t bother to tell her that Austin is the one who dumped me. Until then, I was blissfully happy. Okay, blissfully may be an exaggeration. But I loved him. Sure, there were times I felt lonely, even unseen, but I’ve studied enough marriages to know that’s perfectly normal. Every day can’t be a honeymoon. All that mattered was we were well on our way to having the life we’d carefully planned. In my marriage courses, I call it the three S s. Stability, safety, and satisfaction. That’s what it takes for a successful marriage.
And I thought we’d knocked it out of the park, made it look easy. I guess I was wrong.
“Hon, when you’ve been married as long as I have, you know what the face of misery looks like. I see it every morning in the mirror.”
“Then why do you stay?” I ask.
She hitches her shoulders. “Kids, guilt, the hope that if I hang on, I won’t be seen as a failure.”
But there’s more. I see it in her eyes. Desolation, hurt, betrayal.
“You should attend one of my lectures.”
“I read one of your books once.” She makes a face that says she was less than impressed.
“I take it it wasn’t helpful.”
“The picture of you on the jacket was nice, though.” She smiles and points to my ponytail. “You ought to wear it down, like it is on the book, more often.”
I should be crushed but oddly appreciate her candor—about my book, not my hair.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work for you,” I say.
“Hey, you win some and you lose some. How long are you up for?”
“At least a week.” I have another nine days before my lecture in Albuquerque.
“Nice. If you find yourself with nothing to do Wednesday night, a few of us ladies meet for happy hour at the Ghost Inn. You should join us.”
“I might just do that,” I say, but probably won’t, because I don’t even know her. “Thank you for the invite.”
Before I leave, I buy one of the autumn wreaths to hang on the cabin’s front door, then head back to the car. A few minutes later, I’m on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, worried that I made a wrong turn. I pull over on the shoulder and study the map, not even sure if I have it turned the wrong way. Reading maps is not one of my skill sets, and this one is more like hieroglyphics on the side of an ancient monument than something you’d find in Rand McNally. But I see a mailbox up ahead that looks similar to the florist’s diagram, so I persevere, tempted to ignore her advice and turn on the GPS.
I make out the name Hart on the mailbox, and the address matches the one the woman gave me. Apparently, I’m in the right place, but I don’t see a house or anything that looks remotely like a farm. Just green rolling hills dotted with oak and pine trees. It’s quite pretty, but there’s no sign of life, not even a lone cow. Or a goat. Didn’t Knox say it was a former goat farm?
I pull away from the mailbox and keep going, hoping I’ll eventually reach some form of civilization. The dirt road is bumpy and windy, and I’m still unconvinced that I’m in the right place. By now, I’ve driven at least a few miles. If this is all Knox’s land, it’s vast.
Up ahead, on the top of a knoll, I spot a structure. I’m too far away to tell if it’s a house or a barn or some other kind of outbuilding, but it seems promising. Halfway there, a polar bear jumps in front of my car, and I slam on the brakes to keep from hitting it. That’s when I realize that it’s not a bear but a very large, white dog. Knox’s Great Pyrenees.
I roll down my window a crack. “Good doggy. Please move.”
But he just stands there, staring at me with big, inquisitive eyes, eyes that say, “Who the hell are you and why are you here? And if you don’t leave soon, I will eat you.” He may even be growling.
“Nice doggy.” I quickly roll up my window, because the doggy doesn’t seem so nice. In fact, I like my chances better against yesterday’s fox than this behemoth. And I can’t move until he does.
I tap my horn, hoping that does the trick. But he doesn’t budge. I’m about to give up, when I see Knox coming down the drive in some kind of an all-terrain vehicle. It looks like a cross between a dune buggy and a three-wheel motorcycle. Heavy on the Mad Max vibe.
He pulls up alongside me, so I roll down my window again. “Call off your beast.”
“Bailey come!”
The dog trots over to Knox, his tail wagging so hard I fear it’ll do damage to my car.
“He’s a gentle giant,” Knox says.
“I don’t know how gentle he is. He looked as if he wanted to rip my throat out.”
Knox rolls his eyes. “Are you lost, or are you pissed that I’m playing hooky?”
“Not lost and not pissed if you’re working on your book.”
He grins. “I was feeling inspired. Wrote two thousand words without breaking a sweat.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“So if you’re not lost and not pissed, what brings you out to the farm?”
It’s a valid question, one I should’ve asked myself before I came. I guess I’ve come to enjoy his company and missed it. “When you didn’t show this morning, I wanted to make sure everything was okay. The florist lady in town gave me directions to your place.”
“Which one? Ginger or Sadie?”
“Uh . . . Sadie, I think.”
“Great,” he says, heavy on sarcasm, but I get the sense that it’s mostly for show. That in his own gruff way, he’s happy to see me. “Come on up to the house.”
Before I agree, he takes off in his dune buggy, as if it’s been decided. Bailey shoots off after him, and I slowly follow behind, taking the rutted dirt road up the hill. The structure on the top of the knoll is indeed a home, a weathered old farmhouse that could use a sanding and a paint job. At one time, though, it was probably quite stately, with its deep wraparound porch and copper cupola.
He waits for me at the front door as I stand in the driveway, shielding my eyes from the sun, taking it all in. “Nice place you have here.”
I join him at the top of the stairs, and he ushers me inside, which is in even more disrepair than the outside. Yet, it holds a certain charm that only an old house can. The floors, some kind of oak, and the millwork and high ceilings are spectacular. And everywhere I look are windows with views of the rolling hills and the Cascade Mountain Range in the distance. A place like this in the Bay Area would go for a mint. Even here, it’s probably worth a small fortune.
He leads me to the kitchen, an airy room that hasn’t been updated since the 1920s. Even the stove is one of those vintage Stewarts with gas burners and a separate baking oven and broiler. As far as cabinetry, there are a few Hoosiers with built-in bins, and that’s it. Despite its datedness, it’s homey. And unlike the other rooms I walked through to get here, neat as a pin.
“You want tea, coffee, or milk?”
“Tea, please.” I’m not a tea drinker, but it feels appropriate in this house, in this kitchen. I can somehow visualize white lace tablecloths, dainty porcelain cups, and ladies serving cake off a green carnival glass stand after church.
Knox, not so much. For him I envision something more rustic. A log cabin, a Craftsman, even a treehouse. I think about tattooed Katie and her flaming red hair and can’t see her here, either.
Knox puts a kettle on the ancient stove and pulls two mugs out of one of the Hoosiers.
“So you had a good writing day, huh?”
“Yep. But no worries, I’ll be back tomorrow to work on your roof.”
“What about the book?”
“It can wait. More rain will be here before you know it.”
That’s probably true, and it will give me peace of mind to batten down the hatches, so to speak. Then, apropos of nothing, I say, “Let me ask you something. What about my TED Talk did you find unhelpful?”
“All of it,” Knox says without hesitation.
“Wow.” He couldn’t even candy-coat it just a little.
“Some relationships just aren’t worth saving,” he says.
The kettle begins to whistle, and Knox gets up to make our tea.
“But you must’ve thought yours was, or you wouldn’t have watched my TED Talk in the first place.”
He returns to the table with the two mugs and takes the chair across from me. “Let’s just call it a last-ditch effort, even though deep down inside, I knew it was over.”
“So there wasn’t anything at all you could glean from my message that was worth trying?”
He shakes his head, then looks deep into my eyes. “Where’s this all coming from?”
I start to tell him about my conversation with Sadie at Flower Power and stop. Even though I’m not her therapist, I don’t want to divulge anything she may have told me in confidence. “I’m starting to think I’m not very good at this.”
“I don’t know about that. All I know is that it didn’t help me. Anyway, isn’t the whole inspirational industry a bit of a crock? Smoke and mirrors to separate consumers from their money?”
I should be offended, but a part of me has asked myself the same thing. At least at his comment about it being a crock. There is no magic bullet, and yet a lot of my marriage advice hinges on the generic. “There’s no smoke and mirrors about what I do. I’m using sound psychological theory.”
He pins me with a look. “You’re the one doubting yourself. If it makes you feel better, consider me an outlier.”
I sip my tea and cross my arms over my chest. “Who was she, and what happened?”
“She was my fiancée, and she dumped me for my best friend. There, are you happy?”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry, Knox.”
“Don’t worry about it. Like I said before, it was probably for the best.”
“Why is that?” I add a teaspoon of sugar to my tea and give it a good stir.
He gives a half-hearted shrug. “It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. We were too different. Opposites may attract, but they don’t stick.”
“What about the best friend?” I raise a brow in question.
“Yeah, him. Let’s just say we’re no longer acquainted.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About a year. They’re married now. Probably have a kid on the way.”
I don’t detect any bitterness, but some people are better at hiding it than others. “I told you that my ex is engaged, right? He met her after he left me. Or at least that’s what he says.”
“You think he was seeing her while you two were still together?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never known Austin to be a liar, but it seems awfully pat, don’t you think? Out of the blue, he says he doesn’t want to be married anymore, and next thing you know he’s met the love of his life.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? People here seem to talk.”
“You can say that again. Between Sadie and my sister, they don’t need a newspaper in this town. Your secret is safe with me.”
“It’s not a secret, it’s just that . . . Well, I’ll just say it: it’s not terribly great for my professional reputation.”
Knox leans across the table and winks. “Gotcha.”
“What? You think I’m being duplicitous?”
“No. If people are stupid enough to dish out good money to hear you tell them how to live their lives, they deserve to have the wool pulled over their eyes.”
“For the record, I don’t tell people how to live their lives. But you’re entitled to your opinion.” There’s no sense arguing with him. As long as he doesn’t blab my dirty laundry all over Ghost, we’re good.
“Gee, thanks for letting me have my own opinion.” He gets up and disappears inside the pantry, only to return with a package of cookies, which he slides across the table at me. “I owe you.”
They’re the same brand of vanilla wafers he took from my house. “You can keep them. They look better on you than they do on me.”
He gives me a once-over and grins. “They look fine on you.”
“You’re a real charmer, you know that?”
“Said no one. Ever.”
“I don’t know, Knox, you have your moments. I better get going.” I unloop my purse strap from the back of my chair and rise, debating on whether to accept the cookies or not. They are my favorite. “Okay, I’m taking these.”
The corner of his mouth hitches up, and I have to admit he’s undeniably attractive.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, and leads the way to my car, Bailey tagging along beside him.
“I hope it was okay that I barged in on you like this.”
“It’s fine.” He opens my door, a playful grin playing on his lips. “Try not to make it a habit, though.”
I get behind the wheel. “Knox, you really could use a filter,” I say, then drive away.