Chapter 11
Chapter 11
The first thing I do when I get inside the cabin is call Lolly. I’ll just ask her myself. What’s been eating you these past few years? What did I do besides leave for boarding school to make you hate me?
We would’ve gotten it all out in the open if she hadn’t been rushed away over Taylor’s pukefest, anyway. I can persuade her to meet me in New Mexico. Santa Fe. We can go to a luxurious resort in Santa Fe after my lecture. My treat. And talk until the cows come home.
But after five rings and Lolly’s voice telling me to leave a message, I say, “Call me,” and hang up. It’s almost five o’clock; she’s probably at one of the kids’ soccer games or at happy hour with some of her Malibu Barbie friends. For the record, that’s what she calls them, not me.
I guess I should think about dinner, but I’m still recovering from the drive down the mountain, which was somewhat better than the drive up. Still, my stomach didn’t like either.
Just the same, I pop my head inside the fridge. It looks like Knox made a good start on the leftover pasta. When I feel like it, I’ll eat the rest. For now, though, just another glass of wine. There’s a bottle of white from the other night in the door, and I pour myself a healthy serving.
I remember the wreath that’s still in my back seat and go outside to get it. Somewhere in the junk drawer, there’s one of those adhesive hooks that advertises that it won’t leave a mark. I stick it to the front door and hang my new wreath with its miniature orange and white pumpkins and inhale the fresh scent of juniper. Voila. Eat your heart out, Martha Stewart.
My phone rings, and I race inside, hoping it’s Lolly. Not Lolly, Austin. I don’t know how I feel about him calling again, but I answer it anyway.
“Hey.”
“Why are you out of breath?”
“I was outside and ran in to get the phone.” I hastily add, “I thought you were my sister. What can I do for you?”
“No need to be hostile, Chelsea. I was just calling to check in. No one’s heard from you, and I was getting worried.”
No one? It’s not like we have anyone in common. The only person I’m regularly in touch with is Ronnie, and she hasn’t been responding to me. I highly doubt she’s been talking to Austin.
“I’m fine. Great, actually.” And I’ve met someone . Knox .
“How’s your head?”
“It’s all good, Austin. Don’t you have a wedding to plan or a marriage to break up?” It’s a low blow; there’s nothing wrong with being a divorce attorney. It’s a necessary, even noble (okay, that’s taking it too far), profession. But for whatever reason, I feel like poking the bear, maybe even drawing a little blood.
“What the hell crawled up your ass? I mean, here I am, worried about you, making sure you’re okay. I don’t know what you’re so angry about.”
Can he really be this obtuse? I’m about to say, think about it, Austin, but figure it’s not worth arguing over.
“I appreciate your continued concern,” I say, trying to keep any hint of hostility out of my voice. “Everything is wonderful here. I’m relaxing, enjoying the lake, and taking trips to town. I finally made it to the parade and was sorry I missed it all these years, because it was fantastic.”
“Really?” He sounds doubtful.
“Really. You and Mary should try to make it next year.” I can’t help myself.
“Yeah, about that.”
He stops, and I hold my breath, fantasizing that he’ll say Mary’s out of the picture, that he can’t live without me, even though I’ve been living without him like a champ. It’s true. Since I’ve come to the cabin, I rarely think about him.
“I was hoping you’d reconsider Christmas,” he continues. “At the risk of sounding like a jerk, this week was my week. But you needed it, Chels. And I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’ve been able to recuperate there. All I want is for you to be healthy.” He says it like a) he’s a saint, and b) I’m two seconds away from being committed to a cuckoo farm. “But I think it’s only fair that we make up for the week I lost.”
“No problem,” I say. “You can have the cabin my week in January.” It’s arguably the worst month in Ghost. Cold, foggy, and often rainy.
“That’s not a fair trade. But we can talk about it another time. I didn’t call to fight.”
“Why again did you call?”
“I’m going to go now,” Austin says. “And I love you, Chelsea. I only wish you the best.”
He hangs up before I can say, Fuck you, Austin.
I’m sitting on the sofa, watching my third episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm , afraid to go to sleep. While I wouldn’t call last night’s dreams nightmares, they were discombobulating, even disturbing. I can’t take a repeat performance. But the thing is, I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. Every time they fall shut, I jolt upright, gulping in air as if I’m suffocating, and force myself to stay awake. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up without crashing.
That’s when I make a split-second decision to go for a drive. It’s not the least bit rational, but these days, I’m trying to be more spontaneous. Less myself, more Lolly.
It’s not as dark as last night. There’s a half-moon peeking down on me, lighting my way to the car. I roll down the window, figuring the cold air will give me a shot of adrenaline, or at the very least, keep me awake for hours to come.
It’s a gorgeous night, clear and crisp, the cedar trees particularly pungent, reminding me that winter is just around the corner. I take the country road, avoiding the highway. The deer are out in droves tonight, their yellow eyes glowing in the dark, so I lighten my foot on the gas. Luckily, I have the road to myself and can take my time. It’s a little eerie out here alone. But so calm and peaceful that there’s no reason to be frightened.
I drive without a destination in mind, going wherever the road leads me. It looks different at night. Less like bucolic farmland and more like enchanted forest. Different, but lovely.
I hang a right on a road I’ve never been before. It’s paved, and I believe if I follow it long enough, it’ll take me to a sandy beach on the banks of Bear Creek, just outside of town. It’s the right direction.
The beach is popular with locals and tourists alike because of its accessibility. Most of the river’s shoreline is rocky and rugged. Still, the rocks don’t stop the hardcore river rats from diving off the boulders into the clear, icy water below. As Uncle Sylvester says, “Some people don’t have the brains God gave them.”
I pass an outcropping of homes, some modest, others large and extravagant, like the million-dollar houses you see in Lake Tahoe faced in stone and glass. That’s how I know I’m near the river. I stick my face out the window to see what my nose tells me, to see if it picks up the scent of fish and fir and muddy flats. But instead of smelling it, I hear the rush of water in the distance.
There’s a green reflective sign up ahead. Bear Creek Beach. I follow the direction of the sign’s arrow to find a large parking lot, public restrooms made of cinder block, and a row of picnic tables. There are a few parked cars and a group of kids playing loud music. A girl is dancing in the back of a pickup truck, and the smell of pot is thick in the air.
I scrap my original plan to take a stroll on the beach but park on the far end of the lot. It’s too dark to see anything other than the shimmer of the moon bouncing off the water. And the music seems to have gotten louder. More aggressive.
A few of the young people have spotted my car and are walking towards me. My intuition tells me to leave, but my car is now surrounded by them. I quickly roll up my window and try to come up with an escape route that doesn’t involve mowing anyone down. For all I know, they’re just being friendly. But my gut doesn’t think so.
One of them, a young man with dirty blond hair and bedraggled clothes, is banging on my back window. He’s at least six-two and outweighs me by sixty pounds. I take some solace in the fact that the other two people menacing me are female; then I remember the “Manson girls.”
I tap on my horn, which comes out more as a soft toot than a muscular honk. One of the women holds up a joint and motions for me to unroll the window. I shake my head. The man has climbed onto my trunk and is jumping up and down, violently rocking my car, making me seasick.
I search the passenger seat for my phone and realize I forgot it. As a warning, I start my engine and slowly pull forward. Through my rearview, I see the man drop to his knees, then lay prone on my trunk, his arms dangling over the sides, his legs sprawled spread-eagle. He’s laughing. Hysterically. The women, now flanking both sides of my car, are laughing, too.
I see no way out without flooring it. Panicked that I might kill someone in the process, I weigh all my options, deciding that it’s either them or me. Then someone across the parking lot lets out a shrill whistle. The guy hops off my trunk, and he and the two women run to a waiting SUV. Within seconds, the parking lot is empty with the exception of me.
I sit there for a while, trying to regain my breathing, because for a time there I’m pretty sure I’d stopped. Then I nose out of the lot, taking a different road than the one I came in on, a different road from the SUV.
A few miles later, I try to convince myself that the parking lot idiots were just a harmless bunch of local kids, probably stoned out of their minds but gentle lions just looking for attention. Still, I’m unsettled enough that I keep my eyes on all my mirrors, looking over my shoulder every few seconds.
I take the backroads on the outskirts of Ghost, avoiding downtown, passing sheep farms, cattle ranches, old barns, and garages big enough to house tractors and farm equipment. Here, the houses are utilitarian. The lights out. Early to bed, early to rise. But there’s safety in knowing that I’m just a driveway away from help if I need it.
Subconsciously—but the psychologist in me believes it’s probably more conscious than I want to acknowledge—I wind up on Old Ranch Road. This time around, the road doesn’t feel as long. And in no time at all, I’m sitting in Knox’s driveway with the engine running, wondering what to do next. The porch light is on, so I turn off the car and climb the stairs.
As if he’s been expecting me, Knox opens the door, then his arms, and takes me in.
He doesn’t ask why I’m here so late or interrogate me about why I’m not home, safe in my bed. He just wordlessly holds me, and I’m no longer afraid of bad dreams or hoodlums in an empty parking lot. It’s the most generous thing anyone has ever done for me.
“You hungry?”
“I never ate dinner, but it’s got to be after midnight.”
“So? Kitchen is always open here.” With his arms still wrapped around me, he walks me across the house.
“I’m going to let you go now,” he says, because I’m still clinging to him. Then he moves to the refrigerator and sticks his head in. “Soup or a sandwich? Or both?”
“Both, please.” I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now.
By the time Knox has the bacon sizzling in a frypan on top of the stove, I’m ravenous. The smell alone is making my stomach rumble. When he finishes building a perfect BLT, the microwave dings with the soup. Tomato. I don’t know if it’s homemade or store-bought. And frankly, I don’t care. It looks delicious.
He serves me at the table and takes the chair across from me.
“You’re not eating?”
“I ate already.” Of course he did. The entire state of California is asleep by now.
“Thank you,” I say in between bites. “It’s so good.” I can’t remember anything tasting this wonderful.
“So you were just driving around and decided to stop by?” he says, trying to make it sound casual, but I can see he’s concerned, possibly even thinks I lost my mind.
“Something like that.”
He holds my gaze, willing me to tell the truth.
“I was afraid to sleep. Last night, I was besieged by weird dreams. I thought if I took a drive, it would clear my head. And I wound up here. Were you writing?”
“Nope. Done for the night. The odd thing is, I had a premonition you’d show up. When I heard Bailey barking . . . well, I knew.”
I can’t tell if he’s playing around with me, joking. “What kind of premonition?”
“Just a feeling that you’d wind up at my front door.”
“Hmm. I hope it’s okay.”
“Why? You planning on leaving if it isn’t?” He reaches over and lightly touches my arm, a signal that this time, he really is joking. “I’ll make you up a bed.”
“You don’t have to.” All at once, I’m embarrassed to be here. Embarrassed that I intruded on this man I barely know in the middle of the night. Or rather, morning. Because by now it must be past midnight. “I can take this to go”—I hold up the sandwich—“and head home. I’m good now, honest.”
“Nah, you’re here. You may as well stay.”
“You sure?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t. I can’t guarantee a good night’s sleep, but I can guarantee a good breakfast in the morning. I make a hell of a chicken-fried steak. Country gravy, biscuits, the whole nine yards.”
“Well in that case, I’ll stay. I mean, who can pass up chicken-fried steak?” I’m so relieved I could cry. I don’t think after the night I’ve had I could get back on the road and return to an empty house.
And I think Knox’s hospitality is genuine and not made because of any false sense of obligation. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who stands on ceremony.
I finish my soup and sandwich and clean up while Knox makes me up a bed. It’s a big house, and I presume there is more than one bedroom. When he doesn’t return, I go in search of him. Mainly it’s an excuse to have a look around, because on my previous visit I only saw the front rooms.
The main floor is a bit of a warren, a lot of chopped up spaces with no rhyme or reason. But there is a certain charm to it. A certain symmetry. I can see kids growing up here, a family. It’s so much different than the house Lolly and I grew up in. Not the first one with my parents, which was a tidy ranch in a leafy neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley, where kids rode their bikes on the street and played hopscotch on the sidewalk. Where neighbors looked out for one another, and everyone gathered for barbecues at the one house on the block with a swimming pool.
Not that one.
The house where Lolly and I spent our formative years was not really a house at all. It was a penthouse in the tallest building in Century City with sweeping views of Los Angeles. It was three times the size of our plain-Jane ranch, yet there was no place to play, no place to ride a bike, and no place for hopscotch on the sidewalk. A communal roof deck with an Olympic-size pool was our substitute for a backyard. Occasionally, our babysitter would succumb to our pleading requests to take us swimming. Then she would withstand the withering glares from the other residents, who didn’t want splashing kids to get in the way of their rigorous aquatic workouts.
It’s hard, even beyond privileged, to call the lap of luxury hell. But to Lolly and me, it felt that way. It felt like a gilded cage, even though we were lucky to have a roof over our heads.
This house, Knox’s house, would’ve been heaven. Large and lived-in, like Mom’s secondhand sofa. I can just imagine all the places we would’ve played hide-and-seek or built pillow forts on the floor. All the outside space we would’ve had to run and play.
I take the stairs to the second floor, peeking in the open doors. There’s a big den up here, which looks as if it’s used as a TV room with overstuffed couches, a couple of recliners, and a huge flat-screen. There’s a wall of windows that probably showcases a view of the mountains. It’s too hard to tell in the dark.
Down the hall is an office. Judging by the messy desk, it’s where Knox writes. I go in and study the spines of all the books on the shelves, most of them academic tomes about science, biophysics, and agriculture. But plenty of fiction, too. There’s also a collection of wooden mallard duck decoys, some that appear to be fairly old. Despite the clutter, it’s a handsome room. Cozy, yet spacious, and like the rest of the house, has a warmth about it. It hugs you like a strong embrace is the best way to describe it.
Knox comes in to find me thumbing through one of the books. “I gave you Katie’s room and put fresh sheets on the bed. You can have the bathroom next to it.”
“This is a great house.” I nudge my head at the decoys. “Are you a duck hunter?”
“Nope. Those were my dad’s.”
I’m secretly relieved. Shooting cute little ducks seems medieval.
“When did your parents pass?”
“My dad six years ago. My mom a year after my dad. He had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma but put up a good fight. Lasted two years longer than the doctors said he would. My mom, on the other hand, was in good health. But after Dad died, she just seemed to deteriorate. I figure she didn’t want to go on without him.”
“That’s sad. I’m sorry.”
“It’s the cycle of life,” he says, hitching his shoulders. “Let me show you your digs for the night.”
Katie’s room is unexpected and completely the opposite of the tattooed bartender with the flaming red hair. It’s ultra girly and old-fashioned, with yellowed cabbage rose wallpaper, a pink canopy bed, and matching dresser and desk. I can’t see her picking out this stuff, though tastes change as people get older.
“This okay?” Knox asks.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Feel free to scrounge through Katie’s drawers for a nightshirt or whatever.”
“I hope she doesn’t mind.”
“Nah,” he says, and jams his hands in his pockets. “Help yourself.”
We stand there awkwardly.
“Well, goodnight then,” Knox says, but lingers.
I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, and I want him to. Really badly. I’d like to say that it’s because it’s been so long since a man besides Austin has kissed me, and I’m curious how it would be with someone else. But that’s not it. It’s simply Knox. I want him to kiss me.
He doesn’t, of course. He rocks on his heels with his hands still shoved in his pockets and walks out of the room.