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"Look William, it’s a sign!" Dora said, as they turned off Highway 17, headed for a weekend in the mountains. She pointed to a wooden placard swinging from a rusty chain. "Of course it is,hon," he said. "I can see it’s a sign." "No," she said, laying her bridal bouquet between them. "Remember Madame’s prophecy? The sign said four miles to The Blue Door Inn." William grimaced. "Not again, Dora. Don’t be ridiculous." A week before the wedding, Dora and her two best friends had visited Madame Helena, a local palmist. Just for the hell of it, they’d said. Harmless fun. While reading Dora’s palm, the old woman was decidedly vague and uttered a string of words Dora pieced together as "the blue door inn." When she asked what it meant, the woman forced a smile and said, "Beats me" then held out her hand for the twenty-dollar fee. "Let’s eat there tonight, please." "Where?" "The Blue Door Inn, silly." Dora ran her hand up and down the nape of his neck, a gesture she knew he couldn’t resist. "Billy baby, pretty please?" The couple arrived at River Haven Lodge at four in the afternoon. Three hours later, after doing what newlyweds usually do when left alone in their room, Dora and William drove five miles of twisting road to The Blue Door Inn for dinner. "Isn’t it lovely?" Dora said as they walked through the entrance. She stood a moment, looking up through a massive skylight, the night a blue-black canopy sprinkled with stars. "Come along, Dora. I thought you were hungry." William took her by the arm and flashed the hostess a killer smile. "The best table in the house." Dora breathed in the cool, earthy scent and craned her neck for a better view of the tall redwoods standing like Corinthian sentinels on either side of the room. The hostess seated them at a small table by a brook running the full length of the dining area. Dora felt a light mist on her face. She’d never seen such deep blue water. They must put something in it. The waiter appeared, but before he could announce the evening’s specials, Dora asked, "Where’s the blue door?" William made a face and gave her a not too playful kick under the table. "It’s just a name, miss." William raised an eyebrow. "See, like the man says. Just a name someone dreamed up. I’m starving. Let’s order, hon." "You take the bad with the good," Billy had said during the long drive from the valley to the mountains, and she’d thought, what an odd thing to say on one’s honeymoon. Is that what marriage was? A lottery, and Billy her prize, for better or for worse? "You mean there really is no blue door?" "Well . . . uh, there is one, miss, off the kitchen, a storeroom of sorts." "Oh, I see." Dora didn’t try to hide her disappointment. William ordered the house wine. "Nothing but the best," he said, then patted her hand and laughed. The dinner was excellent. Dora had the biggest, most tender, deep-fried prawns and made light of William’s constant complaints about the cold soup, the warm salad, the fishiness of his trout. Dora ran a slender finger around the electric blue rim of her water glass. "Isn’t that what trout is, dear, fish?" William ate the last of his French fries, wiped his ketchup-stained fingers on the pale blue napkin then poured another glass of wine. Red wine with fish! My God, what have I done? Dora thought. Should I have waited longer, thought harder before marrying William? She glanced over at the brook and wanted to travel with it, over the slippery, moss-covered rocks winding its way down the mountains to an aquamarine sea. "You, okay, honey?" William asked. "I’m fine," Dora said, but she didn’t really mean it. Later, while William paid for the meal, Dora went in search of the ladies room. Her mind turned the phrase over and over: the blue door inn, the blue door inn. Like a cobalt blue mantra, the beginning notes to a sky blue symphony. Could there be such a thing as blue magic? Black magic was wicked, satanic. Maybe blue magic was the other kind. Benevolent, merciful, compassionate. Dora heard the sound of pots clanging and people yelling orders. She made a right turn and there it was in front of her. The blue door. It looked so ordinary, run of the mill, like most other doors she’d seen, still . . Dora’s heart beat faster as she approached the blue door. Dora and William were quiet for most of the ride back. The moon cast an eerie glow through the trees. The headlight beams danced off ferns and rock formations as William concentrated on the narrow, bending road. Signs posted everywhere warned of dangerous curves, the sheer drop to the river below, and at every turn, Dora relived the moment she’d opened the blue door and walked into the room. Definitely nothing magical here. Nothing but an old desk, a chair, a few dusty file cabinets and shelves piled high with a seemingly endless supply of blue tablecloths and napkins. Dora turned and was about to leave, when she saw it: a small embroidered sign in a wooden frame, the sentiment reminiscent of those fancy dishtowels her mother displayed in the kitchen, one for every day of the week. A single, four-letter word surrounded by a ring of daisies. And the word was ‘HOPE.’ When they reached the small village, their resort about a mile away, William breathed a sigh of relief and broke the silence. "You okay, honey? I’m worried about you. Not car sick, I hope?" Dora moved closer to him, leaned her head on his shoulder. "I’m fine now, darling," and this time, she really meant it. |
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© 2001 by Paul Alan Fahey
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