Chapter 1Goldie

Chapter 1

Goldie

W henever I need to take my mind off something that's bugging me, I recite quotes. It's something one of my mother's old boyfriends did, and it does the trick, oddly enough. Working as a field producer in reality television for most of my twenties, I've rarely been alone, so I got in the practice of reciting in my head. But it's just me now. Me and the open road.

Me and the open road and no bathroom in my near past, present, or future, oh God.

"Perfection is not the absence of flaws, but rather the embrace of imperfections in the colorful threads that weave the unique fabric of our existence," I say, loud enough to be heard outside of my BMW—who I named Petunia.

Good thing only trees are around to hear me. That one's a mouthful. Way too flowery and, in my opinion, completely untrue. Bullshit, is what it is. But my mother's third husband, Roy—another ex-husband now, of course, but my favorite of them all—was the one who added that quote by the prolific Anonymous to my repertoire, so I keep it in rotation.

I prefer the shorter, sweeter, and more spot-on, Perfection is everything.

Perfection is my snazzy little convertible which still looks as shiny and new, inside and out, as it did when I drove it off the lot two years ago in all its Thundernight Metallic glory—only the most gorgeous shade of purple known to man.

Perfection is my pink Dior sunglasses with the darling tiny pair of gold stars on either side of the frames, my favorite nude lipstick, and the brand-new, high-speed, shockproof, waterproof action camera with wireless microphone that hangs on a cord around my neck, ready to go.

"Perfection is not," I say, wrinkling my nose, "pulling over and squatting behind a tree to pee."

I glance at the gas gauge and bite my lip. I may not have a choice about the whole squatting behind a tree to pee thing, because even if my painfully full bladder can hold out until I hit a rest stop, I don't think the fuel situation is going to.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

The demanding ache in my lower abdomen insists I do something already.

Focus on the foliage. The leaves are an explosion of colors. Gorgeous. Stunning. Golden amber. Flame orange. Saffron yellow. Crimson red.

Ugh. I could name all the colors in the world's largest Crayola box, but that's not going to help me hold it. No distraction will. I'm one-hundred-percent going to wet myself.

Then I see it.

Up ahead.

A break in the endless line of trees. And there's a sign.

Piney Grove Trading Post and General Store.

My pulse accelerates and so does my car. Pedal to the metal, baby.

I yank the steering wheel just in time to bulldoze into the tiny gravel lot, my tires kicking up all kinds of grit and debris. I apologize to Petunia, hoping I haven't caused any damage to her pristine exterior. I'd be so upset with myself if I nicked the paint. Normally I take great care with everything I do, and I pride myself on never being the person who parks like an entitled jackhole, but I'm desperate now. I skid to a stop, coughing on my own dust clouds as I scramble out.

The cozy log cabin, nestled between the towering pines, doesn't look like a shop. Aside from the creaky old sign swaying in the breeze, it looks like someone's charmingly rustic home. The scattering of colorful flowerpots on the railing of the wraparound porch, and the painted rocking chairs, add a burst of color to the rugged wilderness.

After working on the wildly popular home renovation show 1 Girl, 10 Hammers for eight seasons, it's hard not to assess and admire a well-built home. Even when spontaneous urination is imminent, toilet or no.

I race up the steps and a bell jingles as I burst through the doors.

Thank God, I made it!

I let out a sigh of immense relief.

And then I recoil immediately, stopping in my tracks as horror floods my veins.

I am surrounded by useless knickknacks, worthless doodads, and gaudy baubles. Clutter, clutter, clutter, everywhere I look. This is not a trading post and general store—it's my own personal hell. I despise clutter.

I take a step back and bump into something. It teeters, then topples, crashing to the floor.

A freaking garden gnome, garishly painted with a grotesque grin. Hideous thing. But dammit, I hope I haven't broken it. I don't think—

"May I help you?" a sharp voice asks.

I glance up, and it takes me a moment before I see her behind the counter. Not just because there's so much clutter surrounding her, but because she's so small her head barely clears the countertop. She studies me with lips tightly pressed together. Even from a distance, I notice the shrewdness in her clear blue eyes and it unsettles me.

"I knocked over this gnome." I gesture toward it. I swear his creepy-ass smile widens, as if he enjoyed the pain. Masochist little fucker.

"I see that." The woman marches over, scoops up the gnome, cradling it in her arms for a moment like it's a baby, glancing at it with clear love. She then sets it back down, upright, patting it on its head.

Okaaaaaaaaaay.

"I didn't mean to—"

"He's fine. And the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge"—she makes a face like she's tasted something bad—"is still three miles further down the road. Just keep going. You can't miss it."

She gestures like a crossing guard, pointing with her whole arm.

"The Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge?" I repeat.

The name sounds familiar. That might be the place Mother tried to get me to stay.

"I'm camping, Mother," I'd told her.

"Camping alone is dangerous, Rose-Gold. You could get hurt! You never know what is out there. I implore you not to risk it!"

Thing is, I do know what's out there. Or at least who is out there. That's the whole point. It's Bigfoot , crazy as it sounds. He's not just a myth, and I'm going to prove it. I'm going to find him.

Again .

Which means roughing it. Just a girl in a tent, in the great outdoors, with camera equipment. On my own. With no hot water. Or any running water, for that matter. Alright, it's not a pleasant thought, but still…I'm not staying in some great outdoors–adjacent spa.

"Oh, I'm not going there. To the Haven Retreat place." I shake my head.

Looking me up and down, she says, "My mistake. You seem like the type."

She definitely does not mean that as a compliment.

"Do you have a restroom I can use? Please?" I ask, desperation in every word.

"It's for paying customers only."

"That's fine! I'll buy something. I'll buy the gnome!" I offer, frantic.

"Gnome's not for sale."

Good, because holy hell I really don't want that thing in my car.

"I'll buy something else. I promise. But can I use the restroom first? I really need to go." I shift from foot to foot.

She points toward the back.

"If you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be neat and wipe the seat," she says, without any humor in her voice.

Careful not to knock over anything else, I hustle in the direction she's indicated.

The bathroom is very clean, which I appreciate, and I tell her so when I return.

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," she replies.

A woman after my own heart. Yet…she makes her living shilling dust-magnets, and the bathroom is the only thing clean about this place.

I navigate my way up and down the rows, perusing the jam-packed shelves for something tiny and inexpensive. Something that will fit in the glove compartment of my car so I can hopefully forget its existence. Something without a creepy-ass smile.

My friend Sam, the makeup artist on the last show I worked on— 1 Girl, 10 Hammers , which I promise was family friendly despite the risqué-sounding title—collected souvenirs, picking up one from every town and city we filmed in. I once slept over at her townhouse, and I swear I had nightmares for weeks about being attacked by anthropomorphic snow globes and I Heart Wherever pens.

There's nothing in my apartment that isn't necessary. If it doesn't serve a purpose—have a function, and perform that function exactly as expected—I have no room for it. I don't even have art on the walls, but that's mostly because I could never find a single painting that felt just right.

"Do you have any paintings?" I ask the woman.

"No," she replies. Physically, she's behind the counter again, but her eyes follow my every step. "Passing through, then?"

My brows draw together. "Excuse me?"

The woman harrumphs. "If you're not going to the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge, what are you doing in this neck of the woods?"

"Oh!" I say, excited to get to tell someone, though her question wasn't exactly issued with warmth or friendly interest. There was a hint of You don't belong here in her voice. "I'm camping up on the mountain!"

"On the mountain?"

"Yes!"

"Alone?"

"Yep. Just me."

Which is disappointing, actually. I should have a whole crew with me. However, absolutely no one has shown any interest in my passion project.

Yet .

All the networks think they want something salacious. Not the wholesome tale of how a plucky plus-sized filmmaker sets out on a quest to find—

"Terrible idea. Very dangerous up the mountain," the proprietor of this overstocked tacky trinket emporium warns. "You could fall. There are often rockslides. You should go to Wilderness Haven. They have safe trails there. With professional guides."

She looks me up and down again, with more disdain this time, though my outfit is on point. The wardrobe department at the studio let me take some nature-loving fashionista outfits from a pilot that never got picked up, called Heidi Goes Hiking While Glenda Goes Glamping!

Yes, I'm roughing it, but that doesn't mean I can't look cute as hell. And a little sparkle never hurt anyone, right? Camouflage is camouflage even if it's pink with strategically placed sequins.

I shake my head as I try to decide whether I want an ashtray—does anyone smoke cigarettes anymore?—or a coaster.

"I'm actually here to make a documentary," I explain.

Her gaze sharpens into a laser-pointer glare. "On the mountain?"

"Yep!" I can't stop my story from spilling forth. "When I was younger, I came camping here and I was attacked by a bobcat. Well, almost attacked by a bobcat. I narrowly escaped, because at the last minute, I was saved!"

Her stare is unnerving. Shocked, and a little angry. "You were nearly killed by a bobcat and you came back? Why? Why would you do that?"

Even though we're alone, I lower my voice, because everyone I've ever told the truth to questions my sanity immediately. But I'm going to show them. I confide, "I was saved by Bigfoot. And now I plan to find him again."

And film the whole thing!

Prove, once and for all, that Bigfoot is real.

It's my life's work. It's what I was put on this planet to do. I feel it in my soul.

The woman suddenly darts from behind the counter and dashes over to me. She grabs my upper arms, her fingers digging in. "You cannot do this thing. There is no such thing as Bigfoot, and you will get killed by a bobcat this time. Or a bear. This is a very treacherous place for a young lady to be by herself. Go to the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge. You will love it there. I promise. You can get a massage."

"Um…" I say.

"You must," she insists. "I foresee your demise if you go up the mountain. Yes. The spirit of death hovers around you. I hear the bobcat's breath. Do you feel it, hot on your neck?"

What the actual fuck? The only thing I feel is this woman's bony-ass hands bruising my arms.

I free myself from her grip. "Are you psychic?"

"Yes," she says quickly, but I know when people are lying. I've made a bloody career out of pulling the truth from people. "And I've foreseen it. You will be eaten."

Now it's my turn for my eyes to narrow, skeptical. She knows something, but it has nothing to do with the spirit of death hovering around me. She knows about Bigfoot. She doesn't want me to expose him to the world. That's got to be it. But wouldn't proof of a mythical creature actually existing nearby be good for her business?

Still, there's no reasoning with some people, and I don't have all day to stand here letting her try to talk me out of my plan.

I attempt to look very afraid. "Maybe I will go to the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge after all."

She nods. "Smart girl."

"Now, just let me figure out which of your lovely items I want to purchase and I'll be on my merry way!"

"To the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge," she adds, pushing. Then, "I hear their mud masks are heavenly."

I shudder, because I hate mud, but say, "To the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge!"

"Go right now," she says. "You don't have to buy anything. Just go."

But the display of wooden sculptures in the corner has caught my eye.

I walk over, stooping down to get a closer look at the intricate carvings. I've never felt the tug to own something just because looking at it made me feel a spark of joy, but…

I smile and pick up a carved bear. It won't fit in my glove compartment, but it's too beautiful to be hidden away.

I'm tempted to tell her I want it, to take it to the cash register and have her wrap up my new treasure with care. But I'm not going to start collecting stuff that doesn't serve a purpose. She said I didn't have to buy anything, so I'm not buying anything.

"Thanks for letting me use your restroom," I say.

"Enjoy your stay at the Wilderness Haven Retreat and Lodge."

I nod, smile, but my destiny is calling. And it's up on that mountain.

Bobcats and rockslides and lack of running water be damned. I've got Bigfoot to find.