One thing’s for sure. If he’d grown up here, surely I’d have heard something about him. I would have run into him. I’ve been here twelve years, and with the exception of douchey Bryce and Walker’s tween daughter, who lives with her mom in the family mansion here in Ephron, I haven’t run into any other Holm heirs.
I type the name Hudson Holm into the Google search box, and immediately, my screen fills with links to articles in business journals and professional organizations. Where to click first? Instead of choosing, I click the “images” link at the top of the page to filter the search results.
The screen refreshes, filling up with a virtual gallery of photos.
Hudson Holm, smiling and accepting an award. Hudson Holm at a ribbon cutting, arm draped around a tall, thin, glamorous blonde woman. Hudson in a yurt, attending some sort of corporate retreat.
My blood runs cold as a Viking ice storm because I do know Hudson Holm, and I’ve most certainly run into him before. I know exactly who he is.
Hudson Holm is Ragnar.
* * *
By noon, the shit is really starting to hit the fan. Literally.
My eyes water as I pass a plastic baggie and disinfecting wipes to an older gentleman who is wearing his sunglasses indoors. He’s accompanied by a very overweight Newfoundland that has just relieved his bowels in the middle of the shop. The massive dog looks far more ashamed than his unapologetic owner.
“Trick’s tummy is so sensitive, isn’t it, Tricky? I guess I shouldn’t have shared that pastrami sandwich with him.” The man shifts his weight uneasily before handing back the proffered baggies and wipes. “I’m so sorry, but I have a bad back. Could you maybe …” A loud farting sound comes from their vicinity. To be perfectly honest, I am not entirely sure who is passing the gas.
Forcing a civil look on my face, I bag up Trick’s poo and throw a few wipes down on the polished cement floor. It’s bad. So bad. I’m going to have to fumigate the shop. At least this didn’t happen before the interview.
“Oh, thank you. You’re so kind. So, tell me, do you have any recommendations for sensitive tummies like ours?”
I try to channel my mother. She wouldn’t have judged this man for feeding his dog pastrami. She’d relish the chance to teach him about the merits of probiotics and high-quality kibble. But I am not my mom, and today is not the day. I package up some food and probiotics and ring the sale as quickly as possible.
“You think it will help?” the man asks hopefully.
“I know it will,” I say. “Let me get that door for you and Trick.”
I walk past him to the door and open it under the guise of being helpful. Fresh air streams in. Sweet, sweet relief! Thank you, baby Jesus.
Cookie’s dog tags clink as she rises, stretches, and shakes herself. She’s as desperate to get some fresh air as I am. Maybe even more.
Finally, the man and his dog lumber out of the shop. I watch as they cross the park in Holm Square and turn up Main Street toward the boarded-up, beat-up building that was once a church, and more recently had been used as a community center. The real estate sign out in front of the building has a big “Sold” sign on it. According to the rumors, it’s about to become a fancy theater. If that’s true, it will be great for local business. But all the more reason to raise our rent even higher.
Cookie whines plaintively, looking desperately at the door.
“I promise I’ll take you for a walk in a few minutes, Cookie. Let’s just get some fresh air in here first.” I prop the door open and spritz my trusty basil peppermint room spray around, misting generously.
Normally, I’d have been texting with Kenna all day, venting about what was happening. But Kenna is on a pet portrait shoot today, and I don’t want to break her flow. Xander is also away. He and Mac are in Seattle attending a dog show.
This just leaves Oliver. I haven’t had a moment to message him all day. But I’m looking forward to finding a way to tell him about Trick’s tricky tummy.
But first, I realize I should eat something. It’s past noon, and once again, I’ve neglected to feed myself. Stress never seems to diminish my appetite. Despite the day I’ve had, I’m starving. Hovering on the brink of being light-headed.
I root around in the darkened back room, using my flashlight to locate something edible. My shin slams into a shelf and I yelp in pain. This situation with the lights is getting ridiculous. The mini fridge holds the wilted remnants of yesterday’s salad. Cup O’ Noodles it is! I drag the electric kettle to the bathroom sink. Lunch will be ready in five minutes.
I set the kettle back on the stand, flip the switch, and wait. Within ten seconds, there are sparks shooting out from the base, followed by a small puff of smoke. Then the kettle’s light blinks off.
“You’re shitting me,” I grumble, rubbing my still-throbbing shin. But I’m not giving up. I’m hungry. Not quite Donner Pass hungry, but getting there. “Guess we’ll heat this up the old-school way.”
Cautiously, I unplug the kettle. I peel back the Cup O’ Noodles lid and pour cold water in. Then I put the cup into the tiny microwave perched on top of the mini fridge.
“Can this day get any worse?” I whisper into the shadows cast by the woeful, tiny microwave light.
This is the moment when Cookie makes a noise that I’ve never heard her make before. Part howl, part bark, part whine. The noise is followed by a loud crash. And then the sound of something shattering. And a different, more feral and ominous-sounding growl that I don’t recognize.
What the hell?
