As if on cue, another sign appeared just a few feet later:
RIVERBEND WHOLE EARTH CO-OP — Locally Sourced, Spiritually Aligned
And then another, hand-painted in swirling purple letters with sparkles around the edges:
MADAME OPAL’S THIRD EYE EMPORIUM — Tarot, Crystals, Aura Realignment
“Oh goodie,” I said dryly.“A whole town full of people who think Mercury’s in Gatorade.”
Riverbend was officially woo-woo central.I half-expected a fairy to dart across the road holding a gluten-free scone.
I eased the car into town, passing a tidy little welcome sign made of reclaimed wood and hand-painted flowers.The main street was about four blocks long, lined with colorful shops and old brick storefronts that had been aggressively boho-fied.Wind chimes jingled.There were rainbows painted on windows.An entire café had been built out of what looked like a repurposed school bus and smelled like incense and lentils.
And yes, the sidewalks were crowded with crystal-wearing, chakra-balancing, henna-tattooed hippies.There were women in flowing skirts and men in linen tunics, couples holding hands and sipping something green in mason jars.One guy carried a mesh bag full of mushrooms, and another carried a bag filled with art supplies.
I actually giggled.Out loud.
These were the exact kind of people I avoided.
The motel sat at the edge of town like a forgotten prop from a ‘70s road trip movie.Riverbend Innhad two floors, teal doors, and a faded sign in the shape of a crescent moon.The gravel lot crunched under the tires as I pulled in and parked near the office, which was basically a trailer with ambition.
The moment I opened the car door, the smell hit me.
Patchouli.Thick and pungent, like the ghost of every incense stick ever burned, had formed a support group and chosen here as their meeting space.
I coughed once, wiped my eyes, and headed for the office.
Inside, the air was humid and smelled like herbs, old books, and something floral that had died tragically.The walls were painted lavender.A lava lamp glowed on the check-in counter next to a half-melted candle in the shape of a mushroom.
Behind the counter stood a woman who looked like Janis Joplin’s stunt double.Barefoot, in a kaftan the color of sunflowers, with about sixteen strands of beads around her neck.Her gray hair was in two long braids, and her reading glasses hung on a string made of tiny bells.She was sipping from a giant mug that smelled like boiled lawn clippings.
“Welcome, traveler,” she said with a voice like velvet over gravel.“I’m Zephyr.”
Of course she was.
I tried not to giggle.“Hi.Julian Reed.I have a reservation.”
“Julian,” she repeated, closing her eyes like she was communing with my spirit guide.“Mmm.Virgo moon.Sharp tongue.Knows too much for his own good.Trouble follows you.”
“Mostly ex-boyfriends.”
Zephyr cackled, a laugh that said she hadn’t taken anything seriously since the Bush administration.She turned to a massive binder labeled ROOMS & INTUITIONS and began flipping through it.
“I put you in room 6.Has a good energy flow.Faces the sunrise.You strike me as someone who needs alignment.”
“Lady, I’m here to interview a cult leader, not to find my inner child.”
She handed me a key attached to a crystal the size of a baked potato.“That’s not mutually exclusive, sweetheart.”
As I walked to my room, dodging wind chimes and the scent of spiritual armpit, I had to admit something to myself.
This was going to be weirder, and maybe more fun, than I thought.
* * *
The town looked like it had been curated by a Pinterest board called “Witches Who Bake.”I mean that in the most chaotic, affectionate way.There were handmade candles in every shape and scent imaginable, hemp bags with phrases like Moon Juice, Not Misogyny, and one café promising “herbal enlightenment through soup.”
I passed a woman in a feathered cloak walking a hairless cat on a leash.A man in a top hat offered me “non-toxic chakra glue” from a tray of test tubes.A child spun past me wearing fairy wings and yelling something about Saturn’s return.
