Cackle(18)

“We’re on good terms, which helps. It wasn’t contentious. Sometimes things don’t work out.”

“Mm,” she says, sipping her coffee. She gazes out into space, thinking something. Then she says, “I’m inclined to hate him.”

“Oh, no,” I say. “No, he really didn’t do anything wrong. We think we’re probably just better as friends.”

“This all seems quite diplomatic,” she says. “What you’re saying. Your words. But your face.”

She cradles my face, chin to cheek, in her warm palm.

“Your face, your eyes, they tell me another story,” she says, gently removing her hand. “But you can tell me that one another time. Or not at all. It’s your story to tell or never to tell.”

I shrug. “I’m not sure there is much of a story.”

She nods, but it’s a skeptical nod. She doesn’t believe me. And she shouldn’t. There is a story. Of course there is. It’s just a bad one. I thought I was settled in a stable, long-term relationship, which led to a complacency on my end that slowly eroded the romance. It’s sad and painful and, maybe worst of all, boring. I wouldn’t make her sit through it. I can barely stand it myself.

“You may not believe me,” she says, lowering her voice to a whisper, “but I am older than I look. And the thing about age is, it gifts you with incredible wisdom. So you must trust me, and all my incredible wisdom, when I tell you that, though you’re hurting now and it surely feels like it’s a permanent state, like a fog that will never lift, I promise you it will.”

I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“But,” she says, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, “you’ll discover for yourself soon enough the things that devastate us most in the moment are always the things we look back on with such gratitude.”

I wish I could believe her. I want to, but I can’t let go of my cynicism. I have to keep it close, tucked under my seat like an inflatable life vest. I’m too afraid of what will happen if I allow myself to become hopeful. What terrible disappointments will attack while I’m stupid happy and unprepared.

She sets down her coffee, and I see it. A spider. It’s moseying along the ledge toward Sophie.

“There’s a spider,” I tell her, pointing. “There are a lot of spiders here.”

“There’s a lot of nature,” she says, turning to look at it. “Hello, little friend.”

I let the spider crawl onto the discarded lid of my coffee cup, then tip the lid over the edge of the gazebo. The spider lands in a shrub.

“Beautiful little creatures, aren’t they?”

“Eh,” I say. “They’re creatures. I don’t like to kill them.”

“It’s bad luck,” she says. She turns her hand into a spider and creeps it up my forearm. “So, Annie, what are your plans for the rest of the day?”

“Don’t have any.”

“No plans? Hmm, interesting. No plans,” she says. She’s plotting something. The corners of her mouth slowly curl into a grin.

“What?” I ask her.

“Now you can’t say no to me when I ask you to come over, because I know you have no other plans,” she says, laughing. “I’m in the mood to make pie. Would you like to come over and make some pie?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve never made pie before.”

“I love to make pie. I find it very relaxing,” she says. “Let’s go pick up some berries, and then we can go to my place, yes?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

She stands up and reaches out for my hand. There’s another spider. A smaller one. Brownish. It’s crawling along Sophie’s finger. I open my mouth to warn her, but she already knows. She leans down, moves toward the ledge, then transforms her finger into a bridge for the spider to cross. I’m amazed that it actually does. It walks in a straight line along Sophie’s finger onto the ledge of the gazebo.

“You’re the spider whisperer,” I say.

“They’re uncomplicated,” she says. “Humans are complicated.”

I follow her out of the gazebo and back to the tents. Everyone we pass smiles at us, bows their head, says, “Good morning. Good morning, Sophie!” or “Sophie! How are you?” I experienced the town’s general friendliness earlier, but this is different. Excessive. The people fawn over her. I watch their expressions as they see her, as her presence dawns on their faces.

I look at her. She is stunningly gorgeous. Superhuman. I should be intimidated. I should feel like a hideous troll walking beside someone so insanely beautiful, but I don’t. I’m just content to soak in her glow. And she’s so nice and open and warm and funny. It’s that rumored phenomenon I never believed in; I feel like I’ve known her my whole life.

So why are these people who know her acting so weird around her?

I turn to her. “Are you famous?”

She laughs. “What?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Seems like you’re a big deal around here.”

She rolls her eyes. “I own a lot of land. Real estate. It’s silly.”

“You’re their landlord?”

She winces. “I don’t like that term. ‘Lord.’?”