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I driveon as the sun rises. This is my favorite time of year in North Carolina, with the fall foliage blazing, and the mountains a riot of reds and gold. Milford Falls is nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, about an hour from Asheville, and every autumn, the leaf peepers descend to pay tribute to the natural beauty of the area.
And pay enough to keep our small-town tourism industry afloat.
I pass the gas station on the way into town, and think about stopping for a cup of Della’s sludge-thick coffee, but I’m still wearing Reeve’s leather jacket over my lingerie, and I’m pretty sure my early morning fashion statement would get the gossip buzzing, so I keep driving, over the covered bridge (which the Instagrammers make a beeline for, every year), and down our rag-tag excuse for a Main Street, complete with hardware store slash pizza joint, the vegan hippie coffee shop, and three different places selling outdoor clothing and sports gear.
Milford Falls isn’t about to win any prizes for small-town charm; you won’t find any white picket fences or quaint gazebos, we’re more rough-around-the-edges than that, but my family has been settled here for generations, going back over a hundred years. My great-grandfather, Earl, worked in the copper mines – besides other, less-legal pastimes – and my librarian grandmother once almost caused a riot lending a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover to a curious teen. (Don’t mess with librarians.) Despite my chaotic childhood, the place always felt like home to me, so when my marriage went down in flames, it was a simple choice to come back home to regroup and recover … and I wound up wanting to stay.
It helps that my meagre divorce settlement goes a lot further here.
My place is on the outskirts of town, a rustic cottage half-hidden in the trees. I grip Reeve’s jacket securely around me, and make a dash for the front door so the neighbors don’t get a show… before I remember, the Kellermans are out of town, mountain biking their way across South America. They have an Airbnb guest arriving sometime this week so they asked me to keep an eye out for them, but luckily the house still looks empty, and there’s nobody here to see my Walk of Not-So-Shamed as I dig out my keys, and slip inside.
I need a shower, coffee, and carbs. And not necessarily in that order.
I find a leftover PBJ sandwich in the fridge, and stuff it in my mouth as I hurry up the rickety staircase, and turn the hot water on full blast.
Oh God, that feels good.
I stay under the steamy spray as long as possible, but it’s Monday morning, and I have to get to work, so, too soon, I dry off, dress in a decidedly non-spandex outfit of jeans, boots, and a big fuzzy sweater. Then I shove my limp, wig-flattened hair under a knit beanie, trade my contacts for a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, and hit the road again.
This time, my commute is all of four minutes. The local history museum sits in the center of town, a squat concrete building that’s seen better days. I burst in, walk past our big display on community quilting, and find my boss, Dot, already bustling in our little kitchenette, dressed in her trademark dungarees and hand-knit cardigan.
“Coffee’s on,” she calls, as I grab the stack of unread mail, and yawn. “And I was experimenting with a new muffin recipe. Apple and blue cheese. I’m still on the fence, but you’re welcome to give them a whirl.”
I take one from the basket on the front desk, and try a bite. “Tangy,” I decide, chewing thoughtfully.
Dot is pushing eighty now, and my boss – in name only. She’s worked here forever, but these days, she’s more interested in sitting up front and gossiping than dealing with the day-to-day operations of the place: staging exhibits, running educational workshops, and adding to our surprisingly-juicy displays on Milford’s history. Which suits me just fine. Day-to-day organizational details are my thing, and I swiftly dispatch the weekend’s mail into three different stacks while hoovering up another two muffins.
"The bastards from the grant board emailed again,” Dot mutters darkly, joining me with two mugs of steaming coffee. “Wanted all sorts of updated visitor data, for their budget decisions.”
“Oh, right,” I say casually. “Next year’s funding will be announced soon, right?”
“Right.” Dot sighs, looking around the main room, filled with dioramas, exhibits, and a little library display, too. “They’d cut us to the bone, if they had half a chance. I’ve seen the new Board director running his mouth off on those local news shows. ‘Restoring pride to American history,’” she quotes, scathing. “More like, restoring ignorance.”
She grumbles on with a well-practiced refrain, while I boot up the old computer, and click through to the emails in question. I try to hide my wince. Like most nonprofits, the Milford Falls Historical Museum is funded by a patchwork collection of private and public grants – which have been dwindling every year. It’s the classic catch-22: without funding, we can’t afford to stage any flashy events that would bring in visitors, and without visitors, we don’t qualify for the big bucks funding. Despite my casual act, I know exactly when the new budget is coming out, not to mention what the planned cuts are likely to do to us. But there’s no point in getting Dot worked up – any more than she already is.
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” I say cheerfully, when she pauses for a sip of coffee. “I mean, we’re practically a core service here! How on earth would the good people of Madison County get by without our period recreation of Zadie Montague’s 1960s dinner table?”
Dot cracks a smile as the front doors swing open, and a hoard of fifth graders from the local middle school stampedes in. Our first – and only – event of the day.
“Welcome! Come on in and get comfy,” I greet them with a big smile as they discard coats and scarves, and hurl themselves onto the beanbags in the corner, already yelling at full volume.
Dot recoils from the chaos. “That’s my cue to go do some filing,” she announces, grabbing her Kindle and noise-cancelling headphones. “I might be some time …”
She disappears, as the group’s teacher tries to get them to hush. “We’re here to learn,” she says, desperately dragging one kid away from the mining display – before he can start pelting his buddies with copper trace rocks.
I clap my hands loudly. If I’ve learned anything from working here at the museum, it’s that there’s only one thing guaranteed to get an unruly group of kids like this to pay attention.
“Listen up!” I call, my voice cutting through the din. “Who wants to hear about a gruesome historicalmurder?”
Two hours,sixteen handmade mining town dioramas, and five spilled juice boxes later, we’re just about wrapping up. “What happened to the bridge, Grayson?” I ask, checking one of the kids’ little 3D map.
“I blew it up,” he beams. “Now my enemies can’t attack by land.”
“Smart.” I nod. “Just remember you’ll need barges to get the copper out.”
He frowns, and then picks out some popsicle sticks to lay by the docks. “There.”
“Good job, everyone!”
