Page 35 of Flying

An anger and shyness mix across her face, before Delia lowers her eyes. “I just think it’s interesting that you’ve got Lily moving in with you, that’s all. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love Lily. But, come on. She’s a mess. I think she’s been worse since she was here, so is this what we want for her or is it for someone else?” Her gaze narrowswhen she says someone else, and I swallow thickly unsure if she means me or Stef.

“Belinda is never going to forgive her and I don’t know how Lily is going to feel about that.” She pauses once more before adding, “Plus, it’s not like I don’t realize you’ve never gotten over her.”

I swallow so hard I start to choke. Scrubbing a hand over my face, the silverware I had picked up is now clanging against the bartop. I scoop a pint glass up, and use the bar gun to fill a glass of water and take a large gulp.Fuck memy thoughts groan at me. I asked her to speak up.Do I argue?She isn’t wrong, but I didn’t know anyone else knew.Do I admit it? Ask for her help? Do I ask if I’m the person she meant?Before I can cause any more trouble, I point towards the steps awkwardly.

“Seems like you have things sorted here for the day. Headed back upstairs,” I choke on my words, barely spitting out ‘upstairs’ while waving my hands and pointing. I head towards my office and close the door.Shit, that was not what I expected.

I sit and look at the upcoming reservations. I stare at invoices. Order reports. It is all swimming letters and jumbled thoughts. Glancing at the calendar, I know Susan wanted to have the party in February, but we need to move it out. Lily is considering March, what reason can she accept?I should ask my mom to help, but I should prove I can do this on my own.I groan audibly enough that I hear it, but not so loud that I draw Delia’s attention again.

I plot out a few different routes to delaying or canceling the additional party. After each plan, I put a list of who would have to buy in, who could help me convince them, and figure I’ll get back to it sooner than later. I shove the notebook into a locked drawer and put it aside for Future River to deal with.

It’s time for the lunch rush, and I don’t want to leave Delia shorthanded. Descending the winding wooden staircase I focus on all of the work we did. How Seth, Gemma, and I collaborated on a mix of Victorian opulence and contemporary simplicity.

There are black and white photos in ornate gold frames that line the wall showing off the Hendrix family history and Peacock Springs history. I know these faces almost as well as my own after spending so much of my life here.

There’s George and Molly when they first opened up the home to entertain folks. It moves forward towards WWI and WWII with men and women in uniforms, then into the color photography era. My dad as a kid, a teen, and then a husband and father himself. So many of these photos include the Long family, and my anger is irrational and growing. I mean, our group of young business owners are members of founding families. As the current leadership we are more powerful than we allow ourselves to be.So why do those gossip queens get to dictate to us?This is the question I have to answer honestly: they don’t. So we can’t let them.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I nearly collide with Pru as she approaches the hostess stand at the final step. She deftly grabs my elbow and guides me to the kitchen where she fixes two cups of tea. Despite the cold December we’re having, she takes these mugs and uses them to push me out the back door. Thankfully, we have a few of those outdoor seating igloos with heaters from the winter of 2021. So here we sit together.

She shrugs her oversized tote off her shoulder onto a chair, the slightly frayed beige woven straps look like they could snap any minute under the weight. I feel like I am one of those straps. She hasn’t spoken yet, just continues to root around for something. Finally, she presses a small stone and a business card into my palm.

I’m examining the smooth, cold edges and the stripes of brown when she tells me it’s tiger’s eye before returning to her bag.

Struggling to find what she wants, the bag is turned over across the table. A book, a feather, a sage smudge stick, a journal, a deck of tarot cards, odds and ends like buttons and receipts, some loose change, and a candle tumble over the once neat place settings.

“Ahh! Perfect,” she exclaims while picking up her card deck. She begins to shuffle while I stare quizzically her way.

This is so very Prudence to ambush you with something supernatural. I already know the fastest way out is to listen. Shuffling this way and that, bridging the cards and mixing chunks, she tells me of her train encounter with Lily before she left in September.

Pru looks at me, shoves the deck in my hands, and says, “Kid, you’ve loved that girl since you were too young to know what lovewas. So let me tell you what is going to happen from here.” I divide it into three neat piles for her and tap the one to my right.

She pulls out three cards from her tarot deck, a classic Rider-Waite style. The first on the far left says ‘Temperance’, and shows an angel mixing liquid from cup to cup. It looks like someone bartending for the spirits.

The next one says ‘The Tower’, this one looks far more ominous. A dark background, gray clouds, and lightning striking a building. Two figures are falling on each side. The third card is much brighter. A yellow cheery background, the Four of Wands: four poles to create a structure with garlands of greens and flowers on top. A couple in the background waiving flowers in the air. It looks like the end of a wedding ceremony.

As she is laying these out, another card falls on top of the pile, causing her to cackle loudly.

“Oh River, the Chariot here has a message for you dear,” she croons as I try to recall what any of this means. The carrier is sideways, neither upright or reversed. Two sphynx sit at the foot of the sled manned by a man in armor. I’m trying to recall if cards can even be considered sideways when she interrupts my train of thought.

“A choice you will make soon can serve to set in motion a large part of your life to come. This can be the start of great destruction or a great love story. But, the Chariot here means you have to make a decision and follow it through. No matter what or who gets in your way.”

Whispering, I ask, “Does this mean that the salon and Grant are going to get in the way of Lily staying around again? What about this place? Am I going to lose my business? The family legacy. Because of a girl? That’s the last thing I would do, Pru. You know that I am steady and responsible…” I start to spin out.

With a calming hand on my shoulder she gently says, “Honey, I do not make the future. I read its signs. And the signs point to major changes that will only come by stepping up for yourself and sticking to your truth. If your truth is that you want to leave and follow the girl around the globe, then that is your truth. If your truth is you want her to return home and want to be home, then you will have to unmake and remakemany things. However between the Four of Wands and the Chariot, with tenacity and follow-through you have the ability to be in the driver's seat. Whatever your destination, it's yours. Nobody else’s. So make a choice, Georgie Boy. The other Georges would expect nothing less.”

Internally I’m about to combust, as my brain latches onto the last thing she said: Georges? Like the one who bought this place in the 1860s? How is it possible that Prudence would know what George expected of anyone? I know by now she will make a joke and brush me aside. I’m wide eyed and staring at the cards, turning the worry stone’s smooth texture over and over in my hands.

“Make a choice and stick with it,” I whisper to nobody in particular.

As I continue to mindlessly turn the stone over in my hand, she sweeps everything from the table, rewraps her cards in ornate silk and vanishes as quickly as she arrived. Leaving me with the stone, a business card, and a table to turn over.

twenty-five

River

December 23rd

Deliaand I are having another staring contest from opposite ends of the bar before the usual evening rush and closed nights for the holiday. Her eyes have the look that I’ve learned is ‘about to drop a truth bomb’ and there’s no getting around it. Except, instead of pushy statements, she slides an envelope my way quietly. Flipping it over, I read the elaborate green and gold lettering: Merry Christmas, Love your Framily. Her handwriting’s flourished touch rivals her eyeliner, she often says. Opening the envelope, a few things fall onto the polished wood: one plane ticket to Denver and scribbled note with something attached.

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