While we waited for a selection of the world’s best desserts, three of us were poured coffee from individual silver carafes that were left sitting at our place just in case we wanted self-serve seconds.
The waiter lifted the little pitcher of cream, “Shall I pour, Mr. Draiocht?”
“No. I prefer doctoring my own coffee. Thank you for the brown sugar. Nice touch.”
My waiter looked a little shocked that he was being thanked for condiments. “You’re welcome, sir. Would you care for more?”
I looked from him to the Sterling sugar bowl holding enough brown sugar for six months. “This will do.” I leaned forward, lowered my voice in conspiracy. “And I wouldn’t want to offend the sugar police.”
My waiter, who had apparently heard Robert’s rant, snorted.
After stirring with a dainty demitasse spoon… I know what it is because my mother collects them and hangs them on the wall, I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. I barely managed to suppress the kind of moan that comes from getting really, really good head. The coffee was so good I thought I’d been transported to nirvana.
“Oh, man,” I said, turning to Harper. “This coffee is good.”
“Nothing but the best for the witches,” he confirmed.
“You know, I get the feeling that everybody here knows more than I do. I more or less did this on a whim. A guy gave me a mysterious card. Anyway, this is about mail-order husbands or something like that?”
He grinned and shook his head. “It’s more like winning the lottery. You get picked by one of the witches. You’re set for life.”
“Okay. Now when you say witches, what do you…?”
Desserts were being served, mine with some extra flamboyance , heavy on the first syllable since they actually lit it on fire. They did a beautiful job of it, just enough brandy to cause a show without singeing eyebrows off or making torches of tablecloths.
Again the lights went down and the music came up.
We were looking at a guy sitting in a high tech music recording studio that would have put the MIT band, Boston, to shame. He was holding a guitar that even I recognized as a vintage Gibson, fifties Les Paul. I almost whistled because I knew that it would cost more than ten thousand dollars if you could find one for sale. They normally only came up as auction items at charity events for the super-rich.
Anyway the guy was sitting on a stool, in front of a mic. He was what you’d call average-looking. His hair was curling over his ears. He was wearing a bright floral Hawaiian shirt and Buddy Holly glasses.
“I’m Simon,” he said, reaching up to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think they picked me to be in this promo video thing just to show that winners are no particular type. You don’t know what they’re looking for until they pick.
“That should be comforting. Means you can relax.” He looked down at his guitar and strummed a riff almost like it was a nervous habit or like he was used to having the guitar talk for him.
“I’m a songwriter and an introvert, in that order. I’m not interested in going on tour or playing in front of people. I just like writing songs for other people who want that.
“That’s who I’ve been all my life. So what’s the difference between now and before? Now my songs find their way into the hands of stars. They get copyrighted and recorded and appreciated by millions of people.”
He looked down, played a riff, then pushed his glasses up, looked at the camera and said, “So that’s cool. Right?”
Well, yeah, I had to agree with Simon’s assessment. It was cool. What he got was a lot better than a lottery win. He got the world on Simon’s terms.
“If you pass the preliminary test, all you’ve got to lose is a four-day-weekend. You know? So maybe I’ll see you around here.” He played another riff then smiled at the camera shyly. “That’s all I got.”
The lights came up to pre-dinner candlepower, the cabinetry that hid the screen whirred closed, and Ms. Blackwell entered as if on cue.
“As you’ve seen, gentlemen, there’s not a particular type of person who’s more likely to be selected than another. Your destiny is up to, well, destiny. If you choose to move forward, we’ll schedule some testing to be conducted here over the next few days. Those who pass will be invited to Wimberley for a long weekend that could change your life dramatically.
“Which of you would like to move forward?”
The other four raised their hands immediately. I raised my hand reluctantly, but said, “I have a question.”
Blackwell smiled. “Mr. Draiocht. I might have guessed.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I forged ahead. “Is there something binding in an agreement to ‘move forward’?”
She grinned. “Binding? An interesting choice of words. No. Winners are presented offers in contract form. Those who accept the contract obligate themselves to a year. The option to terminate can be exercised by either suitor or prize before midnight on the last day of the first year together. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes,” I said, although my mind was a maelstrom of questions.
“Are you in or out?” she asked me point blank.
“In,” I said, feeling a little like I’d been called out by my homeroom teacher.
The testing was partly physical and mostly psychic, especially of interest to me since that was my interest. On Friday I was told that I was eligible to make arrangements to be in Wimberley, that I needed to arrive on Wednesday and leave on Sunday.
Before I could voice the question, Blackwell said, “Yes, Mr. Draiocht, you will be given a travel allowance that should cover reasonable expenses.”
I smiled big. “Sweet.”
My travel allowance came in the form of a credit card in my name. Seeing the look on my face, she said, “Reasonable expenses, Mr. Draiocht. If you have visions of being a big spender then you need to not only go, but win.”
“I’ll do my best, Ms. Blackwell. If it doesn’t work out then maybe you’d be interested in a burger by the beach?”
She laughed. “You are unique, Mr. Draiocht. Just the sort who might actually stand a chance.” She shook her head. “The answer is no. I don’t date contestants. Ever. So don’t take it personally.”
I shrugged and gave her a half grin. “Okay. But your loss.”
“No doubt. Besides, Mr. Draiocht, you may meet your true love. Don’t be sure it’s not going to work out before you’re even on the plane to Austin.”
“Austin?”
“Closest airport.”
“Oh.”
“And don’t forget to make a hotel reservation. They hold enough rooms for contestants, but some of them are outside town.”
Nodding, I said, “Thanks for the tip.”
“Good luck.”
CHAPTER THREE
That brings us back to why I’m here in Wimberley, staying at the ghost hotel. There’s some kind of barbeque down at the river tonight. Some of the other contestants told me it’s one of the “sorcials”. That’s a play on the word sorcery. I’m a little bit bothered by that because I’m no closer to finding out why these people call themselves witches.
There’s this meet-and-greet thing tonight and then the Witches’ Ball, the big to-do, tomorrow night. I’m going through the motions, but not committing to anything. What keeps going through my head is, could I even get it up for a woman who has to go to these lengths to get laid?
One thing at a time.
That thing Blackwell said, about true love… if that’s the goal, then I’m sore out of luck. I don’t believe in love, much less ‘true love’. I’m here because I wouldn’t mind spending a year on an all-expense-paid luxury vacay with nothing to do but be lazy. Well, that, and possibly service a woman I couldn’t look at. Even that didn’t discourage me though. That’s what light switches are for. Right?
I’m still curious about the whole ‘witch’ thing. Why would people want to self-identify as witches, especially in the part of Texas where everybo
dy has wrought iron longhorns and a welded Texas star decorating their property?
I stepped out on the decking that forms a wooden sidewalk in front of the hotel thinking I’d take a walk around town, maybe see some of those galleries that were in the presentation.
Two old guys with beards were sitting in rockers to the side. It was so nineteenth century that I wondered if they were paid to be props. Turning east, I saw a little girl, about eight years old, rollerblading toward me. She stopped in the street in front of me and looked up.
“Are you lost?” I asked. She shook her head. “Should you be out here all by yourself?” She laughed at that and the sound made me think of tinkling wind chimes.
“You must not be from around here,” said one of the old guys just before he turned and spat chew into a brass spittoon.
“No. I’m not,” I said, trying not to look disgusted by the spittle.
The guy pointed two fingers at the little girl and smiled. “She’s one of ‘em.”
The child looked back up at me. “I’m Destiny. Some people leave off the Des and call me Tiny, but I don’t like that. I may be tiny, but it’s temporary.”
“Temporary is a big word for someone your age.”
She shrugged. “I’m smart.”
“Well, I can tell.”
“What’s your name?”
For some reason that I couldn’t name in a hundred years, I opened my mouth to say ‘Will’, but what came out was, “Willem.”
She grinned with teeth spread wide apart for growing into. “I like that. My sister is coming out. I’ll tell her to look for you. Maybe you’ll be in my family.”
“Maybe I’ll just wait for you,” I teased. “Maybe you’re my destiny.”
Her giggles were bar none the most charming thing I’d ever seen on a female person of any age. Her curls bounced a little as she shook her head. “You’re not for me, Willem. But I wish you were. Bye.” She waved goodbye. For a second I thought she would skate away, but something stopped her.
Looking back in the direction she’d come from I saw that there was an enormous black bear loping down the middle of the street.
As it happened the hotel was built at the intersection of a crossroads that in modern times had taken the form of a ninety degree turn. A car came careening around the curve going way too fast for a little touristy town. I watched in horror as the bear reared up on his hind legs and roared at the car, which was one second away from crashing into him.
“Nooooooo,” said Destiny. She held her little palms up toward the impending horror and pushed as if she was pushing against something heavy in the air.
I don’t expect you to believe what happened next. Why would you? I barely believe it and I was there.
The bear vanished from the road where he was about to roar his last roar. As soon as that transpired a beagle appeared at Destiny’s feet, looking shame-faced.
“Izobath! You’ve been a very, very, very bad beagle.” She shook her finger at the dog, who was looking like the living definition of a hang-dog expression. “Go home right now and don’t you dare think about stepping into the street again.”
The dog slunk away with his tail between his legs.
When he was gone, she smiled at me. “Izzy has a bear fantasy.”
I was too stunned for my mind to be functioning properly so, rather than ask what I really wanted to know, I said, “Izobath is a really unusual name for a dog.”
She giggled. “Raider found him wandering around when he was a puppy and brought him home. Ruby, she’s a friend of my sister’s, can hear what animals say. Izzy told her his name was Izobath.”
“How did he do that? It seems like a mouthful for a dog.”
She giggled again. “Well he didn’t say it out loud, silly. He said it in his mind.”
I nodded. “So Ruby who can read animals’ minds.”
She shook her head. “Not just animals.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Okay,” she said. “See ya.”
She skated away.
I looked at the two old guys who had witnessed the entire event. They might have been statues except for the rocking of the chairs and the twinkle in their eyes. And the fact that I’d heard one of them speak in a semi-appropriate manner.
“Did you see a bear?” I asked.
“Did you?” The one on the right leaned over and spit.
“So you’re gonna play it like that.”
“I saw a beagle that’d run away from home. Had no business bein’ in the street.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
I spent a few hours wandering through the galleries. Some of them were eclectic. There’d be a matte black and white photo of Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top right next to a twenty-five-thousand-dollar oil painting of a cattle drive.
If I’d had the money I would have bought a portrait of a woman with long black hair, pale green eyes, and red lips to match the dress she was wearing. I was debating whether I wanted to ask the gallery owner if I could work off the cost of the painting. I turned to look for him, but he was talking with someone about a modern iron sculpture. When I looked back to the painting, it was of an old guy in a sailor suit.
After blinking a couple of times, it was still an old guy in a sailor suit. The plaque read Captain King with a subtitle King Ranch. Just to see what would happen I looked away and then back a few times, but the old codger held firm and refused to give up the haunting vision of the green-eyed woman.
“What’s the matter?”
I jumped when the owner sneaked up behind me.
“Nothing,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve been standing here so long, I thought perhaps you’d seen the portrait of Pleasant Wimberley.” He must have caught something passing over my face that gave me away. “Ah, you have then. I, myself, have never been fortunate enough to see her occupy someone else’s visage, but I’ve been told you never forget it.”
Looking from him to the portrait and back again, I said, “Are you suggesting that I witnessed a paranormal event?”
He chuckled. “That’s a fancy modern way of describing it, but sure.”
“Tell me what you know about this.”
The bell that hung from the door jingled as three new customers came in. “Be right with you,” he said to them.
Lowering his voice, he said to me, “You saw the founder of the town, Pleasant Wimberley. She likes to prank the tourists by showing up in other people’s portraits. I’ve heard she’s really something to look at. I’ve also noticed she only does it to people who can handle experiencing a supernatural occurrence without going nuts about it.”
I nodded. “I wanted the painting so bad, I was going to ask you if I could work off whatever it cost.”
He laughed. “That’s a new one. I’ll bet she loved hearing that. Have a nice stay in Wimberley.”
With that he walked toward the new arrivals.
After looking at the portrait one more time, just couldn’t help myself, I walked two blocks up to the tavern. The calling card was the smell of charcoal-broiled hamburger and French fries, which carries for about a block around, and made me instantly ravenous.
It was early afternoon, but the place was still busy. I saw an open seat at the counter and headed in that direction. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that the other guys sitting at the bar were also contestants. I noticed Ivan and gave him a chin lift.
I ordered the burger basket with cheese, hickory sauce, a mix of plain and sweet potato fries and a Lonestar beer.
The guy next to me said, “You’re not going to have that physique for long eating like that.”
Looking him up and down, I went out of my way to be dismissive. Honestly, I’d never had a stranger comment openly about my ‘physique’ except in auditions.
“May the best man win,” I said.
I held up my longneck Lonestar beer. He held up his longneck IBC rootbeer. When we clinked bottles, he said, “Yeah. The best m
an. I’m Roger.”
“Willem,” I replied, having apparently lost the ability to make my tongue form the name ‘Will’.
“You going to the barbeque?”
“Came all the way from L.A. So, yeah. I’m gonna see where this leads.”
“L.A.?” he said. “I took you for a southerner.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t know. Just thought I heard it in your speech.”
After all the time, money and energy I’d spent getting rid of my accent, this wasn’t something I wanted to hear from Roger. Less than a day in Texas shouldn’t undo ten years of diction lessons.
“Where’re you from, Roger?”
“Minnesota.”
I laughed out loud. “That would be quite an adjustment, if you won. I mean I think it gets down to fifty degrees once or twice a year here.”
We chatted more or less amiably until my food came. I cut the burger in half. I wouldn’t have been surprised if there wasn’t a half pound of meat, done to perfection. I scarfed an Idaho fry, then a sweet potato fry, then bit into hickory cheeseburger heaven on Earth.
“Oh, man,” I said with my mouth half full. “I could eat here every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of this.”
Roger smirked. “So what’s your special talent?”
“Special talent?” I repeated stupidly.
“Yes. You weren’t just picked from the phone book at random. You know that, right?”
“Well,” I hesitated with burger heaven suspended just an inch from my mouth, “I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe on some level?”
“Some level. Wow. What are you even doing here?”
“Heard the gig is a prize beyond compare.”
“Yeah,” he said, studying me. “That it is. So what do you do? For a living, I mean.”
“Out of work actor.”
“Really. Surprising. You’re good-looking enough to be in the movies.”
“That’s what I’ve been told by people who aren’t offering paying acting jobs.”
“Hmmm. Bummer.”
WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) Page 5
