We wandered through Devendorf Park—an open grassy area with benches, shade trees, and a statue of Fr. Junipero Serra—then skirted Wishart’s Bakery, the smell of coffee and something hot, buttery, and cinnamony clinging to its exterior like perfume.
The Tuck Box English Tea Room was Hansel and Gretel cute, with its fairy-tale walls of adobe and stone, leaded glass windows, and red and white striped awnings.
“Hugh Comstock had a unique architectural style,” Heather said, pointing out the restaurant’s fanciful chimney and swooping faux thatched roof. “Not to my taste, but I understand the attraction.”
We took a booth next to a bay window facing the street, and after making our menu selections—olallieberry scones and tea for me and omelet, toast, and milk for Heather—I took the photos of the mirror from the envelop in my purse.
“What’s wrong?” Heather asked, with the keen eye of someone prone to listening and observing.
I slid the pictures across the table. “See for yourself.”
“Uh oh, you’re, like, making me nervous.”
She studied the top photo like an aesthete looking for hidden images. “It’s pretty cool the way this shot captures the mirror’s details.” She paused and looked at me, her head angled, her eyes probing. “Hey there, girl, looks like you’re about to come apart at the seams.”
I shook my head and waited.
She laid the photos out like a 5-card spread in a Taro reading, and then her upbeat expression turned into a frown. “Did you, like, have this one altered?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Okay, so that’s you looking into the mirror, but . . . who’s that looking back? No way, oh my God, do you think it’s . . . Oh my God, oh my God.”
Yep, I mouthed, as the server brought our food.
“Marjorie, like, you now have proof that Margarita’s trying to communicate with you,” Heather whispered once the server was out of earshot.
“It wouldn’t be hard to fake a picture like this,” I said.
“But you didn’t.”
“No reason to, but who’d believe me? Thank goodness I finally have a witness to the strange things going on in my life.”
Breakfast forgotten, appetite gone, I asked, “Remember how I told you about my twin?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, she’s been hearing a voice, too.”
“What does the voice say to her?”
“My sister isn’t much into sharing.”
Heather drummed her fingers on the table. “There’s got to be a connection between the voices you two are hearing and this picture.”
“I was hearing a voice before coming to Carmel Valley and before buying the mirror, but the second voice, the one I think might be Margarita Butron, isn’t the same. Different voice. Different message. The original talks to me directly, the second one does not.”
“Whatever, I’m excited to be part of it and all,” Heather said.
I gathered up the pictures and handed them to her. “These are for you. I had extras made.”
She pressed them to her breast. “Ooh, thanks.”
“If only I had a picture of Margarita’s gravesite.”
“Word is, she’s buried at the Carmel Mission,” Heather said before taking a swallow of milk. “Let’s stop by on the way back to the Inn.”
I grinned. “We’ve hardly touched our breakfast.”
“Oh.” Heather gulped down the rest of her milk and held up her glass. All that was missing was the “Got Milk?” mustache.
I wrapped my scone in a paper napkin and slipped it into my purse as the server arrived with our bill.
“Won’t taste the same once you get it back to your room,” she said, “especially without the whipped cream and preserves.”
“Yeah,” I said, without regret. Our visit to The Tuck Box had been worth it, if for no other reason than for the pleasure of sitting in a storybook house straight out of my dreams. “Time to do some shopping.”
Heather led me to a jewelry store on Ocean Street between San Carlos and Dolores at a pace that had me panting. “Low key, no hype, been around for over twenty-five years. Welcome to paradise.”
Display cases of estate and contemporary jewelry bordered the store and crisscrossed its interior, up-lit and spotlighted with buy me sparkle, but nowhere did I see loose stones. A man who appeared to be in his late sixties approached after allowing us enough time to look our fill. “May I help you?” He had a glint of inspiration in his eyes, as if he’d just gotten up from a work in progress.
I told him what I was looking for and he led us to a workroom in the back of the store. Precious and semi-precious stones, as well as gold, silver, and platinum, glimmered in surprising disarray, alongside molds and jewelry parts with names unknown.
“We create most of the pieces sold here,” the man said, “so we always have an assortment of stones on hand. Where would you like to begin?”
I asked for an opal and he brought out a sample tray for my inspection. Opals, ranging in color from white to light gray, dull yellow, blue-gray, and black, took up one side of the velvet surface and orange and scarlet-hued opals took up the other.
“It’s claimed by some that the opal improves the wearer’s vision,” he said. “There’s a wide range in quality here, so the prices vary.”
“I’m partial to the fire opal,” I said.
He used mini prongs to select a fire opal similar to the one I’d given Joshua, though a bit larger. “The common opal doesn’t have the opal’s characteristic iridescence but is still quite attractive. This one has splashes of color more vibrant than the others.”
I held the gemstone in the palm of my left hand and told it that I wanted to use it for my Medicine Wheel. Its fire and brilliance appealed to me, as did the warmth throbbing from within, which I accepted as its consent. “I’ll take it.”
“What else would you like to see?”
“Rose quartz, please.”
“Healer of heartache,” the jeweler said, bringing out a tray of milky pink stones. “Rose quartz is inexpensive, so you can choose one of significant size without breaking the bank.”
Though I considered them all equally lovely, I selected one about the same size and shape as the fire opal I’d just chosen. As I waited for its consent, I tried to picture the stone lying on the flattened earth in the Northeast position of the wheel. It would have to be large enough not to disappear into the background.
“By the way, my name’s Mike,” the jeweler said. “I don’t usually man the store, but today my two assistants called in with excuses.”
“I’m Marjorie and my friend here is Heather,” I said, eyeing his casual attire, which consisted of khakis and a checkered shirt instead of a suit and tie. “Are you one of the artists?”
“Yes and no. When I first opened the store twenty-five years ago, I did all the artwork myself, but, over time, I found myself accomplishing less and less. As the saying goes, ‘The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.’ Are you interested in seeing any more stones?”
I held the opal to the light, and it flashed its consent. “Topaz, please.”
“To heal physical and mental disorders,” Mike said when he brought out the tray.
My attention locked onto a honey-yellow stone, so clear and brilliantly faceted that it didn’t need up lighting or spotlighting to market its worth. I pointed out my choice, marveling at how gem cutters determine which of the stone’s facets become visible and which do not. Thought creates form. “May I?”
“Of course,” the jeweler said.
I picked up the stone with what Ben called my left, receiving hand and scanned over it with my right, giving hand. Are you the right stone for the Southwest point of my Medicine Wheel? I knew by now the importance of seeking inner guidance in making my choice. It wasn’t so much the stone’s answer I was waiting for, but its help in bringing into manifestation within me the characteristics it symbolized. “It’s okay,” I said when I saw Mike’s eyes narrow. “I know this one’s going to cost me.”
“You definitely know what you want,” he said. “Anything else?”
If only that were true. “Obsidian, please.”
“Ah, to repel negativity and aid in letting go of the past.”
I nodded, though I knew next to nothing about the qualities of the gemstones I was choosing. According to Ben, I needed to select from among the recommended stones by following my gut rather than concerning myself with the stones’ so-called powers.
“I don’t carry obsidian, I’m afraid,” Mike said.
Heather hadn’t spoken during the stone-selecting process and her eyes appeared as sightless as those of Fr. Serra’s statue in Devendorf Park. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“Semi-precious stones for a Medicine Wheel,” she said, rubbing her forehead with the fingers of both hands. “Wow. That kinda discourages us poor folk from giving it a try.”
“I’m just being extravagant. The five marker stones for setting up your basic Medicine Wheel are simply rocks and don’t cost a dime.”
“Phew, that’s a relief.”
After I’d paid for my purchase, Mike escorted us to the door with the courtesy of a porter at a luxury high rise. “I’ve worked with gems and precious stones most my life and have become aware of their medicinal properties. They’re truly gifts from our Mother Earth.”
Well-dressed locals and tourists walked up and down the streets at a casual pace, apparently as enchanted as I was by this square mile of paradise. Fountains and flagstone paths; flowers and trees with lofty crowns; art galleries, secret gardens, and pubs. No wonder artists such as John Steinbeck, Robinson Jeffers, Jack London, Sinclair Lewis, and Ansel Adams had called it home.
Finding obsidian proved to be difficult. We learned a lot about its properties (how it’s grounding and protective and used to clear away negative energies) but couldn’t locate the stone.
“Did you happen to notice that the two markers you’re still missing are both black?” Heather asked.
Her question hardly registered. My appetite was back. Small wonder, after our missed opportunity at breakfast. “Let’s stop for lunch.”
“No way, kiddo. Not until your mission here is accomplished.”
We were back on Ocean Street near Devendorf Park. I eyed the benches with longing, but Heather tugged me into a science and nature store, which contained such an array of brain-teasing oddities that we could have spent hours caught under their spell.
I asked the clerk for obsidian, expecting another negative response. Instead, he said, “Sure, I’ve got one that’s been collecting dust for as long as I’ve been working here, which has been a while, since I’m forced to supplement my career as an artist.”
“Sold,” I said.
Heather elbowed me. “You didn’t even look at it. Each stone is supposed to be special, remember?”
“You heard the man.” I handed him my credit card. “It’s been collecting dust for a while, which translates into ‘waiting for me.’ Now, let’s have lunch.”
“But we still need a picture of Margarita’s grave.”
I felt like a recalcitrant student on a field trip. “Whose task is this anyway?”
“Sorry,” Heather said, her upbeat tone belying her words. “I won’t let you give up just because you’re hungry.”
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Heather pulled out a compact camera. “My take is that you’re doing exactly what Margarita wants.” She shot photos from at least four angles, and then said, “Look. There’s something lodged in the bend of the tree.” Balancing on tiptoes, she reached past the ivy blanketing the gravesite and pried the object loose, “Ta-da,” and held up a black stone, water-worn and bowling-ball-smooth.
I felt like a cat correcting itself midair. Something weird was going on here and all I could do was land on my feet and go along for the ride.
“I wonder what kind of stone it is,” Heather said. “Let’s go ask Mike.”
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“Good job, Heather,” I said, ignoring the synchronicity of finding the exact stone I’d been looking for at what was purportedly Margarita’s grave. “I really appreciate your help. I really do. But let’s go eat.”
On the way to Wishart’s Bakery, Heather practically swelled with good cheer. “I’m having a ball today. How about you?”
In my experience, too much happiness, expressed too freely, usually leads to a fall, so I said nothing.
“Come on,” Heather said. “You’re practically trudging. Consider me a creative gift of providence. An assister.”
I punched her shoulder. “More like a sister.”
Heather’s eyes widened and her mouth gaped open, “Way to go, girl. You’re actually playing. I knew I’d draw you out, given time.”
“Word-play doesn’t count.”
“Turning words insight out counts in my book,” Heather said.
I rolled my eyes. Insight out. Yeah. Let the party begin.