Page 21

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

The full moon is tonight, perfectly fitting for the party at The Brockmeier Hotel.

But as such, in every free moment leading up to today, I’ve been prepping hundreds of orders that have rolled in since my appearance on Windy City Today.

They’ll ship out tomorrow, after they’ve had a chance to absorb the lunar powers, of course.

With those orders marinating under the moon, I shift my focus to a different set of Moon Batch Apothecary goods: the fifty gift bags I made and brought for the attendees of The Brockmeier’s annual party.

“Moonie Miller, is that you?”

A baritone voice creeps up from behind me as I’m arranging the party favors in five rows of ten.

“I’m Roger Macnider,” the man announces in a way that suggests a very-commercial And I approve this message should be coming out of his mouth next.

“Oh! Mr. Macnider, it’s so nice to meet you in person,” I say with genuine excitement, careful to be sure my hands are full at the exact moment he expects to shake hands.

After my sisters cornered me with all their intel, I’m in no rush to have any visions—especially accidental ones with middle-aged men who have a penchant for running hotels that are rumored to be haunted.

“The pleasure is all mine. How’s it going? Do you need anything?” he asks. His tuxedo catches me off guard. I wonder, for a moment, if I should have worn something more dressy than knock-off black Spanx leggings and an oversized chunky-knit sweater.

“Nope, I’m good,” I say. “Just getting the gift bags all set up. I went with a mini Moon Batch Candle for everyone.”

“Delightful! My wife will love that. Say, what all do you have in store for us tonight? Can you give me a little sneak peek?”

Mr. Macnider rubs his hands together like I’m his drug dealer about to tell him what’s up with the latest score.

“I’m going to be hosting a do-it-yourself smudge stick station.

You’ll start by grabbing an abalone shell, then you’ll fill it with whatever type of sage you want.

I brought white sage, palo santo, and yerba santa.

Then you’ll add rose petals, lavender flowers, and eucalyptus for a little color and texture.

Once you’re done, I’ll help wrap it all in twine and include a little ritual explanation card to take home so thateveryone willknow what to do with it. ”

“Excellent. This is exactly what I had in mind,” he says.

I’m glad Mr. Macnider approves of the plan for his party. I know he had mentioned palm reading and candle making in his original email. But palm stuff is totally off the table and melted wax is messy and a burn risk. And at present, I don’t have the budget for business insurance or a lawyer.

“I also brought one more thing,” I say. “I know you didn’t ask for this, but I thought it might be cool to sell in the hotel gift shop?”

I hand him a green peridot beaded bracelet featuring three black lava rocks. He examines it as I continue my explanation of the piece.

“My crystal purveyor just got in a lava rock shipment. Once I found out it’s the only rock known to be formed from nothing but fire, I knew I had to do something with it. So, behold: my first bracelet.”

“This is incredible, Moonie. How much do you want for it?” he asks. “I’ll have my executive assistant put a tag on it right now.”

“Not sure. Maybe like, twenty-five dollars?”

“ Twenty-five dollars ? I think you’re grossly underestimating what our guests are prepared to pay for such a piece. How about…two hundred? The hotel will keep ten percent of the sale. Fair?”

I don’t think Mr. Macnider realizes that an hour before I got here, those beads were scattered on my duvet, which currently has a buffalo wing stain on it, and the string holding it all together was from a bracelet-making kit that I found in the bottom of my nephew’s toy chest. I know I made it sound like this is the first piece of an exclusive line, but it was more like a meditative exercise to calm my nerves before tonight’s big event.

Nonetheless, like everything else so far, I go with what the expert in the situation suggests.

“Two hundred it is,” I concur.

“Great. Well, I’ll let you keep at it. Guests should be arriving in about twenty minutes. And before the end of the night, my assistant will swing by with the tip we discussed. Please, holler if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“Thanks, I will,” I say, making note about just how nice Mr. Macnider is.

Before he departs, Mr. Macnider inches closer to me and fetches something from inside his breast pocket.

“Oh, and...here’s your room key, Ms. Miller. Check-out will be earlier than usual; 10am. We’ve got to turn the suite for Oprah. She and Gayle are doing a girls’ night with us tomorrow.”

He hands me a black card embossed with the word PRESIDENTIAL on it. I am careful to grab it from him so as not to accidentally brush palms in any way, shape, or form.

Of all the things I’ve tucked in my trusty crossbody bag, the key to the presidential suite at The Brockmeier is by far the bougiest. Bougie is so far from my brand.

I have no personal experience with bougie.

Still, I can’t help but feel a bit giddy about the plush white bathrobe and slippers that await me after what is bound to be endless hours on my feet tonight.

As I put the finishing touches on setting up my table, I can sense another person approaching from behind me.

“One in 976,000,” the man says. “That’s the odds of us randomly meeting in Chicago. Randomly meeting a second time in The Second City? Well, I’m going to need my TI-83 for that.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say as I turn around to face none other than @MrFixIt312.

Except for this time, I’m seeing him in a new light.

Not overdressed for a yoga class, not four beers deep at a pub wearing a hat and sunglasses, but rather in professional and polished attire.

He’s about half the age of Mr. Macnider, and giving me all the Alexander Skarsg?rd vibes.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I work here,” he says. “You?”

“I’m a guest of Mr. Macnider. I’m here for the party.”

“Oh, so you’re a vendor—not a guest,” he minimizes. “We’ve got five of you here tonight, and unfortunately you’re the only one with a set up that is blocking the fire exit.”

Make that a cranky Alexander Skarsg?rd.

“Let me guess. You’re going to call the City Inspector on me?”

“No. Just the Fire Marshall.”

“What is your infatuation with incessant tattling?” I ask.

“My infatuation is…it’s my job as Acting Chief Civil Engineer to require that the fire exit remain clear at all times.

You wouldn’t want our entire staff to perish in a fire, would you?

Although I’d have to agree, that’d make for one spooky story to pass along to the generations.

Alas, can we go ahead and get this table moved or what? ”

“Of course,” I say, trying my best to match his nice-but-not-nice cadence.

“I just wish I would have known that I was a threat to society before I set up fifty bags of candles and a hundred pounds of sage. Mr. Macnider didn’t mention anything about the location of the table being a problem, you know. ”

“With all due respect, Mr. Macnider doesn’t know how to find a stud in the wall.

That’s why The Brockmeier has me on retainer for the time being.

Look, I don’t make the rules—but I do enforce them—that’s part of my contract.

And since we only have mere minutes until guests arrive, I must insist that you move your table. Immediately.”

I let out a big huff, like I waited in line for a McFlurry only to have the cashier tell me the ice cream machine is broken.

“I’ll help you,” he concedes. “But if I break anything, it’s not my fault. Don’t hex me or anything.”

“Okay, Mr. Reverse Osmosis. You got it. Let’s put the candles back in the box and then slide the table with just the sage on it,” I direct.

The crabby engineer begins moving at a glacial pace. With each candle giftbag he picks up, it’s like he’s being careful not to get any cooties on him.

“ Mini Moon Batch Candle by Moonie Miller ,” he reads off one of the labels. “Is that seriously your real name, Moonie Miller ?”

“Want to see my driver’s license?” I offer, moving at approximately double the speed he is. Before he can ask any more questions, I hit him with the one-two punch: “No, I’m not in the Moonie cult and no, it’s not Swedish.”

I’ve been getting that Nordic-natured question in my DMs a lot lately from my new followers.

“Of course it’s not Swedish. Nothing about that name is Swedish.”

“Oh, did you work at IKEA before you joined TheBrockmeier?” I ask the know-it-all.

He stops with helping, and instead hands me his business card. He strikes me as the kind of guy who gets off when the precise moment to talk about his credentials emerges.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Olrik Zetterlind. Born and raised in Stockholm… Sweden .”

That explains the mystery accent.

“Olrik. That’s a unique name.” I briefly wonder if he ever considered going by Kevin to further Americanize himself.

“I go by Ollie,” he continues. “I guess if you put an ‘i-e’ at the end of your name, it’s automatically American, as you can relate. Anyway, are we ready to push?” he asks as if I was the one holding us up.

“Sure. Where to, Captain?”

“Let’s go six feet to the right. That way, if the Lady in Red tries anything funny tonight, we’ll have enough room to get out of those doors before the flames engulf us.”

“Is this place really haunted?” I ask.

“Only if you believe in that kind of stuff.”

I think he knows the answer to that.

“Good thing I brought a bulk order of smudge sticks. I’ll keep everyone protected over here.”

“I can’t believe that Mr. Macnider hired the witchy girl from TV,” he mumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” I say, even though I heard every word.

“I was just saying I can’t believe Mr. Macnider is into all this crap.”

I remember when I saw Ollie at Tin Lizzie and he made fun of the books in my bag. And now, here he is referring to my life and my business as “all that crap.” As a former nay-sayer myself, I understand where his skepticism is coming from. But—

“You don’t have to be so rude,” I accidentally blurt out.

“Pardon?”

“Yeah, I mean, are you just always in a semi-shit mood? Or is my sheer existence that offensive to you?”

“Let’s take it easy with the language, eh? Guests are arriving soon,” Ollie suggests, although it may be a little late for taking it easy.

“It’s just that our only interactions thus far have been me trying to protect you from a falling ceiling, politely returning what was rightfully yours, and then showing up to a party I was invited to by your boss.

None of those scream ‘criminal’ to me, so is there a reason why you talk to me like I’m some weirdo whose sole purpose is to inconvenience you? ”

Just then, the doors to the Palm Court open for the evening and a flood of employees dressed in their finest spooky cocktail attire all enter the ballroom at once. A jazz band begins playing “The Monster Mash” and caterers descend with passed canapés that look and smell delicious.

“The party has started. I need to make my rounds. Good luck tonight, Ms. Miller,” he says before leaving me to my freshly-moved table.

He never answered my question. What a coward.

I watch Ollie head toward the bar. In a sea of men wearing black suits, Ollie—all six-foot-three-I’d-guess of him—sticks out in his oatmeal-colored cowl neck sweater and tailoredmaroon pants.

At least I’ll be able to find the building’s engineer easily if I get another vision of a ceiling tile crashing down.

Although, this time around, the sassy Swede may not deserve the courtesy of a heads up.