Page 3 of Home to the Hollow

I sit the menu down. “You have an impressive selection of desserts. I’m a milkshake fanatic, and your flavor list is amazing. Is it a specialty?”

She laughs, her eyes dancing behind her long falsies. “Desserts are one of the best things we serve. We gotta line cook with a sweet tooth, and his creations are the talk of the town. You’ll be happy with anything you order, sweetheart.”

Thanking the universe for the intuition to stop at this exit with absolutely no pre-planning. I grin. “Okay. Then give me a pot of coffee and the waffles with fix-ins, bacon, and scrambled eggs. And I’ll take the lavender pear milkshake, please.”

“You got it, dearie. I’ll tell Titus to make it all special for ya. I can tell when a gal comes from country stock, you know.”

I chuckle, but this is exactly the behavior that wouldn’t be out of place in the Hollow. “Thank you,” I squint at her name tag, “… Darlene. I’m sure it will be worthy of your praise.”

She scuttles off to place the order and help other customers, and I go back to my work. I open the sketchbook, turning it horizontal so I can start planning the studio space. I could absolutely use my tablet or laptop for this, but as an artist, I love to have tools in my hands before I switch to digital. All of my first drafts, notes, and other work start in sketchbooks and journals before they ever make it to my technology.

Once my food arrives, I sit the rough drawings aside, satisfied that I’ve got an idea of how I will set up the space in terms of furniture and equipment. I don’t think I can truly assess what décor I’ll choose until I can walk the physical layout, see what the town looks like, and absorb some of the current culture. Inhaling the scent of the delicious array on my plate makes me grin, and I dig in with fervor. I didn’t realize that I was starving until now, but I wolf down the eggs and bacon in record time, only stopping to sip my coffee.

As I spread butter, syrup, and fruit on my waffles, I think back to my high school days in the Hollow. Most of the grads leave and don’t return, but a select few come back to their roots and claim their place in the cultural hierarchy. Usually, those are the ones from the top echelon of the social tree, and they become as much part of the town landscape as the streets and stately homes in their neighborhoods. I remember a few of the graduates from my middle school years returning by the time I was ready to leave high school.

Eliot James Cantwell’s father was a big shot that owned a sprawling horse farm just outside of town. He was headed for college when I was in middle school, and by the time I was a senior, he was back at home, taking over the business office for his dad. His twin sister, Fidelia, returned as well, opening a custom boutique on Main, right near the courthouse. Of course, it only catered to the wealthiest families and specialized in garments for cotillions and society events.

Percy Whitman Atwater came back, too, though I think he was a year older than the Cantwells. His family owned the grocery store, the farm that supplied it, and the acres of land used for many events, from farmer’s markets to hayrides. He came back with a fancy business and agriculture degree but took a job in the mayor’s office because his daddy wasn’t ready to hand over the reins yet.

I finally reach for my milkshake, gasping under my breath at the sheer perfection of fruit flavors mixed into the concoction. Holy shit, this is the best milkshake I’ve ever tasted. I catch Darlene’s eye as she bustles past and raise my glass as if to toast the chef. She laughs and winks at me, and I go back to slurping my treat like someone who hasn’t eaten for a year.

When I finish, I pack up my supplies and drop the money for my tab plus a generous tip on the table. I wave at Darlene, so she knows to come pick up the check and head for the bathroom. I figure I should make sure I go before I head out, given that I want to make good time once I pull out. My plan is to drive the rest of the four plus hours straight through, and arrive in the Hollow about two p.m. That should give me enough daylight to get most of the house stuff unloaded before I must seek dinner.

I hit the head quickly, coming out to wash my hands and look in the mirror.

There are light circles under my eyes, underlining the whirlwind of activity that has been my world since the F.B.I. turned me down. I put together this move quickly, including shipping and packing my things from storage, and set up transferring my accounts and belongings to my hometown. There were a lot of sleepless nights and exhausting days that made it possible. My goal was to get home, get my life arranged, and start my investigation. I don’t want to set off any alarm bells or let anyone in town know that I’m trying to figure out why being from Whistler’s Hollow got me shadow banned from my dream career. Whatever the reason is, I can’t imagine that it’s a secret they want to get out.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a scrunchie and pull my hair up. Since I came back to the States, I let the raven locks grow, and it hangs to middle of my back now. I haven’t had hair like this since high school, and I’m glad that I did it. Looking similar to my former self will help me ingratiate myself with everyone. My green eyes are vivid in the dimly lit bathroom—they’ve always had an eerie quality that made them seem to glow in the dark. Obviously, they don’t actually glow in the dark, but they’re distinctive enough that folks will remember me.

I have to get back on the road. No more staring at the mirror and procrastinating.

With that, I head out the door and to the parking lot, determined to make the hours fly by.

Life is A Highway

Looking out the window, I groan at the bevy of colored lights in front of me. There must be amajorwreck ahead because the entire highway looks like it’s at a standstill. Once I slow to a stop, I glance at the GPS on my phone and let out another frustrated sound. It’sredfor the next hour of the trip map. Something terrible had to shut the highway down this thoroughly.

There’s absolutely nowhere to get off and take a break, so I settle into the seat, putting the truck in park. I’m not going to move for some time according to the traffic notes, so I might as well troll the internet for information about the town I haven’t even visited for almost thirteen years. I sip my soda as I flip through the search results, looking for anything interesting in the news first.

Nothing exciting, it seems. Some deaths, some elections, some town events—not a damned hint at what could cause my present issues. Maybe I should look up some people I went to school with. If they are on social media, I might get the scoop on the dirt from the Hollow. I’ve never been interested in their lives before, so I haven’t even friended my actual close friends from my time at Whistler’s Hollow Finishing School.

Once I was out, I intended to stay out.

So now I have to open the major apps and start searching for the people I actually used to hang out with seeing if they have anything on their pages that will give me a clue. I frown as I look, puzzled by the completelackof information available. The families in my town seemed to take pride in unique names for their children—we all lamented it as kids. It should be easy as hell to find Heathcliff Beauregard Standish—even if he’s going by Cliffy still—or Annabelle Veronica Lee. Hell, I can’t even find Delilah Lenore O’Hara or Heraclea Titania St. James and those havegotto be the most extra names I ever saw go through WHFS.

Of course, the last two were older than me, and since I was only a freshman when they graduated, I have no idea where they were headed when they left.

But I shouldstillbe able to find them on at leastoneof the major social media sites. Hell, who doesn’t have an Insta at this point? Mine are all for my previous professional life, but I at leasthavethe four major platforms to be found on.

Why does it seem like none of the people I went to school with have even a minute online presence?

My lips curve. I may have struck out on the friendly folks, and even the older students, but I bet I can find the mean kids. There’s no way that girls like Sherilynn, Amy, Jillian, Ophelia, and Reese aren’t posing their kids or dogs or what the hell ever like models online. Those bitches made the bullies in movies look tame. They didn’t target me specifically because I did everything in my power not to stand out. My family fell in the middle of the social pyramid, and keeping my head down meant that either side did not claim me. But I saw them target others, and their brand of torture was both terrifying and unique.

They have to be boring society mavens with dogs they carry in their purse by now.

I look up at the traffic, seeing not an inch of movement again, and then turn back to my phone. Typing in ‘Sherilynn Grant’, I find a few articles on charity functions—I knew it—and pictures that lead me down a rabbit hole until I find her Insta. As predicted, it’s filled with professional grade posts of her house, her horses, her Italian Greyhounds, her very round and unhappy looking children, and her husband. She married Benjamin Louis Foster II—affectionately tagged as ‘Benjy’ in her posts—and I chuckle.

Benjy was dumber than a post in high school, but he was captain of the polo team, and his daddy owned a chain of diners across the state. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest when I can figure out that they dated through college—predictably. She was Alpha Delta Pi and got married once they moved home to take over Benjy’s family business.

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