Chapter 2
My heart skips several beats, possibly attempting a gymnastic routine—and let’s be honest, it’s not built for that.
The elegant foyer of the Country Cottage Inn suddenly feels about as spacious as a phone booth, and the sunlight streaming through the windows has gone from golden and welcoming to bright as an interrogation room.
Even the cinnamon-scented air is turning on me, going straight for the throat like an aromatic assassin.
Bizzy gives a curt nod my way. “I mean it, I know exactly what’s going on here.”
I force out a laugh that sounds like a squirrel caught in a paper shredder.
“Going on? Nothing’s going on. Just your garden-variety emotionally wrecked woman with spectacularly poor taste in husbands looking for a soft place to land.
Possibly involving donuts. Maybe a little reinvention.
Definitely not day drinking.” More like definitely maybe day drinking.
Bizzy’s eyes narrow with the precision of a detective who’s just spotted the smoking gun. Her gaze bounces from Chip to Fish and then back to me like she’s watching a feline ping-pong match. “You can read the minds of animals. Can you read the minds of humans, too?”
That hits like a bucket of ice dumped down my back.
I grab her arm and tug her a few steps away, tossing a glance toward Ree and Georgie, who are currently locked in mortal combat over whether the front desk floral arrangement needs water or an exorcism.
“No, I can’t read people’s minds. But how do you—”
“I’m transmundane—telesensual to be exact. And that’s what you are, too.” She delivers this information with the casual tone of a woman discussing the weather rather than revealing that we’re both members of some supernatural club I didn’t know existed.
My jaw drops so fast I’m amazed it doesn’t create a small crater in the polished floor.
Far too many decades of thinking I either had a gift, a curse, or a very niche brain tumor—and suddenly there’s a label for it.
Not just any label, but one that sounds like it should come with its own pharmaceutical commercial featuring people running through wheat fields while listing alarming side effects.
“Transmundane? Telesensual?” I repeat, like I’m trying out expensive cheeses. “My great-aunt called it the affliction. She said it ran in the family along with wide feet and a tendency to overwater plants. So… you can read people’s minds, too?”
“Not everyone. Not all the time,” Bizzy says with a shrug. “People are messy. Animals are easier—less drama, more honesty, fewer issues with mothers-in-law.”
My mind races faster than Chip when he hears the can opener, which is saying something because that cat can achieve near supersonic speeds when food is involved. “This is incredible. I’ve never met anyone else who—”
“Not many people know,” Bizzy cuts in, glancing toward Ree and Georgie. “And as far as those two go, my mother doesn’t know but Georgie does.”
I look over at Georgie just in time to catch her giving me a sly wink. The kind that says, Oh, honey, I’ve been three steps ahead of you since Tuesday. Suddenly, all her snarky one-liners take on a new, mind-reading edge.
Perfect. Another mind reader. Just what this place needed. Fish grumbles with her whiskers twitching forward.
What is this, Oprah’s Psychic Giveaway? Chip muses. You get to be a mind reader. And YOU get to be a mind reader! Everyone gets a mental meltdown!
Calm down, Fish purrs. It’s not like you’re hiding anything juicy. I bet your most scandalous thought is whether or not to nap in the sunbeam or on Josie’s freshly folded laundry.
I really hate it when he does that. I’ve had his fur in places fur doesn’t belong.
Chip grunts at the tiny feline by his side. Listen up, Fish Stick, I’ll have you know I have complex, sophisticated thoughts. His orange fur bristles slightly. Multitudes of them.
More like multitudes of snack crumbs and delusion, Fish shoots back.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Bizzy notices and grins.
“Please excuse her,” she says. “Fish thinks she’s the feline version of a TED Talk.”
Fish yowls in offense.
“And Chip thinks he’s the Duke of Huckleberry Hollow,” I add. “His Majesty would prefer Your Floofiness. We’re currently working on humility.”
“Good luck with that.” She laughs. “I’ve had better success teaching quantum physics to squirrels, and trust me, squirrels are terrible at math.”
We share a laugh that feels like the beginning of a secret handshake society I didn’t know I wanted to join.
“Come on,” Bizzy says, reaching for my suitcase with the efficiency of an innkeeper who’s clearly handled her share of emotional refugees. “Let me get you settled. You’ve had quite the day already, and something tells me this is just the pre-show.”
We head up the grand staircase, the cats trailing behind like royalty inspecting their summer estate. Each stair creaks with old-house charm—or maybe a warning.
This staircase is an insult to creatures with refined physiques, Chip meows, pausing on the stairs to lick one paw with all the drama he can afford. Some of us have short legs and excess fluff. This is architectural discrimination. We demand a ramp. Or a snack. Or both.
“You could stand to lose a pound or ten,” I mutter.
And you could stand to not marry men who do downward dog with their yoga instructors, but here we are. He narrows his green eyes at me with the judgment of a disappointed parent.
“Touché once again.”
We reach a wide hallway on the second level where rich burgundy carpet muffles our footsteps and vintage wall sconces cast a warm glow that makes the place look like a magazine spread for Cozy New England Living.
“Here we are,” Bizzy says. “East wing, water view, and far enough from the elevator that you won’t be disturbed by late-night arrivals.”
She opens the door to my room and it’s everything a woman on the brink could ask for—lavender-scented air, gauzy curtains, a bed that looks like it has secrets and comfort food stashed beneath it.
Sunlight streams through those gauzy curtains, illuminating a cozy sitting area with a small kitchenette tucked into one corner. There’s a four-poster bed draped in a quilt that looks handmade.
“This is beautiful,” I breathe, as Chip immediately hops onto the windowsill like he’s appraising real estate.
Acceptable, he mewls. Excellent light. Good napping potential. Eight paws out of ten.
“Well, someone loves it.” Bizzy gives an easy laugh.
“I do, too,” I’m quick to tell her. “But I can’t impose on you like this. At least let me—”
“Friends in crisis get the deluxe zero-dollar plan,” Bizzy cuts in. “No exceptions.”
“But—”
“No buts. Unless it’s yours parked on that couch with a glass of wine while we plan your next move. Glitter and revenge are optional, but highly recommended.”
I feel a rush of gratitude so intense it almost brings tears to my eyes. “Thank you. Truly.”
“That’s what friends are for. And apparently, fellow transmundanes.” She winks. “We’re a rare breed, like unicorns, but with better hair and fewer horn-related injuries.”
Bizzy and I share a laugh. I have the feeling I’ve just joined the world’s most chaotic support group and I’m not mad about it.
Chip gives one final knead of the windowsill. Always a good sign. But it’s a better sign when he’s kneading those paws into my back. Ocean view. Solid acoustics. Ample sunbeam real estate. This place has potential.
Fish sniffs the baseboards like a home inspector. Don’t get too comfortable, Cheese Head. This is still my turf.
“Well, now that I have a place to lay my head at night,” I say, glancing at my watch, “I should probably get going soon.”
Bizzy raises an eyebrow. “Big plans? Or are we talking snack run and avoidance nap?”
“I have a job interview,” I announce, puffing up a little, “at Huckleberry Hollow Wonderland. Two o’clock sharp.”
Bizzy straightens like I’ve just told her I’m joining the circus. “The theme park? I didn’t even know they were hiring.”
“They need a new manager.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and not like I’m betting my entire second act on a carousel and a funnel cake machine.
“I saw the listing somewhere between hours three and four of my escape from Clyde road trip. I figured twenty-five years of school bake sales, PTA carnage, and fundraising galas had to count for something.”
Bizzy grins. “Josie, you could plan a coup with nothing but a spreadsheet and a crock pot. You threw a school luau that made the newspaper.”
“I did. And not just because the principal caught fire from the tiki torch incident.”
“Details,” she says, waving it off. “This park will be lucky to have you, just like those parties you threw.”
“Someone had to make sure the party had both chips and dip. The devil really is in the details—and the glitter.” I shrug once again. “Theme park, here I come.”
“Did someone say theme park?” Georgie’s voice floats up from the bottom of the stairs like a battle cry. “Ree, grab your purse. We’re going out! And grab my theme park hat—we ride at dawn!”
Bizzy and I move to the hallway to find Georgie and Ree already climbing the stairs, looking like two women on a mission. Georgie’s silver hair wobbles with each step like a tower of cotton candy that refuses to fall down.
“Theme parks?” Ree asks, slightly breathless. “All the sitting. All the people watching. I love theme parks!”
“You would dream of sitting.” Georgie shoots her bestie a look. “We especially love the theme parks that are hiring people we know.”
I can’t help but laugh. “You want to come with me to my job interview?”
“Not to the interview itself,” Georgie clarifies with surprising diplomacy. “We’d wait outside like proper adults who definitely aren’t eavesdropping. But afterward? Absolutely. I haven’t been on a roller coaster in at least six months. That’s practically a medical emergency at my age.”
“It’s a pet-friendly park,” I’m quick to tell them. “So, Chip is coming, too.”