Skylar Pierson poised her finger at the doorbell, inhaled deeply, and blew out through pooched lips.
“Okay, Skylar,” she spoke aloud to herself. “Here we”—she pressed the bell—“go.”
The electronic device struck her as an anachronism on the obviously old, patched-up adobe wall. But then the whole place seemed to have hit a time warp. The hacienda and Wild West setting were straight out of a Zorro flick, pre-Antonio era.
The door opened. A middle-aged woman flashed a smile, full-on Diane Keaton–esque. “Hi.” She glanced beyond Skylar’s shoulder toward the driveway, a frazzled expression chasing away the smile. “You’re not the delivery man . . . person.”
“Uh, no. I’m here about the ad.”
“I really, really wish he’d show up.” Sunlight glinted off the woman’s silver-rimmed glasses as she went up on tiptoe and peered sideways at the road. “You said ad? What ad?”
“For cook.” Skylar slid her thumbs under the shoulder straps of her backpack and shifted its weight.
“Cook?” Now Diane swung her full attention onto Skylar. “Cook? ”
“Uh, is this the Hacienda Hideaway Retreat Center? The sign out front says—”
“Yeah, that’s us, but I didn’t know we placed an ad for a cook. Where did you read it?”
“In The West Coast Retreat Gazette.”
“Really?”
Uh-oh. Twenty-Questions Diane was leading them nowhere fast.
The woman chuckled. “Well, obviously, really. You found us, didn’t you? I’m new at this. So then, I assume you cook and you’re looking for a job.”
“Do you need a cook? Or housekeeper?”
Again the quick smile beamed. “I’m Claire Beaumont.” She put out her hand.
Skylar shook it, wishing the woman would just answer the question. “I’m Skylar Pierson. Skylar with an a. ”
“Welcome to the Hacienda Hideaway, Skylar. Come on inside. My mother-in-law will want to meet you.”
Skylar followed Claire Beaumont across a narrow mudroom, its walls lined with coat hooks. A half-open door revealed a laundry room. They passed through another doorway and entered a huge, open space. A kitchen filled one side, family room and dining trappings the other.
Curious. All the appliances and furniture looked brand-new: shiny stainless steel, crisply bright upholstery, and wood that reflected like a mirror.
“Indio,” Claire said.
On the other side of a stone fireplace, a woman in a padded rocker looked up from the book on her lap. She resembled every Native American grandma squaw portrayed in a western, complete with round face and a single thick braid of hair.
As they approached her, Claire said, “Do you know anything about an ad for a cook in some gazette?”
A tiny smile played at the woman’s mouth. “I might.”
“Mm-hmm. This is Skylar with an a. Skylar, this is my mother-in-law, Indio Beaumont.”
“Hello, Skylar.” Indio held out her left hand, tilting her head at the right one resting atop the book. It was wrapped to the wrist in a cast. “Tripped over a rock.”
Skylar grasped the offered hand. “Hello.”
“I placed that ad two years ago.”
“I found the gazette in a stack of old papers, in a coffeehouse in Seattle. It was torn, the date was missing. Uh, I guess you don’t—do you still even need a cook?”
Without responding, Indio released her hand. Her eyes were bottomless black pools, communicating the sense of an old soul, of an ancient wisdom. They held no threat. Skylar understood she could speak her mind and was probably expected to do so.
At last the old woman said, “You didn’t call first.”
“No, I didn’t call. I prefer to feel the energy of a place before I even consider asking for an interview. So”—she shrugged—“I just stopped by.”
“And decided to stay a bit.” Indio’s eyes twinkled; the crow’s feet bunched. “The energy is more yang than yin, then?”
Skylar couldn’t help but grin. “I’d say that’s a fair assumption.”
“Take off that heavy pack and have a seat.”
“Thank you.” She hefted her bag to the hardwood floor. Sitting in a low swivel chair, she glanced around.
Despite its size and upscale touch, the room delivered a snug ambience. A warm cinnamon scent lingered. The rich ticktock of a big, old-fashioned wall clock added a rhythm. There were braided rugs, plaid upholstery, and afghans. A sofa and loveseat formed an L in front of the fireplace. Her chair and the woman’s rocker flanked a tall window that overlooked the front yard, parking lot, and distant hills. Sunlight flooded through its southern exposure.
Claire set a glass of iced tea on the end table between the chairs. “I thought you might be thirsty. It’s chamomile ginger.”
Herbal, no less. Trippy. “Thanks.”
She looked more closely at the wall behind Indio. Again she was struck with the collision of time periods. There in the middle of an Ethan Allen showroom and Wolfgang Puck’s kitchen was an exposed adobe wall. Literally covered with religious artifacts, it might have been transported up the hill from one of the historical California missions.
Indio caught her eye. “Some of the things on this wall are from the original chapel that was part of this hacienda. My husband’s great-great- grandmother hung several of the crucifixes. Her husband built the hacienda in the 1850s, after he found gold here.” She smiled. “So tell me, Skylar, do you like to cook?”
Skylar nodded. “I like to cook. Actually, I love to cook. And I’m drooling over your Sub-Zero fridge and Decor ovens.”
Indio laughed softly. “You noticed.”
Claire carried a stool from the island and joined them. Sitting, she exchanged a knowing smile with the other woman.
Indio said, “Okay, Skylar. Would you like the job?”
“Uh, that’s it? I love your kitchen?”
Claire chuckled. “Indio, she might want to know what exactly is involved, or at least what she’ll be paid.”
The old woman waved her left hand. “We’ll make it up as we go along. The woman who worked here for years moved away last month. We need a cook.”
Skylar said, “Don’t you want information about me?”
Indio shook her head vigorously. “Nope. Got all I need.”
Claire burst into laughter. Indio guffawed with her. The joyful noise grew louder, until Skylar saw tears stream down their cheeks.
At last Indio dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “Excuse us. We get a little loony when things like this happen. You see, we know exactly why you came in person and why you came today.”
An intense desire crashed through Skylar to grab her backpack and make tracks out the door. At some wordless level she understood life was spinning out of her control. She felt as if she were being nudged onto a path she hadn’t chosen, a path like the Yellow Brick Road.
Great. Just great. All she wanted was food and shelter, not another flaming journey to the Land of Oz!
She’d leaned forward, ready to snatch up the pack, a “no thanks” forming on her tongue, when Indio fixed those twinkly black eyes on her. Skylar’s muscles flapped like wet noodles.
“Skylar, here’s what’s happening. I can’t prepare a cup of tea without help these days.” She lifted her braced arm and dropped it back onto her lap. “The Hacienda Hideaway reopens tomorrow with twelve guests, here for dinner, staying through breakfast on Sunday. This is Claire’s first experience with a retreat group. She has help with the cleaning, but I promised her that I would cover the kitchen.” She paused. “I’ve been praying for a week for a cook to be here by today.” The grin nearly scrunched her eyes shut. “I don’t need to know a thing except that our God answers prayer.”
Skylar blinked a few times. “Trip out. That’s heavy stuff.”
“It is. Now, dear, what do you think? Would you like the job? Could you start today?” Indio pressed her lips together and waited, still as a statue.
Forget the gentle nudge. With the likes of the elderly sage staring at her, things had escalated into a definite shove onto that Yellow Brick Road.
Skylar’s stomach growled. The cinnamon scent had blossomed into a baking cake. Her legs and shoulders ached.
She liked these women. The positive vibes coming from them could not be denied. Why not give them a weekend? What could one weekend hurt?
“Sure. Why not?” The words skipped off her tongue as merrily as Dorothy and her friends flittering on down the road to Oz.