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Take Me Home, Country Roads

I may have underestimated the length of this drive in a box truck. Seven and a half hours didn’t seem that long, but it’s dragging.

The countryside is beautiful, and I didn’t realize until I was chugging along through the rural areas of Virginia that I’d missed it. The lush greenery, the pastoral beauty of the farmland—it hit me right in the feels. I thought I’d become an urbanite through and through after all my years away.

I was wrong.

When I left for college, I vowed never to return to the small town, rural atmosphere that I grew up in. I was born to feel the thrill of the big city, and I thrived in its glory at State. I was even more cosmopolitan when I moved abroad, and the dreams of my youth got fulfilled by living in large, foreign cities with culture, history, and social scenes out of the movies. It felt like I arrived in the very place something destined me for.

Now, cruising past the fields and trees, the ache at seeing the quaint farms, fields, and country aesthetic makes me long for a time when I lived a simpler life.

Weird, right?

Maybe it’s the passage of time—growing up, gaining life experience, maturity—making me nostalgic for a place that I swore I’d never return to. I didn’t have the best experiences in elementary or high school, so I’m not yearning for glory days gone by. I’m not sure why my heart is suddenly having pangs of wistful familiarity with this scenery.

Whistler’s Hollow isn’t an awful place to live—don’t get me wrong. But like many small Southern towns, there is a definitive hierarchy to the citizenry, and it becomes clear at a young age where you fit into that unofficial caste system. I wasn’t at the bottom by any stretch, but I also wasn’t anywhere close to the top of the pyramid.

The ‘founding families’ sit at the top, along with the town governing boards, and from there, it’s a toss-up where you belong. I never understood the sociological construct that led to the social hierarchy, but it was clear who belonged where. After those at the top, it seemed like families whose parents held a ‘position’ in town came next—regardless of income level. So the town doctor, the vet, the lawyers were all in the next tier of regard, and after that came the business owners. Folks like my parents who were regular professionals fell below them, and at the bottom were the unskilled labor. I was never sure where some families fell as a child because they seemed to fade into the background since they didn’t have children.

There were always a lot of children in the Hollow, and looking back on it now, it seems odd that the birth rates in my town were so high. I didn’t pay attention to adults very much, so I don’t remember a lot about it, but I remember a remarkable amount of baby and birth parties I attended with my mom.

I suck in a breath, my chest aching with memories of my parents. They were good to me, and though I didn’t have the crazy, bonded relationship that some of my friends from college or my time overseas had, I loved them very much. They gave me everything I needed—within reason—and let me spread my wings and fly away when it was time. People were always curious about them not hounding me or visiting all the time when I was at State, but I didn’t mind. I was ready to be an adult, and I appreciated they were willing to let me do so without being as overbearing as some of my classmates’ parents. We kept in touch, but all of my decisions were my own, and they always supported whatever I did.

As I drive in silence, I wonder if that’s why I could remain detached enough to continue working when they were killed, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. I’d separated myself from them so much as I grew older that my independence helped me survive losing them from afar.

Sighing, I ponder pulling off the highway for gas and a bite to eat. I have about four more hours until I reach the Hollow, and when I arrive, I have a mountain of things to do to get set up.

I have to go to the house and inspect the re-opening that the staff did to prepare for my arrival. I’ll have to unload my personal items and get my living space squared away—a task that may involve sending furniture or leftover belongings that were my parents to storage. Eventually, I will have an estate sale or sell things online, but I won’t bother until I’m fully settled in.

Once I finish at the house, I have to take the truck to my space on Main Street and unload all the gallery equipment and supplies. That will be an absolute nightmare because though I had the space inspected to ensure that it complied with all the permits and codes necessary to operate my studio and the display space, I won’t believe that it’s accurate until I go over it myself. It will take at least a week to unpack everything there, and another one to get it set up in the manner I prefer.

Whistler’s Hollow has never had an art studio or gallery before, and to be successful in such a small town, I have to make certain that everything gets placed in a way that appeals to the sensibilities of the townspeople. The studio and lessons area will have to appear professional, yet homey, and the gallery can’t be fancy and urban. Everything needs to fit within the mold of the American South without being overtly country bumpkin. The old Southern money in the town must feel at home, yet also feel like they are being very cosmopolitan at the same time.

It’s gonna be an absolute bitch to design.

Shaking my head, I decide that it’s time for a small break. Veering off the next exit that looks like it is a primary thoroughfare, I use one hand to query my GPS on my phone. It points me toward a plaza with a diner where I can get some food, do some sketching on storefront design in my book, and hopefully, find a banging milkshake.

Milkshakes are one of my vices, and I can promise you I’m a connoisseur.

I pull into the back of the lot, using the spaces that trucks and vans gravitate to, and hop out of the cab. Stretching my arms and legs for a moment, I look around. This is definitely the part of town centered on business coming from the highway. The main drag is fast food, hotels, and gas stations—the actual center of town is further off the beaten path.

When my limbs feel solid enough to head inside, I reach into the truck to grab my messenger bag. It’s made from an upcycled leather motorcycle jacket, and they sized the compartments perfectly for my phone, wallet, sketchbooks and pencils, and sundry personal items. It was a gift from the daughter of a fashion designer I worked for in Italy, and there’s not another one like it on the planet.

I love it more than some people love their cars.

After I adjust my sunglasses, I stride across the lot and go into the diner. Smiling at the lady at the counter, I find the booth furthest from the door and sit with my back against the wall. It’s my normal modus operandi, and I think it’s because my parents always used to enjoy sitting in the corner where they could ‘people watch’. I settle in, pulling out my supplies and arranging my workplace. Once it’s ready, I pluck the menu from behind the napkin dispenser and peruse it.

When the server comes over, I look up at her with a smile that I haven’t used in years. “Mornin’, darlin’. What can I getcha?”

I sit the menu down. “You have an impressive selection of desserts. I’m a milkshake fanatic, and your flavor list is amazing. Is it a specialty?”

She laughs, her eyes dancing behind her long falsies. “Desserts are one of the best things we serve. We gotta line cook with a sweet tooth, and his creations are the talk of the town. You’ll be happy with anything you order, sweetheart.”

Thanking the universe for the intuition to stop at this exit with absolutely no pre-planning. I grin. “Okay. Then give me a pot of coffee and the waffles with fix-ins, bacon, and scrambled eggs. And I’ll take the lavender pear milkshake, please.”

“You got it, dearie. I’ll tell Titus to make it all special for ya. I can tell when a gal comes from country stock, you know.”

I chuckle, but this is exactly the behavior that wouldn’t be out of place in the Hollow. “Thank you,” I squint at her name tag, “… Darlene. I’m sure it will be worthy of your praise.”

She scuttles off to place the order and help other customers, and I go back to my work. I open the sketchbook, turning it horizontal so I can start planning the studio space. I could absolutely use my tablet or laptop for this, but as an artist, I love to have tools in my hands before I switch to digital. All of my first drafts, notes, and other work start in sketchbooks and journals before they ever make it to my technology.

Once my food arrives, I sit the rough drawings aside, satisfied that I’ve got an idea of how I will set up the space in terms of furniture and equipment. I don’t think I can truly assess what décor I’ll choose until I can walk the physical layout, see what the town looks like, and absorb some of the current culture. Inhaling the scent of the delicious array on my plate makes me grin, and I dig in with fervor. I didn’t realize that I was starving until now, but I wolf down the eggs and bacon in record time, only stopping to sip my coffee.

As I spread butter, syrup, and fruit on my waffles, I think back to my high school days in the Hollow. Most of the grads leave and don’t return, but a select few come back to their roots and claim their place in the cultural hierarchy. Usually, those are the ones from the top echelon of the social tree, and they become as much part of the town landscape as the streets and stately homes in their neighborhoods. I remember a few of the graduates from my middle school years returning by the time I was ready to leave high school.

Eliot James Cantwell’s father was a big shot that owned a sprawling horse farm just outside of town. He was headed for college when I was in middle school, and by the time I was a senior, he was back at home, taking over the business office for his dad. His twin sister, Fidelia, returned as well, opening a custom boutique on Main, right near the courthouse. Of course, it only catered to the wealthiest families and specialized in garments for cotillions and society events.

Percy Whitman Atwater came back, too, though I think he was a year older than the Cantwells. His family owned the grocery store, the farm that supplied it, and the acres of land used for many events, from farmer’s markets to hayrides. He came back with a fancy business and agriculture degree but took a job in the mayor’s office because his daddy wasn’t ready to hand over the reins yet.

I finally reach for my milkshake, gasping under my breath at the sheer perfection of fruit flavors mixed into the concoction. Holy shit, this is the best milkshake I’ve ever tasted. I catch Darlene’s eye as she bustles past and raise my glass as if to toast the chef. She laughs and winks at me, and I go back to slurping my treat like someone who hasn’t eaten for a year.

When I finish, I pack up my supplies and drop the money for my tab plus a generous tip on the table. I wave at Darlene, so she knows to come pick up the check and head for the bathroom. I figure I should make sure I go before I head out, given that I want to make good time once I pull out. My plan is to drive the rest of the four plus hours straight through, and arrive in the Hollow about two p.m. That should give me enough daylight to get most of the house stuff unloaded before I must seek dinner.

I hit the head quickly, coming out to wash my hands and look in the mirror.

There are light circles under my eyes, underlining the whirlwind of activity that has been my world since the F.B.I. turned me down. I put together this move quickly, including shipping and packing my things from storage, and set up transferring my accounts and belongings to my hometown. There were a lot of sleepless nights and exhausting days that made it possible. My goal was to get home, get my life arranged, and start my investigation. I don’t want to set off any alarm bells or let anyone in town know that I’m trying to figure out why being from Whistler’s Hollow got me shadow banned from my dream career. Whatever the reason is, I can’t imagine that it’s a secret they want to get out.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out a scrunchie and pull my hair up. Since I came back to the States, I let the raven locks grow, and it hangs to middle of my back now. I haven’t had hair like this since high school, and I’m glad that I did it. Looking similar to my former self will help me ingratiate myself with everyone. My green eyes are vivid in the dimly lit bathroom—they’ve always had an eerie quality that made them seem to glow in the dark. Obviously, they don’t actually glow in the dark, but they’re distinctive enough that folks will remember me.

I have to get back on the road. No more staring at the mirror and procrastinating.

With that, I head out the door and to the parking lot, determined to make the hours fly by.