Chapter 18 #3
It was an interesting choice. Pith could be as simple as the white lining the rind of an orange.
It’s bitter and often avoided. But as I glance around the warm colors of the 1940s diner painted on a large canvas, I think about where this painting originated.
“You know this was inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s The Killers? ” I ask.
“I’m aware,” she says as she moves behind me, folding up a tarp.
This family is anything but boring, that’s for fucking sure. If I had to guess, Pith, in Jo’s interpretation, means something entirely different to her.
“I have a feeling you’re a fire sign,” Stevie says, tossing an orange at me. I catch it and start to peel it.
“Did I say I was hungry out loud or did you have a sixth sense about that too?”
She smiles at what I’ve said and chucks one to Jo. “I’m a mom. I have snacks all the time, even when I’m kid-free for the day.”
I peel away the rind and glance around the room.
I’ve talked about myself more with these women and this family than maybe anyone.
It wasn’t hard to do, which I’m not sure if that says more about them or about where I am in my life right now.
I look up at Jo first, who’s working her way around the peel, and then to Stevie. “Sagittarius,” is my delayed answer.
Slamming her hand down on the countertop, she points at Jo. “I called it!”
Jo moves toward her, slamming down a twenty-dollar bill, and says, “I was almost positive you were an Aries.”
Popping a quarter of the orange into her mouth, Stevie adds, “Wyn is a Gemini, so that would make sense. Smart, and you saw the chemistry.” They talk about all this as if star signs and pairings are common knowledge and a forgone conclusion.
Like everyone should know their own astrology details and its nuanced interpretations.
“Not sure I believe in any of that,” I say to them, letting my mask fall for the briefest moment.
They both gasp loudly, making a show of it.
I can’t help the laugh that it pulls out of me, and it feels good to loosen up and let them in a little. “Fine, fine. Tell me why I’m wrong.”
“Not wrong, just not as aware as we may have assumed,” Stevie says at the end of a hearty laugh.
“Everyone thinks that astrology and palm reading, hell, even tarot, for that matter, are these woo-woo witchy practices, but the core of each are rooted in the stars and planets. Details like where the Earth was in its rotation when you were born. The astronomy that existed in the place you were brought to life. It’s like any other practice rooted in truth; it’s about interpretation and how much belief versus common sense you’re willing to put behind it.
Flipping a card that gives you permission to look at yourself and your choices from a different lens.
It’s as subjective as art—what’s beautiful to one person could be totally absurd to another—but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real or doesn’t exist. It’s okay if you don’t believe in it, just don’t knock it. ”
I can see the differences between them, each Crowne sister, but they each look the same when they talk about something passionately.
Jo folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head to the side. “If you find yourself here longer than expected, Julian, I wouldn’t mind sharing some of this creative space. There’s plenty of room down that way for another artist.”
This could easily be transformed into a gallery space—display and offices. There’s great lighting, and it’s framed by the windows overlooking a town that could use something new.
“If you can handle the little quirks of a small town, that is,” she says, peering out the front window. The tinny sound of harmonicas travels from the far side of the street as we step outside toward the truck.
“That’s Skip practicing for this week,” Jo says as she moves around quart-sized paint cans.
“Whispering Fool performer?” I ask with a smirk.
He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to be in a band on stage at the rowdy bar.
I’ve spent plenty of time in small-town Kentucky.
Fiasco always has festivals and live music.
I know a harmonica in the summertime could very well mean a performance and a party.
“No,” Stevie laughs out, furrowing her brow.
Like I should already know this information.
“Starting in May, all the way through November, there’s live bluegrass,” she explains as she finishes her orange.
“Near the town line, there’s a spot on the other side of town called The Lucky Hole.
Every full moon, they have bluegrass on Sundays, but in the summertime, it’s a bigger deal.
More people. Tons of barbecue. Dancing and singing under a full moon .
. .” She audibly sighs. “It’s one of the few charming things we have left around here. ”
Jo widens her eyes. “You think Wyn will go?” She looks at Stevie, as if she’ll know the answer to that.
“Might be worth asking her,” Stevie says, shrugging her shoulders and looking at me, even though I didn’t ask.
If it wasn’t already obvious at their family dinner or in the way the Crowne sisters orbit around one another, these two women love their older sister, and it isn’t lost on me that they like the idea of me spending time with Wyn.
Glancing at Jo first, Stevie adds, “Wynnie survived things that most people . . .” She shakes her head, trailing off.
“She’s trying to be less careful, ignoring the noise this place likes to make, and just enjoy life.
” She pauses, lost in her thoughts for a brief moment before she looks up and smirks at me.
Wyn makes a similar face when she’s about ready to tell me like it is.
“My sister will be fine, no matter what; I’m going to just put that out there.
We’re Crowne women, we survive at all costs.
But you’re still here. And I’m guessing it’s because you want to be more than just a good story.
” She glances at Jo, and then down at her phone.
“She’s in classes today until at least four o’clock. ”
She still hasn’t answered my last text, but I wouldn’t mind seeing what Dr. Wynona Crowne looks like in front of a lecture hall filled with students.
“Where?” I ask. I need to talk to Birdie about my dad, but it’ll have to wait.
Jo smirks at Stevie, like they’re reading each other’s minds. “The university. Chemistry building.”