I grinned, and started to scroll.
◊
CALVIN
“We’ve been interested in your grandfather’s property for a long time, Calvin,” Shannon said, placing her hand on my arm. She and her business partner, Peter, were hosting me in their offices at Carmel-by-the-Sea. Wall-to-wall windows displayed a view of the ocean.
“Good to know,” I said, shuffling the papers I brought with me. “Were you…patrons of the bookstore?”
“No,” Shannon said, although Peter looked away. “Wasn’t really my scene,” she said, smiling. They were both older than me, in their mid-60s, which meant if they’d lived in this area growing up, they were aware of The Mad Ones and its literary reputation.
“Oh, okay. Well, you’re at least are aware of the significance of the property, historically?” I asked.
I was uncomfortable in their swanky offices. I remembered my grandfather telling me he felt like an alien whenever he left Big Sur and I was starting to feel the same way. I hadn’t even thought to dress up, throwing on a plaid shirt and an old pair of jeans, stubble on my face. I had at least run a comb through my hair and cleaned my glasses.
Meanwhile, Shannon and Peter were slick in their suits, hands strapped to iPhones. Peter’s fingers flew over the keyboard of a small laptop.
“We are, and rest assured we will do our best to maintain the… essence of your grandfather’s legacy,” Peter chimed in. “I know building a day spa might seem totally different from a book store—”
“—well, it is,” I interjected, aware of the tension in my voice and wondering where it was coming from. You want this, I reminded myself.
“Of course, of course it is,” he replied, ever the salesman. “But we’re building an organic, sustainable and eco-friendly day spa. It’ll be a place for people to unplug from their lives, get off social media and really relax into the moment. We’ll have meditation classes and yoga. In many ways, I feel like it’ll maintain the spirit of what your grandfather did: encouraging people to live fully in their lives.”
I smiled apologetically. “I’m happy to hear that. It is a beautiful property and I know your clients will feel rejuvenated there.”
“Exactly,” Shannon said. “And you know we fully intend to keep those cabins—with some major refurbishment, of course.”
“Of course. They have beautiful views. And the store itself?” I asked, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.
They exchanged a glance.
“Not sure yet,” Peter finally said. “It’s a large piece of property and we’ll be building quite a number of buildings on it. I’m sure we could find some use for the original cabin,” he said, but Shannon’s look was pained.
“I know it’s not the fanciest of buildings,” I said. “But it holds a lot of respect in the literary community. You might want to consider keeping it open. There are all these fun hideaways—index cards where famous poets have written these beautiful lines. Books hidden in secret cabinets—” I paused, noticing a distinct lack of interest in their faces. That and I was babbling—so unlike me.
“Yeah,” I finally said, sheepishly. “It’s…um, it’s really cool.”
“I’m sure you’re sentimental about it,” Peter said, smiling at me like I was a child.
I opened my mouth to say something but stopped. Sighed. “I am. And really, I mean it’ll be yours so you can do what you want with it.”
“Exactly,” Shannon said quickly, so quickly I was pretty sure that a year from now, the bookstore would be torn down, a spa built on top of it. I rubbed the back of my neck, unsure why I suddenly felt so conflicted. I’d wanted this for months. Couldn’t wait to get back to my life.
And it was a good deal. Enough money to pay off the debts on the property and buy myself a San Jose-penthouse with a view.
Fuck, it was enough money that I could retire at 45 if I wanted to.
They slid the contract across the table at me. “Per this, the property would be ours and you’d be out—”
“Everything would be out,” Peter clarified.
“—by the end of November. Which is about six weeks from now.”
I exhaled. “All right, then. Sounds good.”
I stood to shake their hands. “When do you need my answer?”
“One week from now, or it’s off the table,” Peter said. “But I’d seriously consider it. You’re not going to get an offer better than this one, Calvin.”
I nodded, since he was right. I’d met with countless other investors and their plan sounded the least terrible. Everything else was a complete assault on my grandfather’s values: hotels. Clothing stores. At least a spa was kind of bohemian, like him.
I walked through the first floor, awash in the sounds of an office for the first time in months. Theirs had a similar vibe to the tech company I’d worked for: an open-plan cubicle farm, people plugged into headphones and zoned out on laptops. It was quiet except for the tapping of fingers on keyboards.
This used to be my version of paradise. Except now my concept of paradise had shifted to include talking to a customer about a book they loved, a starry sky overhead, the sound of the ocean, and the smell of the forest.
Six weeks. Six weeks to pack away the framed poems, the index cards of memories. The guest book and slim, black journals and miles and miles and miles of books.
And me. Back to my old life, the one I missed so much. Except the memory of that had grown distant without me even realizing it. The shift had been so subtle—like staring at an old picture where you no longer recognize yourself.
The long drive back to Big Sur helped to quiet my thoughts, even though I was more upset than I anticipated. I thought the drive back would be victorious—finally, an ending to this strange period in my life. But still, even with the sadness, even with the confusion, deep down I knew selling was the right choice. The only choice, really, since per the stipulations of my grandfather’s will it needed to be sold if I wasn’t going to become the owner.
And that…well. That just wasn’t possible.
What was possible, when I finally pulled up the long driveway to The Mad Ones, was that we were being robbed.
◊
The storm had officially landed. After days of on-and-off raining, it was striking with a vengeance. The wind was like a battering ram. Trees thrashed against the windows as I let myself in, the sound of rain on the roof drowning out the sounds of the ocean. Everything was dark except for a light on in the small poetry room—even though I distinctly remembered turning all the lights off before leaving for the meeting. I reached behind me, picking up the heaviest book I could find, and held it like a weapon.
What are you going to do—throw it in the burglar’s face? I thought stupidly, creeping around the corner. The fireplace was lit and books lay in disorganized piles on the floor. And there, curled up in a giant sweatshirt and yoga pants, no makeup and her hair in a messy bun, was Lucia.
I’d never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
I let out a quiet exhale, but she didn’t look up, completely engrossed in what she was reading. She was chewing on her thumb, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Every so often she’d bite her lip, flip the page, eyes crinkling at the sides when she liked what she read.
“I know you’re watching me, Calvin,” she said, eyes still on the page. I blushed immediately, and fought every urge in my body to flee.
“Oh…um, hey,” I said, smooth as ever. “I’m sorry, I—”
She looked up at me, tilting her head. “Don’t apologize. This is your bookstore after all,” she said, grinning.
“True,” I said, coming fully into the room. It was warm from the fire, and the sound of the rain made it feel like we were the only two people left on the planet.
“Sit,” she said, patting the floor next to her. I sat, leaning my back against one of the chairs and stretching my legs out in front of me. “I thought you were a burglar,” I said, holding up the book I’d picked up. “I was going
to throw this at your face.”
She pointed at her face, scrunching it up. “Thus ending my illustrious career. Although you’re currently seeing me without makeup or my hair done, which makes you part of a very small set of people.”
“Like the Illuminati?” I asked.
“Oh, basically. I’m usually, you know, war-painted and hair-sprayed to within an inch of my life.”
“You look like yourself,” I said honestly. “You’re beautiful.”
What the fuck are you doing? Every time I was around Lucia, words slipped out before I could spend my usual five to ten minutes obsessively analyzing if it was the right thing to say.
She held my gaze for a moment. “Thank you,” she said. “Really.” She shifted a few books out of the way. “Where were you tonight?”
“Meeting with the investors who are probably going to buy this property at the end of the month,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, eyebrow lifting. “I didn’t realize that. You mean…you’re selling this place?” I was happy to hear not an ounce of judgment in her voice, only curiosity.
“It’s been a tough decision, but yeah, I am. I inherited the years of debt he had incurred on this property. The financial future is pretty bleak.” I shrugged. “It makes me really sad, to be honest. I spent a lot of summers here growing up and I know how important it is from an historical perspective—”
Lucia reached out, placing her hand on my arm. I stilled, took a breath. “You don’t have to explain your choice to me Cal. Although I’m guessing you’re getting your fair share of opinions from other Big Sur residents?”
I sighed, leaning back further. “You got it. Big Sur is the most close-knit community I’ve ever lived in. It’s so small and so…”
“Different,” she said. “Everyone who lives here is like a weird blend of frontier-pioneer and commune-hippie.”
“Exactly. And they consider this place theirs. It is a rich part of their history, which I totally get. It’s just hard. My grandfather didn’t expect to die suddenly, and I didn’t expect to inherit such a mess.”
We were both quiet for a second, watching the flames in the fireplace. “There is another option,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me. Assessing. “You could run the bookstore.”
I grinned, scratching my head. “Thank you, but no.”
“Why the fuck not?” she asked, laughing.
“Lucia…” I said. She arched her eyebrows, as in And?
“I’m a software engineer, first of all.”
“You’re good with numbers. Check,” she said.
I laughed. “I have horrific social anxiety. My grandfather was this charming extrovert. He loved talking with people and…and having parties and readings and hosting workshops. I can barely string two sentences together without criticizing myself.”
“So you’re a little shy?” she asked. “Listen, we’re not in high school anymore. I know you have this view of yourself as a bumbling nerd—”
“—Because I am,”
“But I’ve watched you with customers and you seem pretty comfortable around them.”
She wasn’t wrong. I’d struggled the first couple months, for sure, but was feeling more confident every day.
“Yeah, well…I appreciate your confidence in me, but there’s still the massive issue of the debt. His sales had been dropping for years before I took over. And there hasn’t been a reading here for a decade. I just think…it hurts to say this, but I just think we all need to accept that The Mad Ones isn’t what it used to be. Cherish the memories and then let it go.”
Lucia pulled her knees into her chest and rested her chin on top. “So you’ll just go back to your old job?”
“I will,” I said. “I miss it.”
“What do you miss specifically?”
“The routine. The order. I knew what to expect every day—worked on the same projects, sat in the same traffic, ate the same food. Both of my parents have a rigid sense of routine, and I’m the same way. Big Sur…running this bookstore, well, it’s the exact opposite of that.”
Lucia made a face.
“What?” I asked, laughing.
“Same food. Same traffic. Cal, your life sounds fucking boring.”
I laughed again, trying to cover up the part of me that agreed with her. A part of me that wasn’t really there a few months ago. “We’re not all globe-trotting models, I know.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s just, wouldn’t it be interesting to live a life where you didn’t know what each day held? It’d be like a surprise party, but every day.”
I shuddered. “I think I’d hate that.”
“I think you’d like it more than you can admit,” she said with a knowing smile.
Before she could dig deeper, I changed the subject. “So now that you know there isn’t enough money in this joint for you to rob me, what have you been doing in here?”
“Reading,” she said in a small voice, looking almost embarrassed. There was a journal next to her feet and I could make out the beginnings of a few scratchy sentences, some words circled over and over. “Your grandfather has a great collection of Adrienne Rich. She’s one of my favorite poets. I used to have parts of her 21 Love Poems memorized when I was in high school. It made me real popular with the other models.” A pause. “Your eyes are everlasting, the green spark/of the blue-eyed grass of early summer,” she quoted.
I grinned. “That’s beautiful. And I can’t imagine you sneaking in any time for reading with your schedule the way it is.”
She shrugged, suddenly looking sad. “Yeah, I uh…well, by the time I was sixteen I wasn’t doing much reading anymore. Even though it was my first love.”
“What’s this?” I asked, pointing. “Are you writing?”
She looked at me, considering. “I am, actually. That’s my second love”
“What are you writing about?”
She smiled slowly, tilting her head. “About you.”
◊
LUCIA
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said, which was the truth. Driving back from my phone call, I’d felt buoyant and hopeful, like I’d recaptured that feeling Josie felt I’d lost. But as soon as my head touched the pillow, sleep evaded me, my mind crowded with thoughts. Modeling. Writing.
Calvin.
“So I came here. Before I was a model the only thing that calmed me down was reading and writing,” I said, nodding at my journal.
“Prose?” he asked.
“Poetry,” I replied, loving the tree-sound at the end of that word. I always had. Calvin looked impressed.
I’d finally found the journal (I never left home without it), but even though I’d had that feeling since we’d gotten here, nothing came. I tried to write for more than an hour and ended up tossing it back on the floor in frustration.
But still. At least I tried—for the first time in years.
“Is something bothering you? Keeping you awake?” he asked.
You, I wanted to say. That and…I was horny. Like really turned on, in a way I hadn’t been in months. Maybe years. And Calvin was not helping, sitting a foot away from me looking scruffy and adorable. He pushed his glasses up his nose and I almost sighed.
“Well…I mean, I tried to write a poem and it sucked and I suck and everything sucks,” I said, laughing.
He smiled. “Writer’s block?”
“Of epic proportions,” I said. “I haven’t written a poem in more than seven years. But I carry my journal with me, always. This is the first time, the first place, that’s inspired me in a long time.”
We looked at each other. Fuck, he was sexy.
“What were you…why were you, um, writing about me?” he asked.
“Remember when we were in the woods? At your grandfather’s campsite?”
His green eyes darkened. “I do, yeah.”
“There was this moment…I don’t know, I feel silly saying it now…” I trailed off. With the exception of Josie, I really never talk
ed about writing. With anyone. And now here I was freely sharing with Calvin.
Again.
“You were sitting on this log and telling this story about your grandfather. It was just…I don’t know, the trees behind you, and the way you were describing things. The color of your eyes. The fresh, clean air.” I paused, feeling embarrassed again. “I don’t know. It felt like a poem. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said, flashing me that crooked grin again. “I know exactly what you mean. I feel it when I read. When I used to spend my summers up here I’d spend the whole day watching customers, or listening to what they said to my grandfather. Watching their interactions. Or we’d go to some weird, Big Sur event and something totally unusual would happen. And I’d think: this is a story. And I’ve never been a writer, but there are moments I wish I could be like you.” He nodded at my journal. “Pick up and write about it.”
I nodded. “That’s exactly it, that feeling. I love it so much. And it used to be easier for me. But I got out of the habit,” I said softly. “And I haven’t even really thought about it in years. Not until we came here. In Big Sur.”
“Big Sur tends to have that effect on people,” he said. “I think that’s why writers used to come up here. There are literally no distractions, nothing to take you out of that moment you’re describing.” He looked around the floor. Books were scattered everywhere. “Have you been here all night?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “I haven’t been able to just sit in a quiet bookstore in a long time. They used to be my favorite places in the whole world. Like my church.” I ran my hands along a small stack of poetry anthologies. “Now there are too many paparazzi, too many fans.”
“I thought you loved that though,” he teased.
“I do,” I said quickly. “Or…I did? I don’t know,” I paused, looking at him. “This might seem strange, but just three days up here and every other part of my life feels fucking miles away.”
“You haven’t tried to phantom-check your social media once this entire conversation.”
Bohemian Page 13
