Chapter 1
Last night, I dreamt of him again. It’s always the same vision, the same man—a guy who, out of the blue, mysteriously appeared in my dreams after I passed out at the airport a couple months ago. But for the last week, I can’t knock this scene out of my head. I feel like I’m caught in a paradoxical loop between the present and the past, a surreal past.
“Gigi,” he whispers in the most alluring sing-song voice; it’s soft, polished, and definitely British.
I’m transfixed. His melodic voice perfectly matches his other- worldly, god-like appearance with his dark auburn locks and impec- cably white complexion that accentuates his cheekbones; the hint of rosiness gives me goosebumps every single time.
“Gigi, my love,” he says as he caresses my back.
Here’s the thing: his eyes. They’re the color of fresh wisteria with a tinge of dark lavender at the circumferences and pale purple near his irises. And me, I’m always wearing a white lace dress with a starched, ruffled collar that hides my neck and long lacy arms which cover my hands to my fingertips—very 1920-esque. The next thing I know, I’m bending down in a meadow, collecting a bouquet of yellow wildflowers. He extends his hand, clasping mine in his, pulling me on top of him. My body wobbles as he pulls me tighter against his chest, slowly and purposefully undressing me: unbuttoning each button, sliding off one sleeve of my dress taking his time, kissing each piece of my bare skin, stopping on my inner wrist, lingering there for an extra second as my heart pounds like a freight train.
He speaks again: “Are you ready to make me the happiest man alive?” The only problem is that his voice is a distant echo reverber- ating off the mountains. A force takes over my body, sucking the air out of my lungs, my heart barely beating. He holds my gaze as he presses his lips to mine. My body burns with desire at the warmth of his kiss.
“Something’s... happening... to... me...” I choke out, cupping his face, gasping for air. “Oh... my... love...” are the last words I say as he presses his lips against mine.
My grip loosens, and my arms fall to my sides. I can tell he’s in agony, even though I can’t hear him. I can read his lips — “Don’t ever forget me. I will find you again.”
“But why? Why this era? Why this man?” I softly mutter, gazing out the window after replaying the whole mental picture—analyzing it, looking for some clue to jump out of my head and scream, “THIS IS THE ANSWER.” But it’s not happening.
“Earth to Chase,” my cousin Roxie exclaims, shaking my shoulder. “What the hell are you mumbling about? You haven’t said one word since we got in the car until now. Are you okay?”
“Ahh...” I shriek the same pitch and intensity as a train whistle, jumping back in my seat, popping me back to reality. I blink a few times, my eyes panning the surrounding area as Roxie hits her blinker, making a sharp left-hand turn just before the horseman’s center. The screeching tires of our rental interrupt the serenity of a family full of youngsters feeding carrots to Clydesdales.
“Don’t... you... think... you’re... going... a bit fast?” I stutter, staring at how she handles the SUV like it was a sports car, hugging the curves on the road like it was on the Indy 500 as we head toward Sun Valley Resort. The low volume of ’70s music from the car radio creates a nice ambient noise against the distant rumble of thunder from above Dollar Mountain.
“I know what I’m doing,” she waves me away. “Okay,” Roxie continues, “now, would you please tell me what’s going on? You’re scaring me; you’re acting more jumpy than usual. I was hoping this little birthday get-away would calm you down. Instead, you’re driving me nuts! You’re not getting out of this, Chase, for heaven’s sake. My dad will kill us if you back out.”
“What? To the family dinner to celebrate my birthday? I’m all right with that,” I answer as evenly as possible, still calming down from the recurrent image I keep analyzing. “Why would he be angry with that?” I chuckle lightly for effect.
“Oh. My. God! Did you not hear a word I said?”
Elk grazing on the knoll in the distance—quite a common oc- currence, even in the summer up here in Idaho—grabs my attention, buying me time to come up with a response.
“Is it possible that I’m developing symptoms of dementia?”
“What? Wait. Is this about the bump on your head from two months ago?” Roxie spouts sarcastically. “I don’t think so. The doctor said you didn’t even have a concussion.”
“O... K... So, after I hit my head at the airport, I started having these vivid dreams. They’re always the same, and they always wake me out of a dead sleep. This month, they increased exponentially. Going from twice a month to seven in two weeks.” I wait for Roxie to comment, but catch James Taylor’s voice through the airwaves, singing, “You’ve Got a Friend.”
“I LOVE this song!” She cranks the music up another notch, and I know I’ve just lost her.
“You are so A-D-D,” I blurt, shaking my head, knowing full well that she can’t hear me with her belting out the lyrics.
God, I love her like a sister, but she drives me crazy sometimes!
“Oh, yeah? Like you don’t have any issues?” my irritating conscience I call my little Chase angel says, her arms crossed. “Like your current one—analyzing every detail of your Groundhog’s Night dream?” I face the window, forcing myself not to roll my eyes.
I watch as Roxie raises one hand with a flourish, belting out the chorus while locating a spot at the end of the resort parking lot. Alongside it rests a small, wooden, old-fashioned post office, which looks more like a farmhouse house than a government building.
“Roxie! Santa’s reindeer!” I scream, bracing for impact, as she whips into the open parking space.
The tires screech as she slams on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt. A couple of people dressed in Christmas reindeer costumes trot in front of our car, like they own the road, and disappear into the adjacent
van.“I... uh... oh... my... God... Dasher... Dancer... worse... for... you... if... we... hit... Cupid,” Roxie laughs uncontrollably. “Christmas in August?” She stares at the red van, perplexed. “I didn’t think we were that close to the North Pole,” she says, cracking up. “It is August thir- teenth. Right?”
I glare at her, perplexed by the nonchalant response to her carelessness.
“Oops! I just wanted this spot before that little toy car took it.” She points at a neon-blue car across the lot while unbuckling her seatbelt, eyeing me cautiously. “I didn’t mean to almost take out Santa’s imposter reindeer.” I continue to glare at her as she rests a hand on one of mine. “Look, Chase, I don’t think you’re crazy.” Her eyes shift. “Look at it this way, you’ve got something better to think about instead of Jacques- Pierre,” she randomly proposes, stepping out of the car.
My mouth drops open.
“Chase, you can’t relive things,” she continues. “There’s nothing you can do about the past. It’s poof begone.”
“Yes, poof begone,” I whisper under my breath, shutting the car door, still shaking off the eerie dream. The mention of Jacques-Pierre only adds to my already confused state of mind.
“Have you ever watched a pot boil?” Roxie randomly raises.
“Huh? Have I what?” I ask, trying to match her stride as we walk along the path toward the restaurant at an energetic pace. A gust of wind hits me, whipping through my long, blonde hair, sending a shiver up my spine. I can hear the distant rumble of thunderclouds as the sky turns an ominous gray.
“You stare at it, urging it, coaxing it, wanting it to release those tiny little bubbles,” Roxie yells, compensating for the rush of wind, “and the whole time you watch, it’s torture. You feel like it will never happen, but then the law of thermodynamics kicks in, and it does.”
“You’ve completely lost me? Are you giving me an impromptu 12
physics lesson? Didn’t you fail physics, Rox?”
Roxie looks at me stupidly, as if I just spoke to her in Irish Gaelic.
“For heaven’s sake, Chase! Don’t you get it? I saw you looking through your phone. No matter how much you stare at it, you won’t magically make it ring!”
“Oh. I guess I have been doing that, haven’t I?” I ashamedly admit before pulling open the door of the Village Station restaurant, a new addition in the Sun Valley Mall, where the murals on every building pay tribute to the medieval Austrian ski town of Kitzbühel, including its alpine-ski-chalet embellishments, replete with hanging flowers.
My architectural engineering mindset immediately kicks in, cutting off my train of thought as I walk in. I never tire of the resort’s interior decorations either, especially now with its renovations. The newly decorated train-themed restaurant is a far cry from the Kitzbühel theme of the resort that pays tribute to the Union Pacific railroad while still keeping to the ski-town vibe. I catch glimpses of the entire back wall that’s covered in black-and-white photos of the first chairlift, my eyes resting on the blueprint of the Village Station’s original design. It doesn’t take much for my mind to drift back to a period of high creativity amid archaic materials. I shake my head in wonder about how people made do with little means every time I study the depictions.
Glenn Miller and his orchestra are on the sound system, playing a loop of “It Happened in Sun Valley,” and a few solitary drinkers at the bar are enjoying drinks and pizza. Up at the front, the maître d’, her ponytail askew and shirt-sleeves rolled back to show her tattoos, flirts away with a customer that walked in before us. I can see the Morgan clan in the distance with my grandmother, front and center. Nana’s stark white, perfectly teased, perfectly coiffed hair stands out from across the room. She’s sitting in a giant tufted-gray leather corner booth, animatedly holding court with Gramps, her husband, my mom and dad, my brother, Henry, and Uncle Mason, my dad’s identical twin brother.
Nana’s banter fades as my phone pings. Roxie gives me a deer-in- the-headlights look as she whips around.
“Clearly, your phone does ring,” she laughs, flipping her brunette hair over her shoulder. “Go check it, but don’t expect miracles.”
I noticeably roll my eyes, rummaging in my purse. A wad of crumpled paper falls out in the process.
“It’s a text from Brent.” A strand of blonde hair blocks my view. I lock it in place behind my ear before dutifully entering my password and swipe over to his text. I read aloud:
Brent: Check your email; I sent you your horoscope. I think things may be changing for you. Be careful driving. You don’t need another rental car incident.
The mere mention of the rental car reminds me of when I followed a bright red Jeep in stealth mode during near whiteout conditions eight months earlier. I was so sure my fiancé, Grant, had been cheating on me. I hit a patch of ice on my high-speed chase and smashed into a snowbank, totaling the front of the car and my freshly baked cupcakes. Not one of my stellar Christmas moments.
Roxie bursts out laughing. “You know, my stepbrother’s right.”
“Since when did Brent start reading horoscopes?” I blurt. “Then again, maybe he’s been secretly reading Cosmo, or have you and Daphne finally gotten to him with all of your psychic New Age mumbo jumbo? Or maybe it’s his artist friends’ influence. I will admit his oil on canvas gallery show did blow me away. I still can’t believe your dad let him turn the garage into his art studio. I guess he’s moved in for good.”
I swipe over to my email and begin to read silently.
“Seems that way. Hey,” Roxie whines, “I wanna hear the horoscope!” “Oh, good God! Fine.”
From: Brent@Brentart.com
To: ChaseMorg@mylife.com
Subject: horoscope
Leo: Clarity and depth bring a more meaningful love life your way. Saturn enters your sign this year, which is the equivalent of the school bell ringing to announce recess is over. It’s time to get your love life together. If you don’t know what you want, you will soon enough, because living on the surface is no longer any fun. There is no substi- tute for substance. Dating is meaningful. Romance is something you build on. Making decisions has never been your strength, but it’s time to sort your love life out. Stop thinking, start feeling, and live for love.
“Wow! There’s a lot of truth in that, wouldn’t you say? Especially the school bell,” Roxie snorts out a laugh.
“Don’t remind me,” I mumble. I can still hear the school bell ringing at 3:15 p.m. That was my signal to run home before Jeff Roberts—a sixth grader at the time with his shiny saddle shoes, knee-high socks, and green rubber band-laced braces—attempted to ambush me, hoping to steal a slimy kiss.
“Miss, you dropped this,” a passing server says, handing me the crinkled-up piece of paper.
“What’s this doing here?” I uncrumple the paper. Anger wells up as I read the scribbled message on the backside of Jacques-Pierre’s boarding pass:
Ma Cherie,
Please forgive me for not sticking around. I was able to find an earlier flight, so I took it. My offer still stands. I will never forget you.
JP
My mind swirls as I replay his words shortly before I passed out in the airport two months earlier: “I want to marry—” I never did hear the end of that sentence. My ears perk up when I hear the familiar voice of my uncle.
“Girls, over here. You’re late!” he madly waves to get our attention.
“Oh, CRI-miny!” I lower my head, wishing I could make myself invisible.
“Take a deep breath, Chase.” Roxie’s go-to remedy whenever she hears me start to freak out. “Try to act normal and give me that.” She holds out her open palm.
“I thought... I got rid... of this... note,” I say between gasps. I think back to last night when I found the goddamn note in my luggage. I thought I tossed it in the trash can, which was sitting right next to my purse.
Roxie knows I’ve been despondent all day since then. Her attempts to cheer me up by visiting a couple of thrift stores in downtown Ketchum and buying me the famous Bowl of Soul, the special pick- me-up mocha at the local coffee shop, did nothing to brighten my pissy mood. Finding Jacques-Pierre’s note is the icing on the cake, so to speak, and her reason for driving around until I calm down before joining our family for my birthday dinner.
Uncle Mason bounces out of the large, rectangular booth, heading toward us. His six-foot stature always diminishes our 5’ 11” height. He gives his daughter a giant hug before turning to me, squeezing me in tight.
“Do I dare ask why you have sex hair, Chase?” he says loud enough for the people at the bar to hear. The bartender releases a loud guffaw. “Who’s the culprit?” he admonishes, unwrapping his arms around me. I notice him wink at one of the buxom barmaids. “The Frenchman or the flight attendant?” Those are Uncle Mason’s references to Jacques- Pierre Beaumont, an older Frenchman who was my seatmate on a trip to Paris who also happened to visit me in LA last summer (yes, men do make grand gestures), and Vincent O’ Connor, the cute flight attendant who came to my rescue from a psycho stalker on a flight home from last year’s “memorable” Christmas gathering in Idaho at Aunt Kate and Uncle Herb’s mini mansion (and yes men can be heroes). “Memorable” because that’s when I learned that Grant, my fiancé at the time, secretly married Brody Masterson, a drop-dead gorgeous guy, in Las Vegas. So much for fulfilling my fantasy wedding! The memory of Vincent showing up, out of the blue, at the LAX airport at the same time I was saying my goodbyes to Jacques-Pierre still gives me the chills.
“Windstorm, Dad,” Roxie interjects, flashing her icy-blue eyes— another physical trait we share. I ignore Roxie’s long-winded diatribe as my mind flashes back to the awkward moment.
“I want to marry—” Jacques-Pierre’s last words cross my mind, recalling how he tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, kissing my forehead and wrapping the pale pink and blue chiffon scarf he gave me around my neck as I looked over his shoulder at Vincent, who gawked awkwardly as the Frenchman leaned in to press his sumptuous lips against mine. The memory paused in animated suspension when my phone rang:
“Nana? What’s up?” I asked nervously. “This is not a good time—”
“Honey, I was walking Lacy by the park, and Grant was being loaded into the back of an ambulance.”
“A what?” I yelled in shock while imagining my ex-fiancé’s lifeless body lying in the park, an empty bottle of vodka by his side.
“ Yes, honey. I heard the paramedics say he was unresponsive.”
That’s when I passed out.
“I’m going to pop into the men’s room.” Uncle Mason lays a hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to the here and now. “When I get back, I expect you to be having drinks over at Gretchen’s Restaurant with Casper. Thought it would be better than having you meet him here under the watchful gaze of dear old Nana.”
“What...” I jerk away, surprised, snapping to. “Gretchen’s? That’s on the other side of the mall, inside the Lodge. I don’t want to walk over there, and who’s Casper, anyway?”
“Edgy, are we? Did you have one too many Bowl of... whatever do you call it?” He flutters his fingers, accentuating his point. “Soul today? Or is this your post-sex persona? I can’t wait to hear all about your recent extracurricular activities.” Uncle Mason exaggerates a wink. Always the jovial prankster. I’ve gotten used to him over the years. He’s lived across the street with Roxie since we were kids. I think it’s the whole twin thing and his not wanting to be far from my dad. But with a flip of a switch, he can be all business, talking nonstop about stocks and bonds and the latest investments. In some ways, that makes no sense because he and my dad are wannabe cowboys, my dad more so. The brothers never miss an opportunity when they can wear their matching getups—cowboy hat and boots. I attribute their love of cowboys to their grandfather who had a cattle ranch up in Moorpark, less than an hour away from LA.
“I mean it, Chase. Gretchen’s.” I watch as Uncle Mason glances at his watch, snapping me back to reality. “Didn’t Roxie tell you? You have five minutes to hurry over there. Dinner with all of us can wait a few extra moments,” he says before heading across the restaurant.
“Huh? Drinks with whom?” My mouth drops open. “This is supposed to be my birthday celebration, for crying out loud. I’m thir- ty-one years old today. I’m a big girl now. I’m perfectly fine making my own decisions and not being micro-managed.”
“Yes, you’re a big girl now,” Roxie repeats quietly, her eyes darting around the room. “I may have forgotten to mention the part about Casper. I thought you would acquiesce if I surprised you. You need a distraction after the other two guys went MIA.”
“When have I ever acquiesced?”I glance at Roxie,who looks straight ahead at Nana, who beckons us over with a martini glass in hand.
As much as my cousin can push me to the edge, no one understands me better than her. We have our differences, no doubt. I dress modestly; she’s anything but with her outrageous outfits. She’s creative, that’s for sure, and her creativity paid off so she could start her own party planner business. Me? I’m an A-type personality, which led me to be an engineer. Regardless, Roxie and I are inseparable, like two peas in a pod. Come hell or high water, we do pretty much everything together, including finishing each other’s thoughts and sentences. She’s my partner-in- crime. We’ve been joined at the hip since she was two. That was when her mom abandoned her and Uncle Mason. Drugs, depression—who knows what was going on with Aunt Mary Ann back then? No one talks about it. Not a soul! The only link Roxie has to her mother is Brent Kramer, her son from a second marriage. Brent contacted Roxie after her name showed up on a family tree on 23andme. Once Brent met me, he determined to be—whether or not I agreed—my sex coach. Hoy!
“Roxie!”
“And I’m sorry about Jacques-Pierre’s note. I would have torn it to shreds last night had I known you wouldn’t. I still can’t believe you haven’t heard hide nor hair of the guy since Nana talked to him the day you fainted at the airport. Thank goodness he grabbed your phone and told her where you were. Can you imagine the fiasco if he hadn’t?” Roxie continues, ripping the crumpled paper into tiny pieces as she walks over to the nearest trash bin, depositing it with a flick of her wrist.
“It was still a fiasco, Rox,” I admit.
“I get it. When Jacques-Pierre came back for that last goodbye, you thought you might have it all—love, romance, and the possibility of a brilliant life together. Right? Who flies from Paris to Los Angeles just to have dinner?” Roxie reaches her right hand toward me. I grab it and give it a loving squeeze. My eyes well up again. “I can’t put myself in your shoes or even imagine what it’s like to come to after fainting in an airport to find both of the men you have a crush on have disappeared, and only one left a note. The only answers an airport worker could provide you with were that a hysterical grandmother was on her way to get you, to sit tight, and drink a soda. Otherwise, fainting is just part of your daily life, right?” she chuckles.
I spy the little Chase angel, widely smiling with her thumbs up. I quietly moan.
“Not part of my daily life, Rox,” I reply flatly.
“Well, it kind of is, I hate to say. Okay, let’s try something different,” she brightly adds, shifting gears. “New mantra: ‘Stop thinking, start feeling, and live for love.’ Did you get that, Chase? Brent’s horoscope is a sign. You need to jumpstart your post-breakup resolutions Amoremoji list. And after hearing your horoscope, I’m totally convinced and deter- mined to find you a new man and finally get rid of the scarlet V on your chest!” Roxie smiles as she says this, and a few heads at the bar turn to stare at us.
She gives them a flirtatious wave back.
“Why do you always have to scream to the ethers that I’m still a virgin?” I whisper through gritted teeth. “We’ve been over this already. You said the Amoremoji Excel post-breakup resolutions spreadsheet was to show me that a fling is not what I want. God, Roxie, you’re so confusing.”
“It’s a sign, Chase. I’m telling you,” Roxie cuts in. “You obsess and 19
HOLLY BRANDON
analyze everything. I get that you’re a structural engineer, but you can’t let your analytical brain take over your love life.” She peels a yellow smiley face from a sheet of stickers she pulls from her purse and presses it against my cheek. “Amoremoji nerd extraordinaire!”
“Even Roxie’s calling you out for analyzing things too much!” the annoying little angel mocks.
“Oh, good heavens!” I hiss, ripping off the sticker. “Put those away. I don’t want to have to explain my Amoremoji Excel spreadsheet to anyone to—”
“But,” Roxie interrupts again, “you were making such good progress. I thought we might as well have some fun with it.”
Roxie begins peeling and planting stickers all over my face faster than I can pull them off. All I can think about is her lame-brain idea for solving my sexless love-life conundrum three weeks after Grant left me for Brody. Her plan was for me to connect with as many men as possible and then record my experiences using the Amoremoji “love” stickers she provided:
“It’s serendipity! So anyway, I’ve got it all figured out. You can use the stickers as a quick way to keep tabs on each resolution of the list...”
A cursory look lets me know she has successfully engaged the seated customers as chuckles make their way around the long bar. Roxie, em- boldened by the gaggle of gigglers, peels off the sticker backing and plants it on top of my head before taking a picture on her phone.
“Don’t worry, I won’t send it to anyone besides you,” Roxie begins, “except for Brent. He has been such a good love coach.”
“What?” I playfully protest.
“Kidding,” she finishes. “And since your engagement ended in flames eight months ago,” she whispers, leaning toward me, “you have successfully gotten out of bed, left the house, met hot men, traveled the world, fallen in love, and almost got engaged again. If what you felt for Jacques-Pierre was love, you are making serious progress on your post- breakup resolutions list. All you have left is numbers six and seven: get married and have lots of sex.” My mouth falls open. “That’s if you really want to continue with the spreadsheet. It really was meant to be fun.” “Well, sounds like you’ve got things figured out, Rox,” I respond, ripping off the stickers and collecting them into a balled-up wad. “So,
maybe you’re the answer to my Nana conundrum.”
“What’s that?”
“When I came to in the airport, I kept mumbling, I want to marry
you, Jacques-Pierre. Nana was still on the phone. She was so excited I didn’t know how to correct her. How am I going to tell her that the Frenchman is MIA, and wedding bells won’t be ringing?” I raise, turning away from the direction of Gretchen’s to where my family has gathered.
“Oh, good Lord! Why is it that sometimes you forget to mention these key details?” She throws an arm around my shoulder, seemingly forgetting this strange meeting I’m supposed to have with a friendly ghost. “Let’s hope she is deep into her martinis by the time we get to that point,” Roxie chuckles. “Plus, third time’s a charm, or so they say!”
