Page 15 of Don't Call Me Daddy
According to Dan, Ashford Falls was completely barren up until thirty years ago, when some bigwig billionaire family swooped in and bought the whole town. Frank Kingsley and his wife, Mary Ashford—whose family was founding members—and their five sons came in and started an international eco-friendly company, and set Ashford Falls as their home campus.
Since then, the company’s grown, and so has the town. They’ve personally subsidized everything from the roads to the schools and local businesses. As Dan said, they breathed life back into this little town. It’s an odd thing to think people that rich could care about other people enough to bring back local jobs, much less the environment, but if what Dan says is true, then maybe there’s hope for us yet.
Rows of colorful Victorian-style shops line the streets, and it feels like I’ve taken a step back in time or been transported somewhere else entirely. Everything here seems to be preserved to its original state but somehow better with an eclectic mix of old and new infrastructure.
I laugh to myself as I read the shop names, all in the same font and style—Bakery, Market, Bookstore, Boutique, and Auto Shop, where I met Dan this morning.
Whoever’s in charge of the city commerce either has a dry personality with no time for frills and fluff or they’re committed to the bit because this is hysterical. Fern would have absolutely loved it.
Across the street, on the corner, there’s Inn, and along the next corner, a large black building—the only black among the sea of bright colors—sits Restaurant.
It’s got ornamental stained-glass windows and a steep-pitched roof. It looks like it used to be an old church that was converted into a restaurant, and I can’t help but think that of all the buildings in this little town, this one would’ve been Fern’s favorite. With the juxtaposition of timeless and modern, it captures the essence of this town perfectly.
I notice my stomach growling, just thinking about it, and I make a mental note to visit … after I take a better look at my bank account.
I cross the cobblestone street, taking in the elaborate displays set in deep bay windows, and even though it’s still very much summertime, a cool breeze blows my hair out of my face, giving me the slightest preview of fall.
It’s not hard to imagine the streets lined with pumpkins and sugared-up children running around in Halloween costumes.
If I were ever going to start a family, I’d raise my children someplace like this. Cozy, small, safe, and charming to boot, but with just enough of an edge to keep things current and fresh.
Maybe in another life.
I press my hand over the list I keep tucked in my overall pocket and take a deep breath.
“Okay, Ferny, you got me here. Now what?”
I don’t have to hear my sister’s voice to know what I need to do next because with Fern, the next right thing was always … ice cream. And what do you know? There just so happens to be an ice cream truck parked across the street, next to a line of food trucks.
She might not be much help in how to get from point A to B, but at least I know she’s still watching out for me, sending me ice cream trucks and hot, rich grumps to help me out when I need it.
What more does a girl need than that anyway?
Melted chocolate ice cream drips down my arm as I race to finish the triple-scoop cone before the sun melts it all over me.
I crunch the last bite of cone between my teeth and attempt to wipe my sticky arms in the soft grass. It doesn’t help. In fact, I just manage to make a bigger mess, stickyandcovered in grass. Great.
I’m sitting under a large oak tree, people-watching—my favorite pastime—as birds chirp all around me.
Days like today make me nostalgic about my childhood. Back when my biggest decisions were what color friendship bracelets to make and if I could still beat Ferny in a foot race—spoiler alert: I always did.
Now, I’ve got much bigger worries, but I promised myself I’d only start thinking about them after I finished this ice cream cone.
My stomach churns in a tight knot, and no matter how hard I try to reframe it, there’s no shaking the panic gnawing at my stomach.
I’m broke.
It’s so much worse than I thought.
After I treated myself to an ice cream, I sat down with my new phone—thanks to my grumpy guardian angel last night—and nearly choked when I saw the balance.
Every time I look, there’s new charges from my mom’s facility—random fees or expenses I didn’t anticipate.
At this rate, I’ll be bankrupt before the end of the summer, and the worst part is, I was the one who encouraged her to go through with it. I assured her we could make it work and I’d be able to catch whatever expenses fell through the cracks.
I swallow a gulp and set a ten-minute timer to worry. It’s something Fern’s therapist taught her to help cope with her illness, and after she realized how stressed I was, she started making me do it too.
Sometimes, I think I’m too good at compartmentalizing my stress. I’ll do just about anything to distract myself from it.
