Page 8 of Holding Ground

Memories of running around the woods with Trey or tossing my younger brother and sister in the pool at my grandparents’ house rush back. I smile, feeling nostalgic. That feeling is quickly followed by a familiar aching sensation in my chest. I grip the steering wheel and breathe through it.

I follow the GPS directions until I end up pulling onto Main Street. The air leaves my lungs as I slowly drive down the quaint road. Mom-and-pop shops line both sides of the street, and there’s the distinct feeling that life moves a little slower here. That the people who pass each other on the sidewalk don’t just recognize one another, they know them. Probably know their parents and their children too. Know the triumphs and tragedies they’ve experienced and genuinely care about their well-being. It’s exactly the kind of place I came from but haven’t lived in since I left for college.

There aren’t many parking places on Main, but I snag a spot right in front of the store I’m here to visit—the Crow & Clover. I figured I would grab some snacks to bring with me to where I’m staying, then hit the grocery store in the morning for a more thorough shop.

After parking, I grab my phone from the console and my purse from the passenger seat and step out of the car.

I probably should have changed before I left the office this afternoon. After all, this assignment doesn’t have me dealing with suits in boardrooms—I’m in small-town America.

If I’m going to get these people to open up and trust me, I have to look like one of them. My vehicle already gives me away, but the caramel dress pants and ivory silk button-up, in conjunction with my slicked-back bun, only add to the impression that I’m an outsider. And for this assignment to be a success, I need them to see me as one of them. It’s likely the only way they’ll feel comfortable talking to me and letting me in enough that I can really understand what the proposed development can do to help improve their lives and the economy of their town.

I step into the shop as the bell chimes overhead. The floors are wide, worn wood slats that appear to have been here for ages. Not in a derelict way, though. In a way that only the passage of time under generations of soles can do. Wood beams cross the ceiling, and the wooden tables in the center of the store are covered in various wares that aren’t mass-market goods. It’s charming and somewhere I’ll definitely come back to explore more.

“Well, hey there, stranger.”

The voice draws me to the counter about halfway down the length of the store. The man standing there appears to be in his mid-forties, with dark salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin, and broad shoulders that fill out his shirt.

“Hey, how are you?” I walk over to him.

“Well, it’s been a day, and the shop closes in an hour, and in about an hour and ten minutes, I’ll be sipping on a glass of chardonnay, so not too bad.”

I chuckle. “Long week?”

“Week was okay. Day was long.” He thumbs toward the back of the store. “Got a leak in the back. Probably need to get the roof replaced.” He cringes.

“I’m sorry.”

He waves off my concern. “It is what it is. Anyway, I’m Manuel. I own this place with my husband, Brennan.”

I hold my hand out over the counter. “Good to meet you, Manuel. I’m Emelia.”

“You passing through?”

I rock my head side to side, not sure how much of why I’m here I want to give away. “I’ll be here for a few months. I have some work to do in the area. This place is charming. How long have you and your husband owned it?” I glance around again.

“Thanks.” Manuel’s smile is wide and proud. “We moved to Echo Lake about twelve years ago. We used to be a part of the rat race in Manhattan. Gave it up for a quieter life and never looked back. What about you? Where are you coming in from?”

“Boston, by way of Phoenix, by way of Alaska.”

His head rocks back. “Wow. You’re really covering all the different geological landscapes, aren’t you?”

“You could say that. I’m just here to pick up a few things to tide me over until I can visit the grocery store tomorrow.”

Manuel walks out from behind the counter toward the back of the store. “Follow me. I’ll show you what we’ve got. Most of the food is at the back here. We have some really great local stuff you might like.”

I follow Manuel to the back, and he points out a few of his favorites—some preserves made by a local lady, bags of different flavors of nuts, along with some baked goods, and a whole load of things revolving around blueberries.

We’re still chatting in the back when a man’s voice calls from the front of the store, “Manuel? Brennan?”

“Back here,” Manuel returns.

Moments later, a man around my age appears.

Wow.

He has brown hair that’s longer on top and isn’t exactly straight, but it’s not curly either—the kind of effortless that can’t be bought. Scruff shadows his jaw, heavier above his lip. He’s wearing khaki cargo shorts and a T-shirt that stretches across his muscular chest.

Trey’s two words, torrid affair, run on a reel through my mind.