Page 6 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

The only miracle I’d like to experience is an end to the nightmare that was my marriage and divorce. So there won’t be any children in the foreseeable future because first, I’d have to get marriedagainand that’s never happeningagain.

The only “I do” I’ll be saying is,I do want coffee.I do want paid vacation time.I do want a sailboat.

Yet here I am, being not-welcomed by the faded, splintered, and partially busted Hogwash Holler sign. Instead of saying Hogwash with anO, part of the top is missing, so it looks more like a U.Hugwash Holler.

Being hugged by a swampy backwater town on the bayou isn’t my idea of fun, but I’ve masterminded a payback plan to make this acquisition tolerable, potentially lucrative, and dare I say ... diabolical. I am not above revenge after what Emberly did to me.

Instead of tapping the brakes and flipping a U-turn, I’ll admit that curiosity spurs me forward along Metairie Road.

It’s not every day you inherit an entire town.

There’s a gas station, post office, library, car wash, and a town hall—all the usual small-town suspects. I spot a hair salon that may double as a craft store, given all the festive fall décor.

Yeehaw...or not.

A massive rotating mug of root beer greets me from the roof of The Penny Gamble, a soda fountain. That’s old-fashioned but cool. Down the road is a Coffee Loft which looks new. However, everything in between is in a sad state of disrepair, including Cory’s Automotive, which ironically boasts car repairs.

I hit a bump and my bag slides into the passenger side door of the rental truck—the thing is huge with knobby tires. Practically a monster truck. The only thing missing is neon paint and the wordBeaston the side.

The Department of Public Works should repave the road or I should’ve rented a vehicle with better shocks, but it was all they had with four-wheel drive—a precaution in swamp country.

Considering I own the town, I wonder if I am the DPW.

Woot ... womp!

As if trying tounderdo itself, Hogwash also boasts Cherry’s Vintage and Resale with an advertisement for black and whitetelevisions. I’ve either stepped back in time or this place was forgotten by time.

Speaking of, the clock tower is a few hours off. I check the clock on the dash. Nine hours, to be exact. The Flying Pig Theater all but grovels for saving with plywood over the windows spraypainted with the wordsSave the Pig!

Main Street dead ends at Sunnyside Mobile Home Park & Camp Ground. You can take a right toward what looks like a farm road or a left. Hidden in the bramble is a small wooden sign that saysShady Lane. I peer down that way before taking the turn. It’s covered by a tapestry of overgrown live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Bald cypress stands ankle-deep in water farther into the swamp before it fades into deep darkness and occupied by the kinds of giant lizards we don’t have out west.

Let’snotgo!

I’m concerned that the community center doubles as a laboratory for creating experimental or illicit substances, given the state of the pool.

Pulling to the side of the road, as I see it, I have two choices: hit the accelerator and pretend that I was never here or carry out my evil scheme.

Plan A will probably keep me out of jail, but I’ll always wonder—not about jail, but about Hogwash Holler and how I could’ve made my ex as embarrassed and subsequently miserable as she made me.

Plan B will probably result in me also banking some regrets, but what those are, I’m not sure. Avoiding tetanus or dysentery?

I’m not so much thinking it through as I am looking for a coin to toss. Plan A, heads. Plan B tails.

My chest lifts and expands as I draw a deep breath, the kind I haven’t been able to take in months. Not since I foundout Emberly was drawing money out of my bank account and gambling with some guy in Reno on the weekends.

Then my phone rings, jarring me from thinking about why my inhales have been on the shallow side lately—not ideal in my line of work. Never mind a doctor’s office to check on my prostate, I know well enough to chalk this up to stress.

I’ve been running on fumes lately.

My phone rings a third time. I’ll admit that I’m surprised they have cell service out this way.

“Maddo,” I answer—a habit I picked up from my father, who always answered by saying his name.

“Witt, where are you? I’ve been calling all morning.” It’s Captain Leyton from the Carson City FD who refers to me by my last name.

“You don’t want to know,” I mutter.

“As long as it’s not in trouble.”

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