Chapter 6
Mi Cielo
“This wall will need to go to make room for the new walkway, and I want the door taken out of this doorway. It needs to be open. Maybe an arch. Can we do an archway?” I ask Ralph, the foreman of my tiny crew for the renovations.
“We can,” he nods, making a note on his clipboard. “That should go well with the rounded upper windows in the entryway.”
“Great. Everything else stays according to the blueprints I sent over a few weeks ago. We can get started right away, as long as the supply shipments were on time,” I say.
“Got it all out in the trailer,” he replies, nodding towards the front door.
“Great, let’s get to it then.”
The crew of three arrived this morning, and I’ve been buzzing with excitement ever since. This is my favorite part of every project. The beginning. When everything is all mapped out and ready, and we finally get to start to dig into the work.
There’s so much potential.
Ralph and his two crew men are freelancers out of Idaho we hire for a lot of my projects. Since I focus on small vacation rentals like the cabin, not big apartment buildings, it only takes a few crew members to make it happen.
After they do all of the big jobs like knocking down walls, installing flooring, painting, and major repairs, I take over from there. I design each rental to fit in with the local feel of the area along with my signature style, and add all of the finishing touches. It’s a great system.
For the next few weeks, I’ll oversee Ralph and the guys, while working on smaller tasks that don’t require their expertise.
Today, I’m digging up some flower beds along the edges of the cabin.
My vision for the yard is outdoorsy and natural to Wyoming.
I’ll be planting local wildflower seeds in the flower beds, along with a few perennial bushes that will pop up each summer.
Once the crew gets started inside, I grab my shovel and head out back.
Thorn covered weeds are sprinkled throughout the backyard, the former flower beds overgrown with morning glory vines.
Long cheatgrass has already started to sprout along the fence.
There may have been a lawn at one point but it has blended with the rolling fields surrounding the property, wild and untamed.
With my gloved hands on my hips, I take in the view. It’s a lot of work now, but in a few months, you won’t be able to tell it ever looked like this, I think to myself. Letting out a hopeful sigh, my shovel sinks through the top layer of the flowerbeds.
When I was a teenager, Aunt Millie and I spent a lot of time out in her garden. It’s probably why I still do the landscaping for my vacation rentals. It relaxes me. She used to buy me a new pair of patterned garden gloves every year.
Sometimes they were flamingo print, other times they were bright yellow.
I’d go outside and plant flowers, harvest peppers from the garden, replant tomatoes every spring, pull weeds, or sometimes just sit and listen to the birds.
Then, by the end of the summer, my gloves were caked in dirt and covered in holes.
As I got older, I planted more fruit and vegetables in the garden and used them to cook with Aunt Millie.
I still remember the year we had an abundance of strawberries, and had to use them in pretty much everything so they didn’t all go bad.
We had strawberry smoothies, strawberry pie, strawberry jam, strawberry cake.
I didn’t eat strawberries for a year after.
It felt nice to have something I could take care of. Something I could focus on when I was down. My parents might have sent me to a brand new place in the middle of nowhere, they might forget to check-in weekly, Aunt Millie might have a busy week and be gone a lot.
But, I always had the garden to escape to. No matter what.
I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice I’m no longer alone outside until I hear a thud from behind me. A figure looms over by the back fence, collecting the wooden logs that have fallen onto the ground into a pile. Miles.
My heart skips a beat as he lifts a fence post that was lying on its side. He’s wearing a long sleeved button-up shirt today, but he may as well be wearing no shirt at all with how tight it’s hugging his muscles.
A backwards baseball cap covers his inky hair as if he has psychic powers and knows that’s my weakness. Damn backwards baseball caps.
He must sense me staring, too, because as soon my eyes slide back to his arms, he looks right at me. My cheeks betray me, immediately heating up. Maybe he’ll think I’m flushed from shoveling out the flowerbeds.
I smile and wave, and to my surprise, he nods politely back at me before continuing to move the fence posts. He actually acknowledged me. He didn’t just ignore me, or worse, scowl in my general direction.
We are making progress, people.
By the time Miles leaves in the afternoon, I’ve just gotten all of the flowerbeds dug out and he has finished removing the knocked down fence posts. Now the fence looks like it has an intentional break in the back corner instead of cattle damage. Who knew fences could be trampled by cows so easily?
The crew has just finished packing up their tools to call it a day when I feel another warm breeze inside the house. This time, I don’t have any weird imaginings. All I feel is a strong pull towards the fireplace again. Maybe that’s where a draft is coming in.
Nothing seems out of place on the fireplace. The smooth, gray oval stones that make the fireplace are the only thing in the entire cabin that seem brand new. I don’t know how I didn’t notice before, but it seems like this fireplace hasn’t been used at all.
There’s no soot anywhere, no dirt or dust on any of it. It’s pristine. Whoever was taking care of this place for the ranch must have really loved this fireplace.
I reach out and touch one of the stones above the opening, and immediately recoil. It’s hot. As hot as an oven door when it’s on.
The warm breeze is long gone now, it’s actually starting to feel a little cold with the sun going down.
But somehow, the fireplace is warm enough I’d expect it to have had a fire roaring in it all day long.
Maybe I missed something. Maybe the crew had some sort of machine close to the stones and they absorbed the heat.
Suddenly, a tiny bright light twinkles from inside.
It’s gone just as quickly as it came. Am I going crazy?
I have been working myself into the ground lately.
It’s possible my brain is playing tricks on me.
I just can’t shake that feeling that I’ve had both times unexplainable things have happened here.
The feeling of belonging, of love. Warm and tingly. Like a hug.
Another twinkle snags my gaze. This time, I can see where it came from.
Reaching down towards the back corner of the fireplace, some sort of paper sticks out from between a couple of rocks. How is there paper in here? It must have been left there after the last time a fire was lit.
My fingers snag on the corner of the thick paper. I work the paper out from between the stones carefully, making sure not to rip it.
I turn the paper over in my hands, reading the words written on it. It’s a postcard. A really old postcard. The front is a yellowing, faded photo of red rock cliffs that remind me of southern Utah. But in big, bold letters, the name Villavieja, Colombia paints the top of the card.
Written on the flip side of the postcard is a letter addressed to, “Mi Cielo” written in Spanish. Signed, “Abuela.”
On the wall of the fireplace, right where the postcard was, there’s some sort of symbol.
I kneel down further to get a better look.
It’s almost like a brand, burned into the stone.
The shape of a longhorn skull is carefully drawn in black soot.
The curvy “L” brand of Lone Pine Ranch etched onto its forehead.
This had to have been placed here on purpose. It’s so delicately drawn.
Chimes ring through the air so loudly, I jolt and almost fall over. My pocket buzzes to the familiar sound of Aunt Millie’s ringtone. I haven’t spoken to her in a few weeks, save for the occasional text.
“Hey kiddo, whatcha up to?” Her comforting voice sends bursts of warmth throughout my chest. Everything in my world could be up in flames, and just hearing my Aunt Millie call me kiddo would fix it.
“Hi Aunt Millie,” I smile. “Not much, just started on the first construction day at the ranch cabin.” The weirdest cabin in the world.
I glance back over to the longhorn skull inside of the fireplace but it’s… gone. How is that possible? I lean back into the fireplace, and sure enough, there’s nothing there. I must be dehydrated or something.
“Not much? Knowing you, you put in more work than you should have. How is it looking up there? Still beautiful as ever?” she says.
“Yes, it’s gorgeous here. I love the ranch. We are tucked right into a valley full of rolling green hills with a view of the Grand Tetons. You’d love all of the wildflowers,” I say.
“Sounds heavenly. Everything is going okay so far?”
“Yep, all good so far. Although, I’m sure there’s still time for something to go wrong,” I joke.
“I don’t think the rancher’s son likes me very much, though.
I think he’s upset that a company as big as MacPherson Enterprises is buying a section of their ranch.
” I conveniently leave out the fact we kind of know each other.
The less she knows about that the better.
“Well he can suck it,” she laughs. “They shouldn’t have sold if they didn’t want to. It’s not like you came and forced their hand. Knowing MacPherson, they got a great payout too. I’m sure he’s grumpy about everything.” Oh if she only knew how spot on she was.
“Yeah, probably,” I chuckle. “How’s Albuquerque?”
“Hot,” she says with an exasperated sigh. “I’d tell you to come and visit me, but I wouldn’t wish that upon my greatest enemy so I’ll come visit you next.”
“Not even Greg?” I tease. Aunt Millie and her old neighbor in Juniper Ridge were always in an all out war.
They fought over property lines, sprayed toxic weed killer on each other’s rose bushes, and Greg let his dog poop on Aunt Millie’s lawn so many times she gathered it all up one day and promptly dumped it right on his welcome mat.
“Why would you ruin my day by invoking the name of the devil?” Aunt Millie scoffs. “Now all I can see is his ugly, wrinkled face. Thanks for that.”
“My pleasure,” I hum, picking at the leaves on a tree in the backyard. “Well, if you called to check and see if I’m still alive, I am. For now. Until the rancher’s son whacks me over the head with a shovel and drops me into the river.”
“Alright, good to hear. If you could also check in with your folks before you get knocked out, that’d be great. Your mom has already texted me twice asking about what you’re up to,” she says.
“Why are they asking you? Are they not aware I’m not thirteen years old living with you anymore? They know exactly where I am and what I’m doing. I literally work for them.” I bristle. My parents always go to Aunt Millie before me, and it never ceases to upset me.
“You know the deal, kiddo. They’ve never been great at the whole parenting gig. Just shoot them a quick text, let them know you’re good. I know they know where you are, I think they’re probably just curious about how you are,” she says.
“Fine, but only because if I don’t, they’ll keep blowing up your phone.”
“I don’t care what the reason is, just get it done. Hey, I’ve got to run. Shelley just pulled up outside for Paint And Sip night at the downtown art gallery. I can’t miss my monthly drunk painting.”
“Okay, have fun, bye,” I call out, lingering on the last syllable for a while before I hang up.
My phone stares silently back at me as I hover over the text message thread between my parents and I. It hasn’t been used in so long I can practically see dust collecting on the little green bubbles of words.
The last texts in the thread are a couple of very generic happy birthday messages, almost identical.
It reminds me of all of the birthdays I’d sit by the phone when I was younger, waiting for them to call. Most of the time they would, sometimes they wouldn’t. It almost worked out better if they just forgot to call altogether.
At least then I could make up some sort of event they were at, or the reason their phone wasn’t working.
I wouldn’t have to hear the absentminded tone of my father, barely paying attention to the conversation.
Or the way my mother not-so-subtly digs at my appearance.
I could make up a new conversation where they were interested in my life in Juniper Ridge.
I could tell myself they wanted to hear about my favorite class, or what Hazel and I did over the weekend.
The memories make it hard to want to reach out now.
I’m not in that place anymore, I’ve long since moved on from the hurt they caused me.
But still, now that I’ve seen how amazing my aunt was at stepping into their roles, even unprepared, it’s hard to give them the time of day.
Somewhere deep down I feel like they don’t deserve me.
I click on the message icon, typing up a text to let them know I made it to Jackson safely and started work on the Old Cabin. If I don’t want to do it for me, I can at least send it for Aunt Millie. It’s the least I can do for her after all she does for me.