Chapter 8
Chapter 8
There’s a giant pumpkin balloon floating over our heads. When I say giant, I mean Goodyear Blimp giant. It’s attached to the cupcake float from Rolling Scones, one of the local bakeries in Ghost.
Lolly and I have claimed a small swath of sidewalk for our folding chairs to watch the parade. While it’s not Macy’s Thanksgiving Day, it’s less amateur than I’d imagined. Some of the floats are quite elaborate with moving parts and sound effects. So far, my favorite is the Bank of the West’s haunted mansion float, a replica of the Gold Rush Museum in downtown Ghost. The float designers took some creative liberty, embellishing the old Victorian with flying bats, ghost holograms, and shrieking noises.
Even Lolly is entertained and hasn’t complained once since we got here, which has to be some kind of a record. She’s been taking pictures and texting them to Taylor and Luna.
“Let them see what they’re missing.”
I hide a grin, because it’s so unlike her not to be snarky. Not one single Mayberry joke out of her mouth. She genuinely seems to be enjoying herself. And I can’t remember having this much fun since . . . I can’t remember.
“Are you hungry?” I ask over the Ghost High School band’s rendition of “Monster Mash.” It’s not terribly good, but I give them an A for enthusiasm. Their dance moves are a feat in and of itself.
“I could eat,” she yells over the music.
It appears to be the tail end of the parade and a prime opportunity to beat the crowds. “Mexican?”
I wait for her to remember she’s a “vegan.” Instead, she gives me a thumbs-up. We fold the chairs, take them to the car, and walk to Flacos. The place is empty. Lolly grabs a two-top in the corner, while I put in our orders.
We’re just about to eat when none other than Knox walks in.
Lolly swings around in her seat to see what has my attention, then turns back to me. “Who’s that, and why are you blushing?”
“Oh please, give me a break. That’s Knox, my handyman.”
“The one who’s a scientist or whatever you said he was?”
“A biophysicist.”
She turns again to have another look. “He’s hot.”
“Shush. He can hear you.”
But he’s absorbed in studying the menu board and seems oblivious to the fact that Lolly’s ogling him. We’re like a couple of teenagers, or at least Lolly is.
“Stop.” I tug her sleeve to face forward, away from him.
It takes a few minutes before he notices us, then bobs his head in greeting. After his food is up, he snags the table next to ours.
“This is my sister, Lolly.”
“Yeah, Katie told me she was visiting.” He shakes Lolly’s hand. “Up from Los Angeles, right?”
“Yep.” She’s still ogling him, and I have to surreptitiously nudge her to stop.
“Were you at the parade?” I ask Knox.
“Got there towards the end, then decided to cut out before the crowds migrated to Flacos.”
“Good move.”
“Well, I’m taking mine to go.” He holds up his bag. “I’ve got another thousand words to bang out.”
“Nice seeing you.”
“Yes, very nice seeing you,” Lolly says in a lascivious voice that makes me want to strangle her.
Luckily, Knox doesn’t seem to notice. He gets to the door and calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be over tomorrow to work on the roof.”
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I kick Lolly under the table. “What are you, fifteen?”
She laughs. “Jeez, Chelsea, have a little fun, would you?”
And the thing is, I am. I’m not even trying to; it’s just so easy. And suddenly I wish I could live here forever. With Lolly. With Taylor and Luna. And Knox and Katie and even no-tact Sadie. In my head, I know it’s the buzz talking, not that I’ve been drinking. It’s the buzz I’m getting from being with my sister again, from getting to share this special place with her, this place where, for the first time in my life, I feel like I belong.
“You’re crazy, you know that, right?” I poke her in the arm.
“Don’t get mad, okay?” she says, and I know instantly that it has nothing to do with her making goo-goo eyes at Knox.
“What?”
“Austin called and asked me to come.”
I’m stunned silent, letting it sink in. My ex-husband and my estranged sister have been conspiring. “Since when do you and Austin talk? You like him even less than you like me.”
She puts her fork down and meets my gaze. “You’re wrong. Not about Austin but about you. But I’ll give him this, he’s worried, Chels. He says you could’ve been killed.”
“You’re here. You see me. Do I look near death?”
She shakes her head. “You look good, happier than I’ve seen you in a long time. But I thought you should know.”
“So that’s the only reason you came, because you thought I was dying?”
“I thought you might need me. And when has that ever happened?” She looks away, unwilling to make eye contact. What she’s not saying is that when she needed me, I wasn’t there.
“I’ve always needed you, Lolly.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
The parade crowd has already started to descend on the restaurant. There’s a line at the counter, and a group of kids are chasing each other in and around the tables.
“If we’re going to do this now, if we’re going to hash out what’s been going on between the two of us, let’s not do it here,” I say.
“Okay, but we’re stopping first to get a couple of bottles of wine. No way am I doing this sober.”
We make a pit stop at the market, where at the last minute, Lolly decides that margaritas are in order and spends half an hour picking out a top-shelf tequila. Mind you, the grocery store only has three (more than I would’ve thought). But Lolly deliberates over which one to choose, as if she’s buying her first car. I’m betting it’s a stall tactic, but whatever. She takes an equally long time to peruse the produce aisle for limes and strawberries, and maybe mango. “Because who doesn’t love a mango margarita?”
I advocate for one of those premade lime juice mixes, but Lolly isn’t having it. I don’t know when she became the Barefoot Contessa.
Three grocery bags later, we hit the road. But halfway home, Lolly gets a call from Brent. It appears dire. From her side of the conversation, I deduce that Taylor has come down with a bad case of stomach flu and wants his mommy.
“Do you really have to go?”
“Nah, I’ll just let my kid die while I drink margaritas with you.”
“Lolly, it’s a stomach flu, not malaria. Can’t Brent deal with it?”
She pierces me with a condescending look that says I know nothing about motherhood. Or kids. Or her or Brent. “He’s useless in situations like this.”
She’s out of the passenger seat before I have time to activate my emergency brake in the driveway, then rushes from the car to the house. When I get inside, she’s throwing her clothes in her suitcases and packing up her toiletries.
I follow her to her vehicle, and we hug like we can’t let go, our visit cut ridiculously short.
She pulls away from me, looks at her watch, and hops in her car. As she drives off with her window down and her middle finger waving in the air, she yells, “Don’t drink all the tequila, bitch.”
Even Knox’s incessant banging on the roof can’t sour my mood. Lolly and I have made significant headway in patching up our tattered relationship. Though we never said as much, I can feel a shift between us. I can feel us coming closer together.
I roll over on my side and send her a quick text to make sure she made it home safely. A few seconds later, my phone pings with a picture of her and Taylor, hugging the toilet, pretending to barf in the bowl, and a message that reads, It must’ve been a 24-hour bug. Catastrophe averted. #BrentIs-Incompetent.
I smile and get out of bed. It’s late, well past the time I usually wake up. Last night, I slept like a rock. Without Lolly, there’s plenty of hot water, and I stand under the shower head until my skin turns red, then dress and go in search of coffee. As per usual, Knox has left me half a pot.
As I sit at the table, sipping and scrolling through my phone, Knox comes in and refills his thermos, then scrounges through my pantry for the cookies he gave me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, Just make yourself at home . But honestly, I’ve come to enjoy him making the coffee in the morning. In the city, I don’t bother with it at home, instead sending Ronnie out for Peet’s or Starbucks, or whatever is convenient.
I hold up my cup and say, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it. Where’s your sister?”
“She had to leave early. Her kid was sick.”
“That’s too bad. You two looked as if you were enjoying yourselves.”
It’s true, we were, which in and of itself is a minor miracle. “The parade was really good this year,” I say, though it’s the only one I’ve attended.
“Yeah? Seemed like the same old crap as every year.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I love it. But it never changes. That big pumpkin balloon. Bank of the West’s haunted mansion. The high school band. Let’s just say variety isn’t the spice of life here in Ghost.”
“Why don’t you leave, then?”
“Because I like it.”
“It doesn’t sound like it.” He grins, and my insides do something funny. “You’re a weird guy.”
“I’m told that a lot.” His mouth slides up again. “What’s your plans today?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“It’s going to get noisy.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Maybe you want to go out for a while.”
“Okay,” I say, but don’t have anywhere to go. It’s too early to hit the Ghost Inn for a cocktail and too chilly to go out on the boat. Plus, that didn’t work out too well the last time. “Any suggestions? I’ve run out of things to do in town.”
“You ever been to the farmers’ market? It’s at the grange hall every Sunday. Nice produce. Lots of artisan foods. Definitely worth checking out.”
I don’t remember a grange hall, but Austin and I never fully explored the place, sticking mostly to home and town. “Where is it?”
Knox grabs the pencil behind his ear and draws me a map on a napkin. “It’s easy to find.”
After Knox climbs up onto the roof, I clean up the dishes and go in search of his farmers’ market. His map takes me on a windy, two-lane road that overlooks Fall Lake, a large reservoir enjoyed by water-skiers and wakeboarders from all over Northern California. Austin and I looked at homes near the lake but ultimately decided that the vibe wasn’t for us. Too loud from the motorboats and too rowdy from the perpetual summer parties at the sprawling campground on the south shore of the lake. Though I’m vaguely familiar with the area, I’ve never been on this road before and am worried that I may have gotten lost. Still, I’m enjoying the ride. There’s not another vehicle around, so I take my time, pulling into a turnout to take in the view. The reflection of the trees off the water looks like a painting. And unlike summer, when the lake is filled with throngs of people and their water toys, there’s only a lone kayaker and miles and miles of clear, blue water.
I wish Lolly was here with me to see it. When we were little, our parents used to take us to Big Bear, where we would sometimes rent paddleboats and paddle our way around the shore, hoping to see fish jump out of the water. Before I pull back onto the road, I snap a picture of the view and text it to her.
It takes me another ten minutes, but I finally find the grange hall, an old barn dating back to the early 1900s that, according to the sign, was rehabilitated in 1998 and now serves as a community center. Despite the empty road, the farmers’ market is bustling. Lots of people spilling out from the big white church across the street.
There’s a lady selling handmade market bags at one of the stalls, and I buy a pink and gray one made from woven straw. It’s rather beautiful in its simplicity. As I stroll down each aisle taking in rows and rows of colorful squash, pumpkins, artichokes, cauliflower, mushrooms, and cabbage, I’m left wondering why I never came here before. Besides the beautiful food, the place is brimming with life.
There are so many things to see that I try to be methodical, resisting the temptation to go off in a different direction whenever a flash of vibrant color or an interesting shape catches my eye. No, I stay the course, stopping to browse at each stall.
My first food purchase is a loaf of olive and rosemary bread, which I put in my new basket. My next, a package of fresh pasta and a container of alfredo sauce. Then I pick through rows and rows of produce for a salad to go with my fettuccine dinner.
“Hi, Chelsea.” A woman waves to me, then crosses the aisle to join me.
I recognize her from that first day at the grocery store. The harried woman with the two children. One of the boys had an unruly head of red hair.
“Oh, hey,” I call back. “Where are the kiddos?”
“Judd has ’em. After yesterday, they’re all sugared up, the little monsters. I needed a break. You coming to happy hour on Wednesday? Sadie said you were in.”
I’d said I’d try, but now I’m game for anything. “Yep, I’ll be there.”
“Let’s make time to talk,” she says, and I nod, because I don’t know what else to do. Or say. It’s all so odd.
“I’ve gotta dash before Judd goes nuts. But I’ll see you on Wednesday.”
“Wednesday.” I wave goodbye, then continue to the handmade soap stall, where everything smells like lavender, lemon, and peppermint.
I buy a bar of the olive oil soap for Lolly and a bar of basil soap for Ronnie. For me, I get a bar of the lavender, because I can’t resist the scent. I’m just about to move on, when I decide to get another bar of the lavender for Katie. I have a feeling it’s something she’d really like, though I don’t know why.
In the next row of booths, I run into Sadie, who is selling wreaths and bunches of fresh flowers. I remember that I never hung my wreath on the front door. It’s still in the back of my car.
“How’s business?”
“You just missed the rush,” she says. “Everyone wants Thanksgiving wreaths and arrangements. Ginger and I have our hands full. But I guess it’s better than having no business. Poor Rhonda had to close up her knitting store because everyone’s shopping on the damned Internet. We brick-and-mortar people are a dying breed.”
I suppose she’s right, but you’d never know it from the farmers’ market. There’s almost as many people here as there were at the parade.
“Where’s Ginger?” I ask, as a line begins to form at Sadie’s table.
“She’s managing the shop, while I work the market.” Sadie pulls a wreath off one of her displays for a couple who is interested, while simultaneously taking payment from a young man who is buying a bouquet of flowers for his grandmother. Sweet.
“You need some help?” I have no floral expertise whatsoever but can probably work a cash register.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Before she can show me what to do, she’s pulled to the other side of the stall by a woman who wants to special order a cornucopia centerpiece.
“Excuse me, how much is this?” asks a man holding a small square vase with an arrangement of orange roses, bronze mums, and red daisies.
I search for a tag, only to find a price list tucked under Sadie’s purse. He hands me two twenties, and I count out his change. For the next thirty minutes, there is a steady stream of customers. Sadie does the heavy lifting, but I hold my own, even putting up new displays as the old ones blow out the door. Let me tell you, the floral business is a license to print money. Sadie’s stand has to be one of the busiest in the entire market.
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be peddling flowers at a farmers’ market, I would’ve laughed my ass off. It’s a far cry from giant lecture halls or bookstores in Times Square, but oddly, I’m enjoying myself. I’m finding it immensely satisfying to be talking with people instead of talking at them.
Finally, there’s a lull, and Sadie and I both take a deep breath.
“Is it always like this?”
“It’s usually pretty good, but this is holiday season, girl. Never a dull moment. Thank you, my dear. But you should get to going while the going is good. Otherwise we’ll get another rush, and I’ll have to pay you.” Sadie laughs, but it sounds more like a cackle.
“You sure?”
“Honey, this ain’t my first rodeo. Go ahead and enjoy yourself.”
“All right. But here’s my number if things get crazy again.” I reach out for her cell and punch in my digits. “Don’t hesitate to call; I could really use the cash.” I wink to show her I’m joking.
I pick up where I left off, visiting a rancher selling grass-fed beef, a local pot dispensary—which is even busier than Sadie’s shop—and a woman named Misty, who claims to be a fortune teller. She’s certainly dressed for the part in her Stevie Nicks getup, a tiered velvet dress and lace-up ankle boots. She is the only person here not doing a brisk business. I take pity on her and plop down in her chair just for shits and giggles. Her table is covered in a pink velvet runner, and there is a stack of business cards in the corner and a deck of tarot cards fanned out in the center. They look well-worn.
“How does this work?” I ask.
“You tell me,” she says, then looks me over like I’m the prized calf at the county fair. “You want your palm read, or your cards done? Or you can tell me a little about yourself. Maybe I can help. Because, hon, you seem a little lost.”
“Lost? I’m not lost.”
“Okay.” She shrugs, placating me. “Let’s do your cards, then.”
“I’m a marriage counselor. Well, I’m more like a motivational speaker, kind of like a life coach, but I focus on relationships,” I blurt, because now I’m questioning the wisdom of doing this. For some reason, I feel like I’m playing with fire.
“It sounds like you and I are in the same business, then,” she says, brushing a stray gray curl away from her face.
I hold her gaze to see if I’ve just been insulted, if she’s trying to tell me that we’re both charlatans. But I don’t see either laughter or malice in her eyes.
“Well, not exactly. I have a graduate degree in psychology. I’ve written books and you know . . . I’m pretty well-known in my circle.”
“Me, too.”
“You have a graduate degree?” Now I’m just being mean.
“I do. I’m a nurse practitioner. Or I was a nurse practitioner. Now I do this.” She waves her hands over herself, then juts her rather pointy chin at me. “Shall we get started?”
“By all means,” I say with false bravado.
She places a wooden sign on the table that says W ITH A C LIENT , gets up, and walks to the back of her stall, motioning for me to follow her inside of a makeshift tent. I take one of the purple velvet chairs while she closes the patchwork flaps to give us privacy. The setup is pretty elaborate for a farmers’ market—if not a little odd—but interesting. I’ll give it that. She takes the seat across from me at a folding table that’s been draped with more velvet and clutches both my hands.
Her eyes are closed, and it takes all I have not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous she looks. Oh, if Lolly could see me now.
“I see the ocean,” she says, her eyes still tightly shut, like she’s concentrating or traveling to another dimension. “It’s green, no, blue. Very blue.” She opens her eyes and holds my gaze. “Do you live by the water?”
“I live next to a lake.”
“No, it’s not a lake. It’s most definitely the sea.”
“I can see the San Francisco Bay from my condo in the city.”
“Not the bay, the sea.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” There is only so much I can humor her.
“I’m also seeing shells. Seashells.” Her eyes are closed again, and she’s deep in concentration. “Have you taken a trip to the ocean recently? Somewhere on a beach?”
“Nope.”
“Wait.” She pauses. “Shells. Then sea. Shellsea. Ring a bell?”
She knows damn well it’s my name. She has to. “My name is Chelsea.”
“Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea,” she chants. “You’re recuperating from something. It’s either your head or your heart.”
That covers a lot of bases. I figure it’s a good go-to for any fortune teller. I mean, isn’t everyone recuperating from something? A vacation, a cold, a bad night’s sleep.
“I was in an accident more than a week ago,” I say, again willing to humor her. “Got a minor concussion.”
“Yes, I see it. It was on a big street. Lots of people. A man. There was a man there.”
“There were a lot of men there.” An entire paramedics crew.
“Just one. I’m only seeing one.”
I hitch my shoulders, but she can’t see me through her closed eyes.
“You were running from something. I see your heart. No, I see your head.”
“Like I said, I suffered a minor concussion.”
“I see sadness. Your heart again. No, it’s your chest.”
Oh, for goodness sake, why doesn’t the woman name every one of my body parts? Eventually she’ll touch on something. Isn’t this the way it works with so-called soothsayers? Aren’t they supposed to be just vague enough that everything is open to interpretation?
“My chest is fine. It was only my head,” I say, not even trying to disguise the skepticism in my voice.
“Your pride was hurt. Yes, that’s what it was. You were running from your pride.”
I’m silent.
“There’s the man again.” Her eyes squeeze tighter, like she’s desperately trying to make out the shadowy figure in her trance or whatever state she’s in. “No, this is a different man. A handsome man, who is having his own difficulties.”
I lean in. “Like what kind of difficulties?” I tell myself I’m only playing along.
“He’s holding on too tightly. Very tightly. Like a death grip. He’s afraid. Yes, I think he’s afraid. Wait, he’s running toward something. Somebody. A woman.”
“Is it me?”
“I can’t tell. It’s smoky. Misty. A fire maybe. No, water. Lots of water.”
I let out an exasperated breath. “It wasn’t a fire or water! It was a cable car!”
“That’s not what I’m seeing.” She releases my hands and splays her palm over my heart. It’s as if she’s trying to read my mind through my pulse.
“The other man. The other man is torn,” she continues. “He’s holding on, too. He can’t seem to let go. He keeps going back and forth, pacing. No, he’s vacillating. He’s stuck, frustrated. Sad.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. I can’t quite make him out.”
“Is his name Austin?”
“Who is Austin?”
“My ex-husband.”
“I don’t know.”
“What does he look like?” It’s unbelievable that I’m even asking. It’s all nonsense, a charade, I tell myself.
“I can’t see him clearly enough,” she says. “But he’s there. He’s by your bed, kissing you. There’s a woman there, too.”
That makes zero sense, unless my future holds a threesome. Not interested.
“She’s all in white,” Misty says.
“A wedding gown?”
“No, I don’t think so. But it’s hard to tell. I see another woman. She’s angry. No, not angry. Lonely. Confused. She doesn’t know.”
“She doesn’t know what?”
Misty moves her palm lower, almost to my midriff, then higher, back to my heart. “I’m not sure. All I know is that no one has told her yet.”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Told her what?”
“Not sure. It’s murky.”
I want to ask her if people actually pay her for this.
“No, wait, she’s getting a phone call. She’s sobbing. I can feel her pain.”
“Is she me?”
“Not you. Definitely not you. But she looks a little like you.”
“Lolly?”
“Who’s Lolly?”
“My sister.”
“Maybe.”
My heart stops. “I just spoke to her this morning.”
“Then it’s not her. But there’s someone else, too. She feels distant. Like she’s no longer here. Where is your mother?”
“Dead.”
“It’s her, I think.”
My immediate reaction is to shut this down now. But I can’t. Even if it’s all bullshit, an act, I still want to know. “What is she saying?”
“She’s telling you to go back.”
“Go back where?”
Misty shakes her head. “Unclear.”
“Ask her if she’s angry that we buried her next to Dad.”
“She’s not angry.”
“Did she say that?”
“No, but I can feel it.”
Yeah, right. “Tell her we’re fine, that Lolly and I are fine. That she’s a grandmother.”
“She knows. She loves you very much.”
I’m shaking, beside myself. Initially, I thought this would be fun, even amusing. A way to pass the day and something I could giggle about with Lolly later. But it’s no longer a game. I should’ve listened to my intuition when it told me that this wouldn’t end well. Because tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I’m sobbing uncontrollably.
Misty opens her eyes and reaches across the table for a box of tissues, then slides them towards me. “We’re done for now.”
But I have the strange sense that we’ve only just begun.