Happy Halloween!

I've been posting this every year around Halloween... so why stop now?

Plus, a sweet reader is rereading the "Wilfair" books right now, and texting me, so I'm in a Fair Finley frame of mind. Like... I always kind of am. #truth

Hugs. Hope you're all splendid. xo

Halloween at the Wilfair

     Fair Finley of The Wilfair Hotel Finleys wore a lot of orange.
     I’d found this near-constant sartorial choice to be VERY affected. So affected it bordered on annoying and flirted with infuriating, principally because it was the color found throughout her family’s hotel and hotel-related marketing materials. Brochures, postcards, billboards, advertising? They all contained that special Finley hue. The whole citrus-California-fruit-sunshine connection was a hand they played too hard, I'd always said, when anyone would listen, and by anyone I mean Gomery and occasionally our moms.
     It was brand gone mad.
     But my neighbor's particular shade of orange on this night, whether worn as a tribute to Halloween or as a way to stand out in the dark, a full-body flashlight, was more noticeable than usual. Then I knew who she was: Her hotel’s famous, get-more-guests ghost, the Lady in Sequins.
     Most ghost sightings were the products of jumpy, jonesing-for-fantasy imaginations, but not The Wilfair Hotel's ghost. This otherworldly Lady was no more than a brilliant stroke on the part of the Finley family. I'm not saying the Lady in Sequins isn't real -- I keep a mind as open as two ginormous barn doors with well-oiled hinges -- but far realer than the ghost herself was the business-minded hotel firm that promoted her as a mysterious and elegant symbol.
     “Yo, Lady in Sequins!” I shouted at my neighbor, shouted without an iota of forethought or consultation with my cousin.
      Everyone on the block turned in my direction, including the portrayer of the Lady in Sequins herself. She briefly stepped behind a large oleander bush, then, three seconds later, stepped out and smiled a smile that didn’t have a shade of naturalness or warmth to it.
     Those Finleys are so FAKE. Their fakeness is so fake it is almost authentic, meaning they’ve come all the way 'round from their fake starting place to almost being bearable in their unfettered fake-a-tude.
     It looked as if she might step behind the shrub again, but she instead waved. Her wave, a stiff-palmed royal wave of sorts, contained no trace of fluttery finger action or natural wrist rotation. Her wave, in fact, was no warmer than her smile, which was as warm as the motel swimming pool on the frostiest December morning...


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