Laura Caldwell - The Night I got Lucky

I left the bathroom and bought a few toiletries in a shop, feeling mildly comforted by the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner and moisturizer. In the next store, I bought two soft T-shirts, one in yellow, one pink. Spring colors. I had no idea what the weather would be like in Telluride-to be honest, I couldn’t have found Telluride on a map if forced at gunpoint-but I knew it was mountainous, maybe cold, and so, channeling the woman with the massive suitcase, I bought a sweatshirt and a wind-breaker. Lastly, I found a tan golf visor for Chris and quickly told the clerk to add it to my bill. It seemed pathetic, that visor-a small offering from a bad wife. But I felt driven to get him something. I wanted to carry something in my bag that showed me, in some way, that he was still with me.

The plane to Telluride was a tiny pop can of an aircraft. The whole thing rumbled and shook. About forty-five minutes into the flight, the pilot came over the intercom. “Those of you on the right can see the town of Telluride. We’ll be landing momentarily.”

I glanced out my window and saw the sun setting over a small hamlet, which looked like a box of candy-a jumble of brightly colored, shingled houses. The plane swooped to the left, leaving only a russet-red sky in my plane window, then began to descend.

The Cover to Cover bookstore wasn’t closed. Instead, it glowed yellow next to two businesses now dark for the day. A few blocks down, a hotel called the New Sheridan seemed like a fairly hopping place-a few people pushing in and out of it, while shouts of laughter rang from the bar next door. I probably should have inquired earlier whether there were any rooms available. I probably should find lodging now since it was dark. But that bookstore shined too brightly.

I took a few halting steps toward it. I was as nervous as I’d ever been. I peered in the glass of the clothing store, right next to my father’s shop, trying to make out my reflection between stacks of jeans and a mannequin wearing a flowered skirt. My hair was unkempt from sleeping on the plane. I had little makeup left. This shouldn’t have mattered. A father shouldn’t care what his daughter looks like, particularly if he hasn’t seen her for over twenty years. But my father wasn’t the average dad. He was someone who scared easily. So I swiped some lipstick across my mouth, patted powder on my cheeks and drew a comb through my hair.

The door to the bookstore was old, arched and wooden. It opened with a creak. The melodic sounds of Mozart or some other classical music piped through the store. The place looked historical-the walls at least fourteen feet high and lined with books, two library ladders on either side. In the center of the store were a few round tables piled high with books and little yellow rectangular signs proclaiming, New in Paperback! or Memoir! or Historical Fiction! I wondered if the exclamation marks were my father’s idea or the influence of frizzy Lillian. The fact that I had absolutely no idea-no clue whatsoever-about what kind of person my dad was made me sad and exhausted and impatient to see him now.

A man with blond dreadlocks stood behind the desk to the left. “Excuse me?” I said, but the words came out choked. I cleared my throat. “Sorry,” I said, wondering what I was apologizing for. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Sure,” he said, nice as can be, putting aside a paperback. “Who’s that?”

“Bran-” I managed to say. “Bran-” I tried again. Why couldn’t I say my father’s name? Why did I sound like I was in a diner asking for a muffin?

“Brandon Tremont?” the guy said, seeming a little less friendly now and a little wary of me, the strange woman with the speech impediment.

“Yes, yes, that’s right,” I said, suddenly mimicking Roslyn and her efficient style. “Is he here, please?” This was it, this was the moment I’d imagined for years.

“No, I’m sorry. Gone for the day. Can I help you find something?”

My father, I felt like saying. You can find my father, my family, my husband, my life. If you could just locate that for me and ring that up, that would be great. Instead, I swallowed hard and said, “When will he be in?”

“He’s usually here by 9:00 in the morning. Store opens at 10:00.”

“And Lillian?” I’m not sure why I asked after her. Maybe I was thinking she was in the back and would take me home for a Walton-family-type reunion.

“You know Lillian?” The blond guy leaned on the desk with a smile, his blond dreads sliding over his shoulders.

“Uh, no. No, I don’t.”

“Well, I’m her son.”

This shocked me into momentary silence. Lillian’s son got to work with her, live in the same town as her-as her husband, my dad-while Brandon Tremont’s kids had no idea what he was like, what he was doing. Until a moment ago, I hadn’t even known for certain if he was even alive. The unfairness of it squeezed my stomach, leaving me with a nauseous, resentful feeling that made my mouth suddenly taste like tin (although I suppose it could have been the eight thimbles of Chardonnay).

“You’re her son,” I said, only managing to repeat his words.

And then it hit me. He might be Brandon’s son, too. He might be my brother. He looked a little younger than me. It could easily be the case.

He held out his hand and smiled wide. His teeth were crooked but white. “I’m Kenny.”

I shook it. “Billy Rendall,” I said. “And your last name?”

“Gilchrist.”

I let out a huge breath I hadn’t realized was stuck in my chest. “So you’re not…”

Kenny tilted his head to the side, not understanding me.

“You’re not Brandon’s son?” I said.

“No, no. He’s my stepdad.”

Which makes you my stepbrother. For some reason, I wanted to vault over the desk and hug him. I thought about telling him who I was and what I was doing there, but my father might run for the hills if he knew I was in town. I wanted to meet him now, no matter what his story, no matter what an asshole he was. I wanted to see him and to tell him what he’d done to our family by leaving. I wanted to ask him why. And then I wanted to leave Telluride.

I missed Chris right then. I wished I had my husband next to me.

“Do you want to leave a message for Brandon?” Kenny asked.

“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll stop back tomorrow.”

As I approached the New Sheridan Hotel, two women walked past me, both pushing jogging strollers with sleeping toddlers inside. They were talking quietly and laughing.

I opened the hotel door and watched them disappear down the street, their heads inclined together. It made me think of Tess and how, before she’d had the kids, we’d done nearly everything together. We had lived only three blocks apart in Lakeview. We talked on the phone before work, we met up for lunch, we worked out together afterward, and we usually went carousing at night. But now we had such different lives and so little time for each other.

The desk clerk greeted me and announced that he had only a few rooms available. “You’re lucky,” he said. “If you’d come in next week, we would have been booked for the rest of the summer.”

“I thought this was a ski town.”

“Oh, it is, but summer is even better. We’ve got film festivals and jazz fests. What are you in town for? Just visiting?”

“That’s right.” Visiting my father.

When I got up to the room, I dropped my bags and immediately called Tess from my cell phone. Seeing those women had made me want to reconnect with her, even if it meant confessing my indiscretion with Evan.

“’Lo?” her son, Sammy answered. In the background, there was a clatter, then a shriek that sounded like it came from Joy, Tess’s youngest.