Page 6 of Home to the Hollow

The first box is from the kitchen, and I open it, looking at the meager amount of kitchen tools and devices that I own. I’ve always wanted to cook—my mother and Niecy taught me well—but I never had the time or space as I moved around so much. Luckily, my parents’ things never got packed away, so all the expensive dishes, tools, and gadgets are still here. I find spots for the admittedly slim pickings in my box, making certain to maintain the military-like discipline of my mother’s organization system as I go.

After an hour, the kitchen boxes are done, and my stomach is growling like a lion at the zoo. I didn’t have Niecy stock the fridge ahead just in case something delayed me, so I head for the bathroom to do a little touch up before I present myself in public. The Hollow was always a finicky place about appearances, and I can’t show up looking like something a cat dragged in. It drives me bonkers, but this first re-impression could make or break my business prospects.

Eyeing my reflection, I tighten the high ponytail, fluffing the ends so it has bounce. I apply a little makeup—just enough to be presentable. My ripped jeans, three-quarter sleeve baseball tee that says ‘Artists do it in colorful strokes’ and worn combat boots would notbe acceptable if people didn’t know that I just arrived.

Trust me,everyonein the Hollow knows I’ve arrived by now.

That’s just how this place works.

Sighing, I check my bag for my phone and settle it over my shoulder. I walk to the wall, plucking the labelled key chain for my dad’s vintage Impala off the key pegs, and chuckle. Man, the Winchesters would drool at his baby, and I’m sure Gene has kept it in pristine condition since his passing. I’m going to look like the worst news since the Civil War when I roll up to main street.

I kind of like that.

With a satisfied smirk, I head for the garage, deciding that if I’m going to live here again, I need to figure out the fine line between necessary Southern ass kissing and that old Yankee ‘fuck you’ spirit to survive.

* * *

As I swinginto a parking spot on Main Street, I feel the eyes on me.

It might be paranoia, but the small-town grapevine definitely activated the moment I arrived yesterday, and people will check me out. I’m hardly the first person to leave the Hollow and not return, but now that I have, it’s bound to get tongues wagging. I can only beg the Universe to keep every single person who approaches me from asking about how I’m doing since my parents’ passing and commiserating about missing the funeral.

For one thing, I’m uncertain I’ve fully dealt with that situation myself, and secondarily, I can’t talk about the reasons I couldn’t return. The NDAs and official secrets type documents I signed almost daily while in Europe prevent me from discussing any of my work there. I’ve never breached that trust, so I know it’s not why I flagged with the Fibbies. I’m not about to start with a Hollow-style Karen who wants fodder for the diner’s dinner coffee klatch.

Climbing out of the Impala with my head held high, I adjust my sunglasses and sling my bag over my head. My shades are ultra-posh—a gift from a gadget guy that works for MI-6 during a brief jaunt in England—and I know the passersby can’t see me assessing the scene.

The main drag of my former hometown has changed little: trees and clean sidewalks, picturesque businesses, and colorful banners on the iron work light poles. One end of the street leads into a renovated cul-de-sac in front of the city buildings and the other end bottoms out in the lots shared by the Formative and Finishing schools. They’ve done some polishing on the facades, but everything is exactly where I expected it to be.

I head down the street in the direction of the city buildings. The diner is situated kitty corner to the government structure. I’m sure much of their business comes from the employees and folks on their way to and from their jobs on Main. Through the protection of my reflective lenses, I scope out the businesses between the two massive landmarks on either end.

There’s a fairly broad assortment: a bakery, a furniture store, a clothing store, a toy store, a liquor store, a pizza place, a bookstore, the empty spot where my gallery will live, a bank, a salon, a doctor’s office, a vet clinic, and a place with darkened windows and no sign. That one is odd, but maybe, like my space, it’s under construction.

“Why, Jolene Whitley! Fancy meetin’ you here!”

My brow arches as I take in the short, pastel clad man in front of me. I wholeheartedly disagree that it is a coincidence that the first person I run into on an early morning food run is Aldous Basil Longworth. He’s been the executive assistant to the mayor of Whistler’s Hollow since long before I was born.

His wife’s family is part of the upper echelon of the caste system here, and he’s always been an odious little toady. The years have been kind—or a surgeon has—because he doesn’t seem to have aged a day since I left. Aldous is still decked out like a Southern dandy ready to hit the Derby—pastel linen suit, coordinated bow tie/pocket square/shirt, shiny white Balenciaga’s, and a jaunty hat.

I plaster on a fake smile, knowing that every word, gesture, and phrase will get reported to the entire diner by lunchtime, plus discussed in the hallways of the city building as I’m a Kardashian with a new sex tape. “Bonjour, Aldous. It has been a long time, indeed. I was headed to the diner to buy some breakfast, if you’d be so kind as to escort me while we catch up.”

His eyes light up at the prospect of an extended conversation and he laughs like a high-pitched weasel. His hand places my arm in the crook of his and he pats my hand. “I would be honored, Miss Whitley. We rarely have alumni as illustrious as you return to settle in our fair town.”

It takes everything in me not to shiver when he touches me. I’m not comfortable with strangers touching me after years of being a cautious single woman, and Aldous creeps me the hell out. When I was in high school, he spent a lot of time watching the cheerleaders’ practices, and I’ve disliked him ever since.

Plus, I’m not endeared to anyone who spends most of their life fomenting gossip and rumors and Aldous is the single biggest source of incorrect information in the Hollow. He’ll repeat anything he hears without the slightest hint of validation, and its ruined reputations and lives aplenty over the years. He always escapes the consequences, though, because he works for the mayor.

At least, that’s what my parents used to say when they thought I was in bed for the night. They thought Mayor Cornelia should cut him loose, founding family or not.

I have an entire catalog of those little snippets that I caught when my parents were unaware, and I think they will serve me well as I learn to navigate this place again.

“… don’t you think, Jolene?”

Oh shit. I spaced out while the weasel was talking.

“I’m uncertain, Aldous. I’ve just returned, as you know.” Please let that work…

He pats my hand with a creepy little smile. “That’s true, dear. You’ll need time to get settled into your home and that adorable space you’ve rented before you look for students. I’m sure that once you do, you’ll contact Ophelia’s Charlotte Marie for a prime lesson slot. After all, you were friends during your tenure in our lovely schools.”

Again, I’m thankful for the special shades so this presumptuous shit can’t see my reaction. Ophelia Jane Longworth was part of the upper caste ‘mean girl’ group, and I was hoping most of them had left the Hollow to marry old men for their fortunes. Hearing that she’s here, has a kid, and will interact with me as a parent at both the school and the studio makes my stomach clench.

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