“So why don’t you date?” Charlie asks. The subject change isn’t exactly subtle, but he manages to make it sound completely devoid of curiosity, which both is impressive and gets under Gretchen’s skin. “Is it because relationships are challenging when your entire life is built on lies?”
And there it is. A step forward, a step back. Just like the man with the baby doing the cha-cha. Ironically, she thinks his accusation that she’s nothing but a liar is a necessary reminder that she can’t tell him the truth. Because, for a split second, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say that, yes, it is actually difficult for her to let people in. But not because of the way she lives her life. No, it’s because, in her experience, love isn’t worth her time or the inevitable heartache; she’s a person who isn’t meant to keep anyone she loves. They leave her, or she’s forced to leave them, and it always hurts just a little more than she wishes it did. She thought maybe, when she met Lawrence, it would be different.But even he dropped her once he knew who she really was. Or rather, who she wasn’t. And every loss feels like the deepening of an existing wound, getting nearer and nearer to piercing the vital parts of her that she won’t be able to survive without.
Gretchen’s not about to tell Charlie any of that. He’s made it clear that they are still at odds here, and she’s not going to let her guard down in some foolish attempt to feel temporarily close to someone—to him especially. Not when there’s so much at stake.
So she says, “No, it’s actually because I don’t see a point in going out and bothering with other people when I can just stay home and make myself come better than anyone else ever could.”
Charlie’s attempt to swallow his surprise at her bluntness seems to go awry just as the next customer stops in front of the booth. And while he’s busy coughing into his elbow and taking swigs of water, Gretchen sells an extravagantly bedazzled woman who looks like she could be Mrs. Easterly’s country cousin ten bars of goat’s milk soap.
14
Thanks to Gretchen’s comment, heightened sexual tension hangs around the rest of the morning, as unacknowledged but obviously present as the darkening clouds overhead. The latter finally give in and burst around eleven, and all of the remaining customers hurry back to their cars. At first, Gretchen and Charlie remain at their table, watching Hannah buzz around like one of her family’s bees as she puts her cutesy rustic decor and products into storage containers and shoves it all into the back seat of her SUV. But then there’s thunder, which even Gretchen knows means there’s bound to be lightning—not ideal when outdoors under a metal pole tent. So now she and Charlie scramble around too, trying to load everything into the truck without getting completely soaked. It’s mostly futile.
As she hoists herself into the passenger seat, she’s happy to note that her velvet dress dries much more quickly than the gauzy one she was wearing the day she arrived at Gilded Creek. She shedsthe now-wet flannel, and squeaks the toes of her rain boots together. It turns out the gothic grunge Gorton’s Fisherman ensemble was quite practical if not fashion-forward.
Charlie tucks his drenched Gilded Creek Goat Farm hat between his seat and the cupholders, leaving his damp and mussed hair uncovered. Seeing it messy instead of in its default wave does something strange to Gretchen’s heart. Nothing worth paying attention to, she’s sure. Probably just some sexual attraction that got lost on its way from her brain to her vagina.
She clears her throat at the same time Charlie clears his. Both go silent, waiting to see if the other will speak.
“Thank you for your help,” he finally says. “I have to admit you, uh—how did you phrase it? Oh right. You did ‘move some fuckin’ soap today.’ We only have, what? Five bars left?”
“Something like that.” Four, actually.
“It’s a lot more than I’ve ever sold.” He taps his fingers on the edge of the steering wheel. “It was interesting. Seeing you talk to people, I mean. You’re good at it. Though I probably shouldn’t be surprised by that, given your profession.”
They both know that he’s using “profession” as a euphemism. While it most likely is standing in for “charlatan,” not “spirit medium,” Gretchen doesn’t allow herself to take offense, because she hopes it might be his clumsy version of an olive branch. And also because he isn’t wrong (not that she can admit it).
Then Charlie says, “I got some asparagus before we left. From a friend who sells produce. It’s in season.” The way he blinks after he finishes talking makes him look bemused, as if he’s surprised himself with the non sequitur.
“I’m... happy for you?”
He opens his mouth again, then closes it, fishlike.
They pull off the road and onto the farm’s long, winding driveway. The rain makes the rusty junk and dead tree near the entrance look particularly sinister.We should do something about that, she thinks. The truck bounces as it rolls over small potholes and ruts where the gravel needs to be replaced.And that.
But her plans for improvement are pushed to the side as Gretchen catches Charlie sneaking a glance at her chest as it jiggles around the seat belt.He wants me too.A pleasant reminder that all of this tension between them isn’t just torture, but another weapon in her arsenal. She’s under no illusions that sex would be all it takes to leave Charlie spellbound and willing to do whatever she says.
But god, would it be fun.
—
Gretchen has just finished changing out of her damp clothes and into the T-shirt and sleep shorts she brought as pajamas when Everett sticks his fist through the door to her room and pounds rhythmically in the air. “Knock, knock,” he says. “Can I come in?”
She stifles a smile as she says, “Sure.” Because despite Everett’s faults—of which she has already discovered several—he is genuinely making an effort to respect Gretchen’s boundaries. He may not have been her first choice for a partner in this unconventional mission, but maybe they can make it work.
“You’ve gotta talk to Charlie.” Everett has his arms folded over his chest and looks surprisingly serious as he steps through the door and into the room.
Gretchen barely glances at him as she takes down her ponytailand runs a brush through her hair. “Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m still here,” she mumbles around the elastic held between her lips.
He shakes his head. “No, not about the curse. I mean, yes, about the curse, but also about the TV. You gotta talk to him about it,” Everett says, tugging at the tuft of dark hair protruding from under his newsboy cap. “You gotta tell him to leave it on for me. I can’t live—I mean, I can’thauntlike this anymore.”
“How, exactly, do you recommend I approach that conversation, Ev? Charlie doesn’t even believe you exist, much less give a shit about whether you’re adequately entertained.”
“Pleeeaaaaase. Charles bought his mom—that’s Enid, George’s wife—a television in 1955, and it completely changed my afterlife. But I’ve always been restricted to watching when and what someone else wants. Now you’re here, making my dreams come true. Don’t let Charlie crush them.”
She figures she could mention it to Charlie, but not tonight. Tonight she plans to stay in her room, email her clients to inform them of her unforeseen monthlong absence, touch base with Yolanda about paying the outstanding bills and rent, and head to bed as early as possible. And if she just happens not to see Charlie until tomorrow morning because of how busy and tired she is, well... that’s fine.
“I’ll try to talk to him about it at some point,” she says, hedging as much as she can.
