Page 2 of Home to the Hollow

As an adult, I’m far better equipped to put a snippy socialite in her place than I was as a teen. It helps that I no longer have to worry about causing problems for my parents at work. However, since I’m running a small business and working part time at the school, I’ll have to curb my instincts to squash queen bees. They knew me for my no-nonsense attitude in my former positions, but that won’t work in the Hollow. The people there subscribe to the ‘more flies with honey’ adage, and I’ll have to assert myself without ruining my ability to make a living.

Sighing, I rub my temples. I remember what the parents of my classmates were like. The few years I spent teaching in inner cities to pay off my degree was nothing like it will be at home. I left teaching because the lack of support burned me out, both from parents and the administration. Pursuing a career overseas provided me with the time I needed to finish my master’s and make a comfortable living in beautiful cities filled with culture and history.

In the Hollow, lack of parent involvement won’t be an issue. Too much involvement will be the issue. The administration will always side with the parents to keep their donors happy, so that problem will creep up as well. That’s why I’m only working part-time—limiting my exposure. The rest of the time, I will run my gallery, make art, and give lessons to students of various ages.

Hopefully, doing that will keep the townsfolk from realizing my true goal. I’m not coming home out of nostalgia or to reconcile the estate. I’m moving home to find out what the hell caused me to fail my background check and fix it. If I learn anything more about my parents’ death, that will simply be a bonus.

Whistler’s Hollow won’t know what hit them when I get done with them; that, I can guarantee.

Take Me Home, Country Roads

Imay have underestimated the length of this drive in a box truck. Seven and a half hours didn’t seem that long, but it’s dragging.

The countryside is beautiful, and I didn’t realize until I was chugging along through the rural areas of Virginia that I’d missed it. The lush greenery, the pastoral beauty of the farmland—it hit me right in the feels. I thought I’d become an urbanite through and through after all my years away.

I was wrong.

When I left for college, I vowed never to return to the small town, rural atmosphere that I grew up in. I was born to feel the thrill of the big city, and I thrived in its glory at State. I was even more cosmopolitan when I moved abroad, and the dreams of my youth got fulfilled by living in large, foreign cities with culture, history, and social scenes out of the movies. It felt like I arrived in the very place something destined me for.

Now, cruising past the fields and trees, the ache at seeing the quaint farms, fields, and country aesthetic makes me long for a time when I lived a simpler life.

Weird, right?

Maybe it’s the passage of time—growing up, gaining life experience, maturity—making me nostalgic for a place that I swore I’d never return to. I didn’t have the best experiences in elementary or high school, so I’m not yearning for glory days gone by. I’m not sure why my heart is suddenly having pangs of wistful familiarity with this scenery.

Whistler’s Hollow isn’t an awful place to live—don’t get me wrong. But like many small Southern towns, there is a definitive hierarchy to the citizenry, and it becomes clear at a young age where you fit into that unofficial caste system. I wasn’t at the bottom by any stretch, but I also wasn’t anywhere close to the top of the pyramid.

The ‘founding families’ sit at the top, along with the town governing boards, and from there, it’s a toss-up where you belong. I never understood the sociological construct that led to the social hierarchy, but it was clear who belonged where. After those at the top, it seemed like families whose parents held a ‘position’ in town came next—regardless of income level. So the town doctor, the vet, the lawyers were all in the next tier of regard, and after that came the business owners. Folks like my parents who were regular professionals fell below them, and at the bottom were the unskilled labor. I was never sure where some families fell as a child because they seemed to fade into the background since they didn’t have children.

There were always a lot of children in the Hollow, and looking back on it now, it seems odd that the birth rates in my town were so high. I didn’t pay attention to adults very much, so I don’t remember a lot about it, but I remember a remarkable amount of baby and birth parties I attended with my mom.

I suck in a breath, my chest aching with memories of my parents. They were good to me, and though I didn’t have the crazy, bonded relationship that some of my friends from college or my time overseas had, I loved them very much. They gave me everything I needed—within reason—and let me spread my wings and fly away when it was time. People were always curious about them not hounding me or visiting all the time when I was at State, but I didn’t mind. I was ready to be an adult, and I appreciated they were willing to let me do so without being as overbearing as some of my classmates’ parents. We kept in touch, but all of my decisions were my own, and they always supported whatever I did.

As I drive in silence, I wonder if that’s why I could remain detached enough to continue working when they were killed, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. I’d separated myself from them so much as I grew older that my independence helped me survive losing them from afar.

Sighing, I ponder pulling off the highway for gas and a bite to eat. I have about four more hours until I reach the Hollow, and when I arrive, I have a mountain of things to do to get set up.

I have to go to the house and inspect the re-opening that the staff did to prepare for my arrival. I’ll have to unload my personal items and get my living space squared away—a task that may involve sending furniture or leftover belongings that were my parents to storage. Eventually, I will have an estate sale or sell things online, but I won’t bother until I’m fully settled in.

Once I finish at the house, I have to take the truck to my space on Main Street and unload all the gallery equipment and supplies. That will be an absolute nightmare because though I had the space inspected to ensure that it complied with all the permits and codes necessary to operate my studio and the display space, I won’t believe that it’s accurate until I go over it myself. It will take at least a week to unpack everything there, and another one to get it set up in the manner I prefer.

Whistler’s Hollow has never had an art studio or gallery before, and to be successful in such a small town, I have to make certain that everything gets placed in a way that appeals to the sensibilities of the townspeople. The studio and lessons area will have to appear professional, yet homey, and the gallery can’t be fancy and urban. Everything needs to fit within the mold of the American South without being overtly country bumpkin. The old Southern money in the town must feel at home, yet also feel like they are being very cosmopolitan at the same time.

It’s gonna be an absolute bitch to design.

Shaking my head, I decide that it’s time for a small break. Veering off the next exit that looks like it is a primary thoroughfare, I use one hand to query my GPS on my phone. It points me toward a plaza with a diner where I can get some food, do some sketching on storefront design in my book, and hopefully, find a banging milkshake.

Milkshakes are one of my vices, and I can promise you I’m a connoisseur.

I pull into the back of the lot, using the spaces that trucks and vans gravitate to, and hop out of the cab. Stretching my arms and legs for a moment, I look around. This is definitely the part of town centered on business coming from the highway. The main drag is fast food, hotels, and gas stations—the actual center of town is further off the beaten path.

When my limbs feel solid enough to head inside, I reach into the truck to grab my messenger bag. It’s made from an upcycled leather motorcycle jacket, and they sized the compartments perfectly for my phone, wallet, sketchbooks and pencils, and sundry personal items. It was a gift from the daughter of a fashion designer I worked for in Italy, and there’s not another one like it on the planet.

I love it more than some people love their cars.

After I adjust my sunglasses, I stride across the lot and go into the diner. Smiling at the lady at the counter, I find the booth furthest from the door and sit with my back against the wall. It’s my normal modus operandi, and I think it’s because my parents always used to enjoy sitting in the corner where they could ‘people watch’. I settle in, pulling out my supplies and arranging my workplace. Once it’s ready, I pluck the menu from behind the napkin dispenser and peruse it.

When the server comes over, I look up at her with a smile that I haven’t used in years. “Mornin’, darlin’. What can I getcha?”

---