I walk on the walking pad for three miles a day and take runs here and there, but I’m not cut out for escaping death.
The chicken squawks—or crows? Whatever the hell chickens do—and its beady little eyes seem to be setright on me. I think it smells my hatred of it. Or maybe just my fear of being pecked to death before I have the chance to make this film and show Devin and Camel Toe what I can really do.
A sharp whistle sounds, and I jerk my head up in time to spot an older woman, arm braced on the door of the inn, her white hair down and wild. She sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles again, making the chicken cast one last hateful glare (in my opinion) before turning around and pecking its way back to the house.
The woman saunters off the porch and extends a hand to me, helping me down off the hood of my car. The devil chicken hovers on the porch, obedient now that the chicken whisperer is here. Thank goodness. My eyes fall to the tiny cursiveSable Sky Innlogo embroidered on the left corner of her apron, smudged with many colorful things. Questionable and colorful. I dust my hands along my thighs, which catches her gaze. A judgmental stare dusts my bare thighs, and coasts along the raw hem of my denim skirt. She actually laughs out loud when she looks at my boots.
How rude.
I clear my throat, and utterly loathe the way red floods the apples of my cheeks. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of getting under my skin if she’s making fun of me, but I can’thelp it. My pale skin—because not all places in California are super sunny,public service announcement—gives away every major emotion. Sad? Red. Angry? Red. Embarrassed? Red. Drunk? Red. Horny? Red.
You get it.
“This is the Sable Sky Inn?” I ask, then outstretch my hand. “I’m Quinn Farley. I booked a room online a couple weeks ago.” She blinks at me, her mouth in a thin line, silent. Irritation pricks at the base of my spine, burning up, up, up, until the back of my neck is on fire. My jaw tics. She made fun of me. She laughed at my boots and now she’s being rude. Well, conversationally rude, but still, that’s rude. My nostrils flare. “I’m in the right place?”
She nods. “Yep.” Her face changes as if she’s reading my mind, and she smiles. “I wasn’t teasing you. I love them.” She points at my boots, and my relief ripples through my shoulders, softening my stance.
“Oh.” I swallow against the surplus of idiocy and humiliation taking up my throat. “I’m sorry, I just—” I shake my head, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, self-conscious now that I wore it down. This is a ranch. Long, curled hair feels so inappropriate. And my boots.My boots.I look at her feet—brown, ranching boots.
What the hell am I doing?
I’m doing this all wrong.
My head starts to spin, and I look up to find soft, kind eyes set on mine. She reaches out, resting her hand on my arm. “Hey, they’re adorable. I had a pair just like that when I was your age.” Her smile is soft, and just what I need to see at this precise moment. It’s like she knows it, too. “Come inside and I’ll dig out some photos. You’ll get a hoot out of it. They’re exactly the same!” she boasts, smiling as she links her arm with mine, walking us toward the stone house.
She nods. “I see you met Mr. McCharger.”
“Mister?” I ask, my feet starting to drag the nearer we get to that little demon bird. “I thought chickens are girls?”
She laughs. “They are. But that,” she says, wagging her finger at the fuckface on the porch. “Is a rooster. Roosters are males. That’s Mr. McCharger. He greets all the guests.”
I stop her. “Mr. McCharger?”
“He loves charging people,” she says, shaking her head like she’s just told me her toddler likes clanking two blocks together.
“I don’t like him. He seems mean.”
She laughs. “Oh, he is mean. Very.”
I glare at the bird as we pass him, entering inside the inn where I’m sure something of mine will be stolen, poisoned, or harvested. “Why is heMr.McCharger instead of just McCharger?”
She closes the door behind me, and her face turns sad. “He had a partner.”
My hand flies over my mouth to catch my gasp. “Oh my god, he was a mister and he lost his missus?”
I think of that little fucker running at my ankles, screaming and pecking, trying to feel something. Trying to feel anything but the deep hole of his chicken wife’s death. Damn, life’s cruel.
“Yeah, but their memories are short. That was years ago.” She shrugs. “He’s always just been kind of a prick.”
I shake my head. “I like lovelorn better. Way better.”
She smiles. “You’re the filmmaker, you know how to tell a story. We can go with lovelorn.” Nodding toward the large room before us, she flicks on the light to reveal upgraded and modern insides, surprisingly utterly gorgeous. “Come on, I’ll show you those photos.” She smiles. “I’m Mabel.”
“Mabel Sable?” I wag my brows, wondering if I’mmeeting some black sheep of the Sable family, the namesake of the town. Is this old lady some mysterious, discarded-by-asshole-rich-parents millionaire?
She laughs. “You know it.” Mabel grins, her weathered forehead wrinkling as she teases, “But just a coincidence. I’m unfortunately not the Scrooge McDuck of Sable Sky.”
Mabel gets us some drinks, and even produces a small but mighty charcuterie board. We flip through old photos and get to know one another a little. I learn that Mabel is from Sable Sky, has lived there her whole life, has yet to marry, has suffered a few broken hearts, and had a heart attack. She refuses to tell me her age, but alludes to her retirement nearing. I love Mabel, and her eagerness to know about me, to know that Devin cheated on me with another filmmaker in the agency of independent documentary filmmakers at United Broadcasting Service, where I work. I told her that he came clean about it on my final days of filming, which I completely let impact my work.
