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By the time we arrive, half the county has heard what happened. News travels fast in small towns and this news is especially salacious.
Ashley recants the story to one person and then a crowd gathers outside the store and it swells from two people to twenty.
Even I have to admit, she’s aces at storytelling. You would have thought we were in a Bonnie and Clyde shootout, the way she tells it, rather than some asshole emptying his clip into my car, to prove a point or to send a message, which I suppose are sort of one and the same. I even say this at one point but she shushes me and says I couldn’t have experienced it like she did because I was driving and I was on the phone. Of course, that’s what it was.
Davis arrives and the two hug and embrace and she cries on his shoulder and sobs into his chest, it’s like a Cinderella story, like he’s her knight in shining armor and the entire town is here to bear witness.
And that is how Ashley Parker becomes the IT girl.
It is how the whole town falls in love with her at once, and I come to hate her just a little more.
Chapter Ten
Ruth
By mid-afternoon I’m home and things have settled enough that I fret about, unsure what to do with myself. I feel antsy, like I’m waiting for something bad to happen. I try to predict what that thing might be. A drive-by shooting? A sudden house fire? One thing is for sure, nothing is off-limits when it comes to the Holts. That family is capable of just about anything, so to say that I am on edge would be an understatement.
I do my best to keep busy. I try to keep both my hands and my mind occupied, but it isn’t easy. There’s not much left to do by the time the weekend of the festival rolls around. It’s actually the opposite of what most people think. Everything that needs to be done has already been taken care of, plans made months ago, tiny details worked out.
Typically, by the time the Saturday of the festival arrives, there’s a certain caliber of lightness in the air, a sense of freedom, the feeling that everyone’s hard work has paid off. It’s the start of summer, officially, and it’s when the seasonal workers sort of take the reins and the rest of us locals sit back and enjoy the fruits of our labors.
At least in theory.
Small towns love nothing more than the keeping up of appearances, and Jester Falls is no different. This means it’s never really entirely possible to let go. It means one is never truly off the clock. There’s always some dark undercurrent that needs handling, something not seen with the naked eye. But that’s business. That’s business in this town.
Eventually, after circling each room at least twice, looking for things that need tidying or fixing, I wander out to the enclosed patio off the back of the house where boxes of champagne glasses are stacked neatly against the wall. I plop down into one of the white wicker rockers and count them out, just to be sure. Inevitably, the rental company shorts us a box every couple of weddings. The devil’s in the details, so I count a second time for good measure. There’s nothing like having to explain to a frazzled bride’s mother that you don’t have enough champagne flutes for the toast.
When I finish counting, I look out into the garden and contemplate taking out the ladder. I need a set of string lights replaced before the sun goes down, and I’m just restless enough that I consider doing it myself.
Outside, it has turned out to be a gorgeous day. Hot, but not too hot, thanks to a surprise morning rain. The sun plays peekaboo through the clouds, coming and going. Although, any minute now, I expect the clouds will clear out, giving way to mostly sunny skies.
The perfect day for a wedding, I say to myself, and I sound like the goddamned weatherman. That or my mother. It makes sense. The old radio in the corner has been left on and the actual weatherman is exuberantly relaying the weekend forecast in a way that feels like déjà vu.
I sweep my legs underneath me and lean back in the chair, nervously tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair as I stare out at the garden. My mother’s wildflowers have perked up on account of the rain, and it makes me smile. It’s been years since her passing, and yet it never fails that they come up each year. I have them tended to, but no matter how many gardeners I hire or fire, no one cares for them the way she did.
A cardinal lands on the bird feeder, the one Daddy put up the summer before he got sick. It’s weathered now, and while I’m keenly aware that it may not hold out another season, I can’t bear to replace it. I don’t consider myself a sentimental person by nature, although I can effortlessly pretend. You have to in this business. That is the business to a large extent.
It’s not just about the memories, though. At least not for me. To replace the bird feeder, string a new set of lights, or to redo the flowerbeds feels like moving on. It serves as a reminder that time really is marching forward. It’s like a bullet train you know is coming before you’ve finished laying the track. My parents are dead and gone. Obviously. But that doesn’t mean I am ready to admit that I, too, am aging, that everything eventually breaks down and has to be made new.
Breaking down is exactly what I fear is happening when something in the garden catches my eye. The cardinal flies away. But it’s not that.
It’s the flash of pink followed by the blonde curls. Leaning forward, I scan the rose bushes and the lilacs. Nothing.
Then I look over at the daffodils and exhale a sigh of relief. My mind is not playing tricks on me. I am not having an episode, at least not at the moment. The shooter has not decided to show up and take aim. What has caught my eye is only going to kill me on the inside.
A little girl has wandered into my mother’s garden, although I know with certainty that there are no children on the guest roster this weekend. We hardly get children at Magnolia House; this is not what you’d consider an attractive venue for children, though we do not outright mandate against it. Luckily, most parents are smart enough to read between the lines. We run a bed and breakfast with an old staircase and creaky floors. The house is full of antiques. There are no free lunches, no crib rental, no cookies and milk at sundown. Magnol
ia House is not exactly a child-friendly destination. We keep it this way on purpose.
And yet, that is exactly what is picking petals off my mother’s flowers like it’s nothing. She can’t be more than four years old or so, although knowledge about children is not my strong suit. I wait, and leaning off the edge of my seat, I continue to scan the yard for the adult that has surely accompanied her. Sometimes people do that. They wander into the garden to take photos, to satisfy their curiosity, or both. It’s safe to say, they do not build homes like this anymore. Magnolia House is really something to see.
But, no, I do not spot a parent. Just a little girl in a pink swim cover up, wreaking havoc on my mother’s garden.
Without a second thought, I leap out of the rocker and fling the door open. This is so typical, someone destroying what isn’t theirs to destroy for the simple fact that they can. “Hey!” I shout. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The little girl turns slightly, her curls flying in the wind, dancing in place. She eyes me up and down, ultimately deciding that I am not worth listening to. I can tell by the way she goes on plucking the black-eyed Susans. “Where’s Ashley?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Where are your parents?”
