Sad Girls

by Lang Leav

  As the car pulled out of my street, I nervously fingered the rubber band around my left wrist. I gazed out the window anxiously, as the city streets flashed by. Every sight, every sound, felt so much like Rad. I thought of that beautiful spring day when he turned up at my office in the pink Cadillac. That night when we kissed for the first time, under the stars. My phone rang all of a sudden, jolting me out of my daydream. I picked it up, my heart drumming loudly in my chest.

  “Audrey.” It was Sam.

  “Hey.”

  “Have you left yet?”

  “I’m just on my way to the airport.”

  “Do you a have a minute to stop by? There’s a package that just came for you.”

  I checked the time. I was running early. “Yeah, I can make a quick stop.”

  Sam was waiting for me downstairs with a brown envelope in her hand. “A courier brought this in for you just after lunch,” she said as I got out of the cab. I took it from her outstretched hand and looked at it curiously. My heart skipped a beat when I recognized Rad’s writing on the front.

  For Audrey

  I tucked it into my satchel and pulled the zip across. “Thanks, Sam.”

  She gave me a warm smile. “Take care.” She gave me a quick hug and glanced quickly at her watch. “I should get going; I’m running late for my eleven o’clock. Don’t be a stranger now, okay?”

  Sam hurried off, blowing me a kiss. I stood there for a few moments, taking in the buildings that I knew like the back of my hand. I realized how happy I’d been here, and with a small pang of regret, I wondered whether I was making the right decision. In the distance I could hear the familiar sound of rock music coming from the Stairway to Heaven Church a few buildings down. The music came to a stop, and a small crowd of people filed out of the large, heavy doors and made their way down the street.

  “Audrey?”

  To my surprise, I turned around and saw Duck standing there.

  “Hi!” he said, with a smile.

  “Duck, you look great!” I thought back to how he was at the Christmas lunch, quiet and withdrawn. Now he looked like his regular old self again.

  “I feel great,” he said, his head motioning toward the church. “I think I’ve found what I’ve been looking for.”

  A pretty brunette wandered up to us and linked her arm through Duck’s. “Audrey, this is my girlfriend, Angela.”

  She smiled brightly at me. “Hi, Audrey. Lovely to meet you.”

  “Lovely to meet you too,” I said.

  Duck beamed at me. “I told you, didn’t I? Everything happens for a reason.”

  Duck’s words rang in my ears as I sat in the cab heading toward the airport. I felt like a bird, feathers shed and poised to take flight.

  Everything happens for a reason.

  I dug into my handbag and took out the brown envelope, running my fingers across the ink where Rad had dragged his pen in the shape of my name. Whatever happened next, I knew it would never compare to what was. I would have to live my whole life knowing I would never find someone else like him, but I already knew I wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath, I ripped open the envelope and reached inside, my stomach wound tightly in knots. It was a copy of Inside UFO 54-40. I flipped through the pages until I saw Rad’s writing, scribbled on the page where Ultima shone like a beautiful mirage, an impossible dream.

  We never made it, did we?

  PART TWO

  Whirlpools

  I thought of you and how you love this beauty,

  And walking up the long beach all alone

  I heard the waves breaking in measured thunder

  As you and I once heard their monotone.

  Around me were the echoing dunes, beyond me

  The cold and sparkling silver of the sea—

  We two will pass through death and ages lengthen

  Before you hear that sound again with me.

  —Sara Teasdale, Sea Sand

  One

  Rosie’s Diner was at the end of a small trek down a hilly road and up the main street of Delta. For the past few weeks, it had been my ritual to trudge along the same path, rain or shine or (as I’ve grown accustomed to) snow. I’d make my way on many cold, dismal days, like a moth to flame, into the warmth of those four walls.

  I arrived in Colorado at the start of winter without a plan or destination in mind. After a short and uneventful stint in Denver, I flew to Montrose before boarding the first bus that struck my fancy. It took me to Delta, where I spent the last few weeks in a dingy motel with a dodgy radiator, pouring through the local classifieds for a place to stay. I walked a lot during those first days—all over the main part of town past quaint shops with brightly colored awnings and festive murals painted on the sides of buildings. I hiked across parklands and rushing rivers with no direction in mind. I returned at the end of each day and slipped back into my room like a ghost, wondering what the hell I was doing out here all on my own. During those cold, sleepless nights, I felt desolate and unsure, discouraged and homesick.

  The turning point came when by chance I wandered into Rosie’s Diner, which was staffed by Rosie herself, a cheerful middle-aged woman with strands of silver hair threaded through her dark, wiry locks. On my first visit, I tried a slice of her gooseberry pie, and it warmed me in a way that nothing else had in a long time. After that, I kept going back day after day, and we struck up a friendship.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” said Rosie as I pushed through the heavy glass door.

  “Morning, Rosie,” I answered, sliding into my regular booth. She came over with a slice of lemon tart and a pot of coffee.

  “You’re still looking for a place to stay, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m not having much luck. I can’t seem to find anything in my price range, and I’m burning through my savings quicker than I thought.”

  “Well, I’ve got some great news for you.”

  “Really?” I unzipped my brown satchel and pulled out my laptop.

  “Some friends of mine, Graham and Dale, are going away for the winter. They’re looking for a house sitter, and I told them you’d be perfect. They live right on the edge of town, so it will be easy for you to get around.”

  “That sounds promising,” I said, a spark of hope flaring up in my chest.

  “There’s not much to do in the garden this time of year, but they have a little Yorkie who needs taking care of.”

  “Oh, I love Yorkies. They are adorable.”

  “What are you doing later today, around three?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Great! Why don’t you meet me back here, and I’ll drive you over to the house.”

  “Okay, thanks, Rosie.”

  “Still working away on your book?” she asked. She set the tart down on the table and poured coffee into my mug. I wrapped my gloved hands around it, watching the steam rise up in wispy white coils.

  “Yeah, I think it’s going to be a collection of short stories.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She flashed me a warm smile. “Oh, by the way. I read that book you gave me, A Snowflake in a Snowfield.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “What did you think?”

  “It was beautiful. Read the whole thing in one sitting. That kid sure is talented.”

  “I thought you might like it.” I couldn’t help feeling a flush of pride.

  She shot me a cautious look. “Have you spoken to him at all?”

  “No.”

  “You still miss him, though.” I nodded, and she gave me a sympathetic smile. “You know, missing someone can sometimes be the best thing for a writer.”

  Later that afternoon, I met Rosie outside the diner, and we walked around back to her old pickup truck. A short drive later, we arrived at the house, and Rosie pulled into the driveway. It was a charming chalet made entirely from t
imber, and it reminded me of a gingerbread house, especially with its quaint sloping roof that was heavily caked with snow.

  “It’s pretty,” I said.

  “The lake is about a five-minute walk from here. It will be frozen over in a month or two. The locals even skate on the outer edges.”

  “Skating’s not really for me, but I bet the view will be stunning.”

  We walked up the drive and knocked on the wood-paneled door.

  A few moments later, it swung open, and we were greeted by a burly man with a heavy beard wearing a red-and-white checkered shirt.

  “Rosie!” he roared, pulling her into a bear hug. He swung his head back. “Dale, they’re here!”

  “This is the girl I was telling you about,” said Rosie when he let her go.

  I heard footsteps coming down the hallway, and another man appeared at the door. He had closely cropped hair, and his clean-shaven face was framed by a pair of rimless glasses.

  “Audrey, this is Graham, and this—” she motioned to the man in glasses, “is his partner, Dale.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “She’s gorgeous,” said Dale, planting a kiss on my cheek.

  “Thank you,” I laughed.

  A little Yorkie poked her head from behind his ankles. He scooped her up. “And this little thing here is Apple.”

  “Hi, Apple.” I reached down and stroked her head. She tipped her head back and licked my fingers.

  “Come in, come in,” said Graham, and we followed him inside.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” I said, as my eyes took in the wooden beams and their quaint triangular formation. Expansive windows opened to a stunning view of snowcapped mountains and fir trees dusted with white. The place was immaculate and beautifully decorated with antiques, Persian rugs, and charming lampshades; it was full of warm hues of red, pink, and earthy browns. A large cream-colored couch wrapped around a roaring fire in the center of the room. My heart gave a small flutter of hope. No more cold, damp nights at the motel if this worked out for me.

  Graham walked over to the bar and came back with two drinks in his hand.

  “These are our famous Pink Flamingos,” he said, handing one to me and the other to Rosie.

  “Oh, these are legendary,” she said, taking a sip from her neon-green straw.

  I took a sip of mine. It tasted like a mix of cotton candy, grapefruit, and Cointreau.

  “Yum,” I exclaimed as Dale winked at me.

  We settled ourselves on the couch, and Apple bounded up into my lap.

  “She likes you,” said Graham. “That’s always a good sign.”

  I smiled. “I like her too.”

  “So, Audrey, I suppose Rosie has told you we’re looking for a house sitter while we’re away for the winter.”

  “Yes, she has.”

  “Our regular girl pulled out last minute. Met some guy and took off with him to Spain—all quite sudden. These whirlwind romances.” He rolled his eyes. “So we were in a bit of a fix until you showed up.”

  “It was meant to be,” said Rosie.

  “It seems that way, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Now, Audrey, I’m sure you’re a model citizen, but we’ll need two references from you. It’s just a standard thing we do.”

  “That’s fine. I was house-sitting in Sydney for my best friend’s uncle. I can get a reference from him. And I’m sure my editor, Sam, would be happy to provide one as well.”

  “Perfect!” said Dale, clapping his hands together. “Let’s talk about payment.”

  “Oh, no, I’m happy to do it free of charge, honestly. I mean, you’re the ones who are doing me the favor. It’s been really hard finding a place, and I’ll be glad to get out of that motel.”

  “No, no, we insist.”

  “No, really—”

  “Oh, darling,” said Dale, his hand on my arm. “We don’t mind at all—honestly.”

  Graham chimed in. “Well, if it would make you feel better, why don’t you do a little work for us on the side as well?”

  “Work?”

  “Of course!” said Dale, his eyes lighting up. “The antiques.”

  Graham turned to me. “Dale and I import antiques, and we have a whole shed full of them that need some TLC. So if you’d like, you can work on them while we’re away. That would be perfect, actually. What do you think?”

  “I’ve never worked with antiques before. Is it hard?”

  “Not at all.” Graham waved his hand. “Easy as pie. We just need to have them cleaned up and oiled. Dale and I will take you through it.”

  “Sounds great! I’d love to make myself useful while I’m here.”

  There was a ding sound.

  “Aha! The Bombe Alaska’s ready,” said Dale, jumping to his feet. “Can you give me a hand, Gray?”

  “Sure.” Graham followed Dale into the kitchen.

  “They’re smitten with you,” Rosie announced when they were out of earshot.

  “I feel terrible about taking their money. Look at this place; I feel like I should be paying them.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, Audrey,” she said, patting me on the knee. “They’re just thrilled to have found someone on such short notice. Besides,” she winked, “they won’t miss the money, if you know what I mean.”

  I looked around at the lavishly decorated room and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. Well, hopefully I can make it up to them with the antiques.”

  “That’s sweet of you, honey. They would really appreciate that.”

  The two men came back with four slices of the Bombe Alaska served on bone china plates. Dale handed one to me along with a spoon.

  “Dig in.”

  “You’re in for a treat, Audrey,” said Rosie. “Dale makes the best Bombe Alaska.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there,” said Graham.

  I took a bite. It was phenomenal. The sponge was soft and sweet; the dark chocolate ice cream was a perfect companion to the orange-flavored meringue.

  “Wow, this is amazing, Dale.”

  “I don’t know why you won’t give me the recipe,” said Rosie, after taking a bite of hers.

  “Sorry, darling, you know I promised my mother on her deathbed to keep it secret. Anything else you are welcome to.”

  “I got my gooseberry pie recipe from Dale,” she explained.

  “Really? I’m impressed!”

  “Oh stop it,” Dale said, but he looked immensely pleased.

  A few weeks later, Graham and Dale left on their trip, and I settled into the house. I was grateful to be out of the motel, and Apple was great company. When the weather was good, I took her for walks around the lake where we fed the ducks leftover bread and chatted with the locals. I often came across a lady with a German shepherd who recommended a good coffee shop just minutes away.

  Spending time with the antiques turned out to be an unexpected joy. There was an assortment of furniture in the shed—tables, chairs, side cabinets, and writing desks that were old and tired, covered in dirt and dust. Dale and Graham had shown me how to bring them to life again using stiff brushes, old rags, and oil. The transformation was astonishing, and every new piece of furniture I worked on gave me a sense of pride and satisfaction.

  Some days I stayed in working on my book of short stories, stopping every so often to admire the view. On the mantelpiece above the fire, I had put the snow globe Rad gave me that night at Blues Point Park. I often wished I could call him up and tell him I had made it to my little mountain town, that outside my window I could see mountains capped in snow, and that I was writing the book I had always wanted to write.

  The isolation made me miss home, but I kept in regular contact with Lucy, who was anxious to know every detail about my new life. I never asked her about Rad, even though I wanted to, and she was careful to avoid the topic.
/>
  One morning, I logged onto my e-mail and saw Angie’s name in my inbox. Since graduation, we had written to each other every now and then, but it had been ages since I last heard from him. I clicked it open.

  Hello old friend!

  It’s been a while. New York is fab, as you know. I’m in my element here.

  Couple months back I officially became a junior agent at Annie Otto. Turns out my cousin Cecelia married a publishing magnate and he recommended me when a position opened up in their NY office. So here I am!

  Anyway, I was chatting to one of my colleagues, and you know, novellas are coming back into fashion. So are short stories, and would you believe it (gasp) poetry. Apparently the kids today are into speed reading. I blame Twitter.

  I thought of you right away, and an idea came to me. Sam tells me you’re in Colorado working on a book. Would you consider having me rep you? I’d love to peddle a book of your short stories. The one about the bookcase still haunts my dreams at night. I think you would be a real hit.

  Thoughts?

  Lots of love, Angie. xx

  I grinned. I was thrilled for Angie. Annie Otto was one of the best literary agents in the world. I wrote back and accepted his offer.

  The next day I got to work. I sat down with my pen and notepad and spent the morning brainstorming ideas. After lunch, I began tapping away on my laptop. Hours later, I looked up at the clock and was surprised to see it was well past dinner. It had been a dreary day, so I barely noticed how dark it had gotten. I stretched my arms and got up, my legs numb from sitting for so long, then went to fix myself a quick dinner. I was pleased with the work I had done, and I fell asleep that night with a feeling of satisfaction. I wondered if it was like this for Rad when he was writing his book. I found myself wishing I could share my experience with him.

  I jumped out of bed the next morning, eager to get back to my writing. I made myself a cup of coffee before going over all the work I’d done the previous day. It was awful. The writing was all over the place. The ideas were good, but I couldn’t seem to bring them to life. I let out a groan of disappointment. What the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get the stories down when I could see them so vividly in my head? But I couldn’t give up now, not when I had a real shot at getting my work published. With a sigh, I shut the lid of my laptop and went back to the drawing board.