Chapter 11 #3
Too bad Granddad wasn’t paying attention to our earlier Poldark conversation, but I have to keep trying, but subtly. If Granddad catches even a whiff of sabotage, he'll cling to her out of pure stubbornness. The old man's contrarian streak runs deeper than the family fortune.
Over coffee, I decide to try again with Halloween, which is less than a couple of months away.
Part of me hopes she'll interrupt with a correction—"Actually, it's Samhain"—followed by some lecture about bonfires and spirit communication through the thinning veil between worlds. That’ll do the trick. If she’s a Wiccan, Granddad would send her out of here on a broom.
Not that I need a lesson about Samhain. We produced a middling horror flick about Celtic harvest rituals last year.
Box office was decent, not spectacular, but enough that I can spot a potential witch from fifty paces.
“So, Celeste,” I say. “Halloween.” I raise my eyebrows and smile.
“Do you like that holiday? Do you do costume parties or do you get a lot of trick or treaters? Do you decorate your yard with 12-foot skeletons and scarecrows?” Do you dance naked around a bonfire while jangling a tambourine and chanting with your Wiccan friends, right after you enthusiastically took part in a drum circle?
She sips her mug. “Actually, Halloween was one of my father’s favorite holidays.
He used to dress up as different movie characters every year - one year he was Freddy; the next, Jason.
He’s the one in the hockey mask, right?” Yes, he was, but she doesn’t wait for the answer.
“He was Michael Myers one year and Johnny from The Shining another. He was Chucky a time or two and Jigsaw a few times.”
I raise an eyebrow. "Halloween was your father's favorite holiday?
" Part of me had been hoping she'd reveal some crystal-gazing ritual or mention how Mercury retrograde affects her mood.
Even a discussion of one of those barefoot meditation equinox/solstice mazes where people shuffle around looking dazed while claiming they're "grounding their energy" would have been perfect.
Granddad would have written her off immediately.
Instead, she's mentioned something normal—though I can't help noticing she spoke about her father as if he's gone.
She nods. "My father died in a skiing accident when I was 15.
" The coffee mug trembles between her fingers as her gaze drops to the table.
Something in my chest tightens, but I force it away.
Remember who she is. "My mother tried to keep our Halloween tradition going," she continues, "but the female horror villain options are pretty limited.
After the third year as Carrie's mom with that awful frizzy wig, she had to admit defeat. "
I chuckle softly, picturing a whole family of redheads like her.
Celeste’s mom must be a carbon copy. But watching her with my grandparents deflates me.
She's playing it safe. At dinner, she mentions her favorite movie is Love Actually, gushing over Bill Nighy's aging rockstar, and suddenly Nana lights up like a Christmas tree.
The two of them spend thirty minutes dissecting every Richard Curtis rom-com ever made - Notting Hill, Bridget Jones Diary, About Time, Four Weddings and a Funeral.
Then comes the inevitable Downton Abbey conversation.
Nana practically vibrates with excitement as they debate Lady Mary's character flaws and mourn Sybil's tragic death.
I stab at my potatoes, wanting to stab at my eyeballs, while they analyze the "epic love story" of Anna and Bates.
When my eighty-year-old grandmother uses the word "hotter" comparing Matthew to Henry, I nearly choke on my wine. Then the even more inevitable Travis and Taylor wedding discussion nearly drives me to self-harm with my dessert fork, but there’s Nana, equally invested in what they call the "royal nuptials" of pop music and football.
Even Granddad isn't immune when she rattles off Los Angeles Kings stats like a seasoned sportscaster, naming every player on that team and reciting Stanley Cup victories by year.
She's good—too good. They're completely under her spell.
She steers clear of politics throughout the rest of the dinner, and Granddad surprisingly follows suit.
I'm keeping that grenade pin in my pocket, though.
The moment this evening becomes tiresome, I'll casually mention the latest tax proposal and watch her eyes light up with that righteous fervor I already saw a hint of at our first dinner when she lectured me about the abalone, not to mention our Poldark conversation.
One passionate word about "equitable distribution" and Granddad will practically teleport her back to that eco-friendly sardine can she drove here in.
For now, I'll let the pleasant conversation continue—it's been unexpectedly tolerable so far.
Still, I can't help myself—I need to stir things up a bit.
The rainbow of stones circling her wrists catches my eye, and I lean forward.
"Those crystals you're wearing, Celeste," I say, nodding toward her bracelets.
"Tourmaline, citrine, amethyst, lapis...
let me guess—protection, health, wisdom, and creativity?
I've got a friend who swears by her chakra alignment sessions.
" The lie rolls off my tongue easily. No such friend exists, but if Celeste believes I'm not judgmental about people who believe in crystals, maybe she'll open up about whatever healing powers she thinks those pretty rocks possess. A little bait to draw her out.
She nods. “Yes!” And then she beams. “So you know about crystals? I never would’ve thought.”
I smile and nod, guilt pricking at me. Her eyes light up like she's found a fellow believer in this crystal bullshit.
She leans forward, her bracelets jangling against the table.
The citrine, she explains, was some kind of investment in her screenwriting career.
"It's for abundance," she whispers, stroking the yellow rocks like they're lottery tickets.
"It hasn't paid off yet, but..." She shrugs with that blind optimism that makes me want to check my watch.
Then comes the lecture: raw amethyst—"never polished, that's crucial"—for sleep.
Lapis lazuli for emotions. Tourmaline as some magical disease barrier.
She delivers this whole crystal manifesto with the dead seriousness of a kid showing off their science fair volcano, and I'm trapped here nodding like I give a damn.
Jackpot. The crystal conversation is gold, but something in my gut sours.
Part of me wants to mentally high-five myself—perfect ammunition—while I watch her eyes light up.
Her hands keep moving as she rattles off which rocks supposedly block bad vibes, boost health, spark creativity.
She's leaning in now, a curl falling over her eye, no clue she's loading my gun for me. I open my mouth to go for the kill with questions about tarot readings and astrological birth charts—because of course she's had her whole astrological blueprint mapped out by some bullshit psychic named Lady Starlight or something like that—but the words die somewhere in my throat. What the fuck? I need this. I need her to look like an idiot. But I just can’t do it. I can’t plunge that knife in and twist it, even though it’ll give me my freedom. Why?
I catch Nana and Grandpa trading looks. So, they’re listening this time.
And there it is—exactly what I've been waiting for.
Nana's eyebrow shoots up, her mouth pinched tight like when she caught me sneaking out at sixteen.
Grandpa's giving Celeste that empty stare, the one that makes you feel about two inches tall.
I could end this whole mess with just a few more lines of questions.
Ask her about more New Age beliefs, then ask her about what she thinks about taxing the wealthy and that would be all she wrote.
She'd be gone. I'd be free. Back to normal.
So why the hell am I racking my brain for something—anything—to make her stay?
“So, you mentioned you’re a screenwriter,” I say, needing her off the woo woo topics and back onto something my Grandpa can relate to. “What kinds of movies have you written?”
She lifts one shoulder. "Did I say that?
" She shakes her head. "No. I just have these screenplay ideas floating around in my head.
Nothing serious—just a silly dream I've never actually done anything about.
" Her eyes flick toward my grandparents, and something crosses her face—there and gone in an instant—that makes Grandpa's expression gentle.
He catches my eye. We're thinking the same thing: the industry's ruthless numbers game.
Thousands of hopeful scripts piling up on desks, most tossed aside after a single page.
No agent, no shot. Grandpa's weathered hand covers hers, and just like that, he's in her corner again.
I suspect—and I bet he does too—that Celeste has already written screenplays, already faced rejection, and can't bring herself to say it aloud.
As though admitting the attempt would somehow be worse than never trying.
Something tightens in my chest—sympathy mingled with guilt.
I could have sunk her with the crystal thing.
Could have pulled that thread until it unraveled into her spouting about tarot cards, chakra alignment, astrological birth charts and mercury retrograde until Grandpa made excuses about the late hour.
By tomorrow, I'd have had an email explaining why this marriage scheme was being abandoned.
Instead, I just threw her a life preserver. The question hammers in my chest: why?