Page 6 of The Witches Catalogue of Wanderlust Essentials (Natural Magic #2)

Chapter 3

The Mermaid With Moxie

G oldie Pearlmutter gazed out the window of her cottage on Catalina Island. The pelicans were swarming, circling about a hundred yards off the coast. She watched as they dipped and dove with military precision, hardly making a splash as they broke the surface. No doubt there were anchovies forming a bait ball below.

The pelicans, with their short legs, round bodies, and comically long beaks, were hardly a thing of beauty on land. The way they huddled and waddled reminded her of the old women at the markets back in Brooklyn. She recalled the way they eyed the produce suspiciously. They had wicked side-eyes for anyone who’d done them wrong, and secret, surprisingly sunny smiles that were reserved for cheeky toddlers.

Like the pelicans, those little old ladies were not to be underestimated.

Goldie had expected to become one of them. In fact, she’d welcomed this transformation with open arms. Yet here she was, diligently lacing up her plimsolls for her usual morning walk. Time and tide had been uncommonly, irrationally kind to her. She didn’t look her age. But she was still old. Older than anybody else she’d ever met before. Old enough that nobody who met her would believe her. So she didn’t tell them her age. Fortunately, her age and true identity were details that didn’t matter to most people anyway. Neither the locals nor the handful of other residents in Avalon bothered to question her rather threadbare cover story. She was just another old wannabe artist who had wintered on the island and decided to stay. Not that she’d been producing much art besides the mosaic sculptures in her “grotto” garden. The half-finished canvas sitting on the easel in front of the bay window was only there for show. She was a terrible painter. But she liked the way her hanging collection of crystals and prisms caught the light and cast rainbows across the water she’d painted so poorly.

Oh, to be one of the birds soaring freely over the ocean and plunging into the depths with such grace and purpose. She envied them.

The sky was gray and the harbor fogged in. She could hardly see the casino, the large, round, art déco building that dominated the Avalon waterfront. The weather didn’t bother Goldie, however. She was rarely cold. She grabbed a Fair Isle sweater and a hooded rain slicker and headed out the door without bothering to lock it.

As she turned down the steep street leading to the harbor, she filled her lungs with the briny, balmy sea air. The mist caressed her cheeks and she could swear she felt her skin cells preening and plumping themselves up in response. Whenever anyone asked her what her youthful secret was, she inevitably replied, “Living near the ocean.”

As long as she never ventured into it. Goldie suffered from a rare autoimmune disorder that made her skin go scaly the instant it came in contact with salt water. She’d been this way since she was a small child. Just one drop on an arm or a leg and her skin would sizzle, blister, and peel. Growing up in Brighton Beach had been torture for her. She’d have to sit alone on her beach towel, watching all her friends frolicking in the ocean waves.

Poor little Goldie. She’d been so desperate to join her friends and family. The sea beckoned to her. She could hear it in the sound of waves. It echoed in the abalone shells and coral pink caverns of conches, calling her by a different, secret name. She’d heard its song so often that she sang herself to sleep with the tune.

Come back to me. Come back into the sea. Ondalune, Ondalune, Ondalune.

Eventually, her parents forbade her from even visiting the shoreline at all. She might get splashed by a rogue wave, or someone might accidentally shake off some seawater on her as they dropped to the seat beside her. The rash would plague her for days afterward. It just wasn’t safe.

Goldie turned left as she reached the sleepy harbor. It was quiet and nearly empty. She walked along the scrap of beach, eyes trained on the horizon. She could see the distant silhouette of the morning ferry from the mainland making its way in. The pelicans had moved on. Goldie had the entire seafront to herself. Not a single other soul was present on the short pier with its homey green hut. This wasn’t surprising. It was still too early in the spring. But in just a couple more weeks, the ferries would bring many more tourists to the island.

The off-season kept most waterfront businesses shuttered. They only opened up for holidays and selected weekends during the colder months. Several of the storefronts were empty or stripped bare, undergoing renovations during the downtime. You never knew when a gift shop would be reborn as a cafe or vice versa.

Farther out in the half-moon shaped harbor, a small fleet of water taxis slumbered lazily, rocking gently at the end of their tethers. They wouldn’t resume their assignment as tenders until spring when the cruise ships came back to port. And then everything would change.

For three or four days a week, the town would spring to life and everything would transform from black and white to vivid technicolor. Hordes of tourists would pour into the tiny port and the shops, cafes, and sidewalks would be bustling. Sticky-fingered toddlers with melted ice cream on their faces and trailing in rivulets down their arms would spar with wooden swords. The smell of freshly fried fish and chips would linger on the breeze. Pirate flags would fly and seashell trinkets would be piled in carts along the sidewalk. Couples would stand in line for a turn to take photos in front of the tiled fountain.

It reminded her so much of Brighton Beach, which she supposed was part of what made the island feel like home.

Of course, Goldie had other reasons to love Catalina Island. She strode past the yacht club and continued along the seafront, headed toward the Casino. In 1929, workers erected the iconic round structure, which included a massive theater on the bottom half and a grand ballroom at the top. The lack of gambling surprised most visitors to the island. A wide spiral pathway, inspired by the Roman Colosseum, provided access to the ballroom. Top-notch acoustics and its distance from the mainland made the venue a favorite among Hollywood celebrities during Prohibition.

So many happy memories. On clear and starry nights, she could almost swear she heard the sounds of Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” wafting out the windows of the round ballroom on the top floor. The music mingled with the sound of crashing waves and filled her with nostalgia and a belief in ghosts.

She watched a pair of bright orange Garibaldi fish darting in and out of submerged rocks. The water below was crystal clear, full of swaying emerald green kelp and colorful fish. It mesmerized her, so familiar and inviting, even on a cold winter day. It was like getting a glimpse into a beautiful, exotic hotel through a revolving door. A whole other world on the other side.

But that world was not for her. Goldie didn’t even dare to walk along the waterfront on stormy days in case of sea spray. But more and more often, she longed to throw caution to the wind. She was just so old. So wretchedly, inexplicably old and alone. Her parents, her uncle Bernie, and all her friends. Everyone that she’d ever loved was long gone. So little of the world that was left was still familiar to her. She clung to crumbs of the past for comfort. Little things that still had the power to make her feel at home in an increasingly alien world. But it wasn’t substance. A whiff of waffle cone could hardly nourish her entire soul.

This wasn't real life.

Sometimes Goldie felt like she was living in a museum, where she was one of the exhibits. The most mysterious exhibit. The one whose presence could not be logically explained. Though that never stopped a curator from making things up, she realized.

She’d visited herself in a wax museum once. How young and pretty she’d been – and still was in the museum, preserved forever. The mysterious silent film actress, Ondalune, with humble beginnings in Brooklyn. The gilded placard had gotten a few things right about her:

“Perhaps the most iconic film star of her generation, Ondalune was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York by immigrant parents. Her given name was Goldie. Her father was a projectionist in the Oceana Theater in Brighton Beach. He often brought his young daughter to work with him after her mother passed, which is where young Ondalune developed her love of the pictures.”

The gilded placard had gotten so much wrong as well.

“It is unknown what became of the actress, though it is widely believed that she met her fate in France after being captured by enemy forces while on tour with a theatrical company as part of the war relief effort.”

She had met her fate, indeed. But not in the way the placard implied. While abroad, she had seized the chance to start over. It had seemed necessary, as she was in her forties but still looked like she was eighteen. It wouldn’t be the last time Goldie Pearlmutter assumed a new identity.

She looked so perfect in the museum, decked out in a flapper costume, smiling coquettishly at something or someone. Goldie didn’t recall the dress, but she was sure she’d worn it because there was a faded photo of her wearing it in the glass case, along with the original matching feathered headpiece. The headpiece she had recalled. It had been just the thing to conceal an ugly bruise on her temple – compliments of a director who believed in taking liberties with his cast. She’d fought back, earning herself the nickname “The Brooklyn Bruiser” and a place on that director’s blacklist. Goldie was more careful with her contracts after that. And she’d let the nickname linger. Best to be known as a force to be reckoned with when men could get away with claiming she’d stunned them senseless.

One good thing her father had done for her was teach how to defend herself, albeit instead of doing the job himself.

It was a shame about that headpiece. The feathery crown hadn’t been cared for properly, she’d thought. She would have liked to have had it in her own collection.The costumes in her care were meticulously preserved, kept in a climate controlled closet in her home. Much like her, they appeared to have defied the worst effects of time.

But what did all of it matter anymore? Hours, days, months, years. Time streamed by in a relentless flood, sweeping away nearly everything in its path, except her and the random crumbs she clung to. A hairstyle that came back into fashion. A nostalgic name that became exotic once more. A proper cup of tea and ironed cotton sheets. Chips served hot and piping in a paper cone. A stranger with the familiar smile of a relative long gone.

The past revealed itself in unpredictable and brief glimmers. And the present was a life lived in the shadows, waiting for the sun to emerge from behind the clouds, however briefly.

She ought to sell the costumes and donate the money, if she even made any, to a charity. Who was she saving those things for? These mementos were now as pointlessly preserved as she was.

At some point, she would have to check out of this life, wouldn’t she? She was mortal, after all. She bled, and on rare occasions, she’d caught a cold or suffered through a stomach bug. But she couldn’t picture dying in a hospital bed. Instead, she imagined herself walking into the water and slipping through those swaying seaweed doors, into the lobby of somewhere else. Somewhere new and magnificent. She could almost hear the clink of champagne toasts and the refrains of a saxophone solo drifting out in ripples.

Goldie sighed and performed a small series of stretches before getting on with the rest of her walk. She had a somewhat busy day today. She was running the projectors for the upcoming film festival and needed to attend a meeting to make sure everything was in order for the screenings.

It wasn’t until she reached the colorfully tiled entrance to the Casino theater, where the box office was guarded by watchful mosaic mermaids, that Goldie realized something was wrong.

The door was ajar.

She peeked inside and was shocked to see what looked, at first, like a flock of flapping birds filling the cavernous space. But as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she realized it was not a living thing that flew through the lobby. It was paper. Brochures, to be specific. Hundreds of them.

The large rack of tourism booklets just inside the entrance had been knocked over, the contents spilled out across the terrazzo floors. The wind whipping through the open door was creating a vortex, she surmised. It lifted the leaflets for theme parks, apple orchards, natural caverns, and whale watching tours and sent them swirling. A virtual swarm of possibilities. Goldie reached out and caught a colorful pamphlet advertising private studio tours in Los Angeles. These were the same studios she’d once known like the back of her hand. She wondered if she’d recognize anything on the lot now. She tucked the slick paper in her pocket.

“Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone here?”

Her voice echoed in the empty chamber. There was no response. The papers continued to swirl overhead and the air felt thinner. There was a faint smell of solvents, like something flammable. It was at once familiar and ominous. The chemical scent reminded her of her father’s theater. It made her feel dizzy and a bit lightheaded. Instinctively, she reached for something to steady herself, remembering her age. She’d lost more than a few friends to tragic falls, and despite the fact that she was still spry, she didn’t want to become a statistic.

She recognized the ironic inconsistency of her thoughts. Mere moments ago, she’d been considering her exit, stage left. And now here she was, gripping the iron railing beside the two steps down to the lobby, struggling to regain her equilibrium.

Her will to live was alive and well, it seemed. Even when her spirit felt lonely and broken.

“Hello?” she called out again, taking a tentative step forward toward the closed double doors to the mezzanine of the theater. She could swear she heard machinery, the sound of a projector firing up, the click and clatter of a platter being loaded, the whir of the reel spinning. Was the door to the projectionist’s booth ajar?

Goldie took another step forward into the dim lobby, thankful for the grippy tread on her walking shoes. She could make out a faint flickering now, visible in the crack between the doors to the theater. She reached the door in three more steps. Locked. She pressed her face against the crack, squinting to see what she could. Numbers flashed on the screen. It looked like the Academy Leader before the opening credits. Goldie was quite familiar with the countdown progression, which helped projectionists get their reels cued up.

How was this possible? Who’d gone up to the booth to fire up the old projectors?

Her projectors , she thought possessively. Goldie had practically moved the heavens and the stars to acquire the old projectors from the Oceana theater and bring them here to the island where they could be kept safe. They were still in perfect working order, but they weren’t something to be toyed with. One didn’t simply fire up a machine of that vintage and throw on a film like watching a television show. She felt her anger flaring at precisely the same time she saw a blinding burst of limelight. The whole building shook as if there were an earthquake.

She landed hard on her bottom, praying to whatever gods had favored her for this long that she hadn’t broken a hip.