Page 37 of Last Seen

Chapter Twenty-Five

Halley

Halley feels like she’s entered Oz. There are no yellow brick roads or dead witches with striped socks and ruby slippers or Lollipop Guilds to welcome her, sure, but from the moment she crosses into Brockville, the sense that she’s gone somewhere different is pervasive.

She weaves her way through the woods, carefully following the posted ten-miles-per-hour speed limit, though the traffic-calming bumps are placed perfectly to impede the ability to go any faster without launching the Jeep into the air.

She’s glad it’s not totally dark; the woods are as close and imposing as her own at home, and she imagines this place is pretty spooky in the dead of night.

And then she’s in the town center, facing a well-lit lake, a fountain shooting to the sky. The last of the sun shimmers on the water’s glassy surface. A charming path meanders around the water. Dogs play off their leashes; children run screaming around the most intricate playground she’s ever seen.

It’s like a modern Mayberry, but sophisticated, swanky. The buildings probably win awards for their architectural elegance; it’s hard to balance chic and homey, but the white walls and black windows and cedar accents do just that.

People smile and wave from their electric golf carts.

Plenty are walking; the wide sidewalks are full.

A woman jogs with a high-end double stroller, two identical babies inside goggling at the world.

There’s a bookseller to her left, with a crowd; they must be having an event.

The sign above the building she’s facing says General Store .

It’s more cedar and black, like the bookstore, with carved posts and gaslights flanking glass double doors.

Cottage-style houses with large porches and no visible garages line the streets, flanking the amenities, and people on the porches watch the scene benevolently, happy and content.

Every door is a different color: deep blues, pinks, black, purple, and sunshine yellow.

Some are glass, and she can see right into the living rooms. This is the heart of the little town, she can tell. What a reception for a stranger.

She finds a place to park—free, happily—and plays a quick game of Eeney, Meeney, Miney, Mo among the storefronts and settles on the General Store to make her first inquiries. The bookseller will be next if she strikes out here.

The store is in a glammed-up cabin. Fairy lights string across the street above her.

It’s a rustic ski chalet in Aspen on the outside, but the moment you step in from the stone-and-cedar porch, it’s clear this is the grocery store.

There’s a state-of-the-art cooler with drinks and snacks, tables and chairs, and shelves advertising gluten-free and keto food.

Bespoke farm-to-table meats and cheese line the cases, plus ready-to-heat-and-eat packages, all made “right here in Brockville.” Racks of fresh vegetables receive audible thunderstorms before they are sprayed with water.

Barrels advertise the local honey, and floor-to-ceiling wooden racks showcase a bottle waterfall of the local wines.

A few people browse for their evening meals. And there are four teenagers behind the register, smiling happily at her.

She approaches with her own smile. Kids are easier.

“Hi!” they say in unison, four pure, innocent voices offering succor to the weary traveler.

“Hi there,” Halley replies. “I was wondering if you could direct me to the writers’ retreat.”

Four comically confused faces.

“The Brockville Writers’ Retreat?” she repeats, as if the formal name will make a difference.

The fourth kid on the right says, “No, we know what you mean. It’s just not in session now.”

“Oh.” Good job, Halley. You didn’t think to see if it was a regular thing.

The third kid chimes in. “But one of the instructors, Tammy Boone, lives here in town. Maybe you could talk to her. I don’t know if they take in-person applications.”

Kid Two shakes her perfect blond head. “No, it’s really exclusive.”

Kid One: “But Tammy likes to eat around this time, so if you want to talk to her, you could find her at the Rustic Crust. Noah had a special tonight, so most everyone is there.”

Kid Four: “That’s a great idea, One.”

Did Halley just hear that right? Did Four really call that kid One? Or is she tired and hearing things? Not to mention—Tammy Boone. That’s the person the cop in Nashville said filed a report on her sister. Bingo.

“Thanks, Cody.” The girl dimples at him, and he blushes a deep red.

Halley has to get this right. “Your name is ...?”

“Jenna Whon. Nice to meet you. You are?”

Ah. So she’d misheard slightly. Still, that was funny. “I’m Halley. Halley James.”

The moment it’s out of her mouth, she mentally kicks herself. Way to be incognito, idiot. Too late now. “So where is this restaurant?”

They must have it practiced, because each kid hands her a piece of literature, one after the other.

Town brochure. Real estate listings. A brochure for the Inn at Brockville—it’s late enough she might consider staying there instead of going back out to the highway motels.

Then One plops her sheet down on the counter, and Halley takes in a detailed map of the area.

“We’re here.” One draws a small X in pencil. “The Rustic Crust is here, in Glaston. I’d drive your Jeep if it were me. They have parking.” She draws the lines with exaggerated care so there’s no missing the path Halley is supposed to take.

She knows what car I’m in, Halley thinks. Are there cameras? Were they watching out the window? She realizes it’s just her and these four teenagers in the building now; the other folks who were shopping have disappeared. Maybe out the back? Weird.

“Left, then right at the sign to Glaston, you’ll pass the farm, and then all the restaurants are in a row.

That’s where everyone is right now,” One says, almost as if she read Halley’s mind.

“Dinner service starts at seven. Noah’s making a lobster pizza tonight, it’s the best anyone’s ever had.

It’s a crossover night between Pesche and the Rustic Crust. You can get the pizza at both restaurants.

Main Street Eats is the other restaurant, but I’m willing to bet Ms. Boone’s at the RC.

It’s always a special occasion when Noah cross-pollinates. ”

Four chimes in. “And if you stay at the Inn, in the morning, you can go to the Steep and Brew for your coffee. Or Croissant Moon, but they don’t open until ten.

You do drink coffee, right? If not, they have a wide assortment of teas.

The juice bar next door is to die for. Do you need us to look at the Inn, see if there’s a room available? ”

Two smiles. Three smiles. Four smiles. One smiles.

They’re like perfect little hospitality robots. Wind them up and watch them go. Maybe she was wrong about the Lollipop Guild after all.

“Thanks,” Halley says. “That would be great. I’ll go check all this out. Appreciate your help.”

“You’re welcome,” they say in unison. One continues alone with another charming smile. “Leave us your phone number, and I’ll give you a shout once we know about the Inn.”

Halley does and is relieved to get back outside into the cool mountain air.

She looks up the name “Tammy Boone,” finds the woman’s website.

There is a smiling photo under the “About Me” section, a glamour shot of a bottle blonde with blue eye shadow and her hand under her chin.

Maybe not the most current look, but enough that Halley will be able to identify her.

She consults the map, then turns the Jeep southwest into the hamlet called Glaston.

The sun has set now, and she must navigate by the streetlights.

She assumes they’re solar; a large box attaches to the bases with reflectors on it, and the signs are well lit and easy to follow.

Golf carts whizz past in the opposite direction.

She sees a stylized sign: The Farm . And another two blocks of the black, white, and cedar cottages later, the street opens up into another small-town square.

As promised, there are three restaurants in a row.

Pesche and the Rustic Crust flank Main Street Eats.

Pesche’s building is sharper than the other two.

She’s impressed that the architecture so obviously signals the level of dining experience.

The lights of the restaurants bleed onto the street; they are packed. There are outside tables with heaters, too, also packed.

There’s parking on the street, but not a single empty spot, so she follows the signs down a small alley to parking in the back of the restaurants.

Walks around to the entrance of the Rustic Crust—the RC, according to the Stepford Quadruplets.

A hostess with a wide smile and a bun of blond confection on top of her head greets her.

“Hi! We’re pretty slammed but I might be able to get you a seat at the bar. ”

“Thanks. I’m actually looking for someone. Tammy Boone?”

The girl’s face falls, just a bit. “Um ...”

Halley has a moment of realization. Tammy Boone is a minor celebrity. Strangers must come looking for her all the time.

“I’m sorry, that must have sounded weird. You have to protect her privacy, I know.” Halley leans in conspiratorially. “I’m a former student, passing through town. I was hoping to give her a hug and tell her what I’m up to. I just got a book deal!”

“Oh! Oh my God, congratulations! That’s amazing. I bet she’ll be so excited. She’s over there, in the corner. Table for eight.”

Halley follows the pointed finger and nods her thanks. “Appreciate it.”

“I’ll get you a chair. We’ll shove it in somewhere.”

Halley weaves through the happy chaos that is the pizza joint. The delicious smells make her mouth water—she’s hungry. Everyone here is so cheerful. Happy. Engaged with their tablemates. There’s not a single cell phone or iPad in sight. It’s almost weird.

At the corner table for eight, she scans some faces until she finds the one she’s looking for.

Boone’s in the back corner, where she can see the whole room—and be seen, of course.

The blond hair is now a more natural mousy brown shot with silver, and she looks to be telling a joke; everyone is laughing uproariously and her face is flushed red with merriment.

Or wine. There are jugs of Chianti on the tables, and white candles burn and drip wax down the edges of empty bottles.

She approaches and waits for Tammy to notice her.

The hostess trots over with a chair. “Tammy, hey! Mind if we squeeze her in here?” She plops the chair down, and a couple of people shove over. “Congrats again on the deal,” the girl says and hurries off.

Tammy looks drunkenly terrified. Halley waves. “Hi. Remember me?”

Tammy is either too drunk to admit she doesn’t, or doesn’t want to seem rude, because she rearranges her face and pats the chair. “Of course I do. Have a seat.”

Halley does. “Hi. Thanks for this.”

Tammy stares. “I am sorry, but I can’t say that I recall your name. I have so many names in my head, characters and such, and I teach a lot of people.”

Halley leans over and says, “Nice to meet you, Ms. Boone. I’m Halley James. I think you might have known my sister. Catriona Handon.”

There is a sharp gasp from the writer, who then buries her face in her wine. Halley realizes the redness might be a more permanent feature from excessive alcohol intake rather than current merriment.

“I’m sorry to just appear like this,” she says quietly. “I really need to talk to you.”

“I don’t know if I have anything to say,” Boone replies. “Anyway, I’m busy at the moment. Obviously.”

It comes out “obvioushly” in a slur, and Halley nods her understanding. “Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner. Could we talk after you finish eating? It’s very important, and I’ve come a long way.”

“So long ago,” Tammy says, almost to herself.

“Fifteen years. Please, Ms. Boone.”

Boone finishes her wine and pushes back from the table. “Ten minutes. Let’s go to the Steep and Brew. It will be quieter.”

She gets to her feet, excuses herself from her friends, and gestures for Halley to walk in front of her. They are halfway to the door when a rangy, handsome man with blue eyes and floppy brown hair steps into their path. He’s wearing chef’s whites. He feels familiar, but Halley has no idea why.

“Tammy! Going so soon? Did you enjoy the pizza?”

The woman’s entire demeanor changes. She shifts her body so her bosom is more prominent, and her face turns coquettish. “Noah Brockton, you’ve outdone yourself, again. No one can make a lobster scream like you.”

“Aw, shucks, ma’am,” he teases right back. “You heard them screaming all the way from Maine, I bet. Who’s your friend?”

Halley looks up to see the man watching her with a raised brow. His eyes are a peculiar shade of blue, very dark, and his stare is direct. “Halley James,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I’m visiting town.”

“Welcome to Brockville, Halley James.”

“Brockville, Brockton ... Is there a connection?”

“Sort of. My dad was the one who founded Brockville. I take it you haven’t read the brochure yet.” He laughs, and the joyful freedom of it makes her laugh, too.

“I guess I haven’t.”

“We should go,” Tammy urges. “Great work as always, Noah.”

“ Merci beaucoup ,” he says in a beautiful French accent.

“ Au revoir , Tammy, and friend of Tammy.” He has a nice smile, not the feigned happiness of the others she’s encountered, but warm and genuine.

She can’t help but glance back as they leave the restaurant.

And is surprised to see him watching her, a look of faint confusion on his face.