She was also muttering to herself again. I was sure she wasn’t aware of it, especially given all her weird tics. She’d gone on and on about Molly and Ryan while approaching the ice cream section—about how Molly owned a cat, and she and Ryan were going to hook up. But Molly Patterson was allergic to cats, and Ryan Johnson was sixty-eight years old—in addition to having been happily married for forty-seven years. Molly and Ryan were definitely not hooking up, no matter what this loon thought.
But that wasn’t all that was weird about her. The entire time she’d been checking me out in front of the freezer, her right eye kept winking. It was unsettling, like some kind of alien Morse code.
And that was too bad, because she had gorgeous green eyes with flecks of bright gold in them.
I watched her make off with the last of the ice cream I’d been craving for the past three years. The temptation to grab it out of her cart had been hard to resist, but somehow I’d managed.
Those fists she’d raised weren’t much of a threat. But the teeth she’d kept baring? Definitely dangerous. And who knew what she might be carrying? Her cart didn’t have anything except crackers and alcohol, plus the Bouncy Bare Monkeys I rightfully should’ve been enjoying tonight to celebrate surviving my twenty-hour flight.
It’d been three years since I’d last visited my grandmother in Kingstree. What the hell had happened to the nice, quaint little town since then to have that? I asked myself as I watched her check out. At least she had some money, even if it was probably from panhandling. The folks in Kingstree were generous. And when she batted those eyes—or not, since she had that weird winking tic—and pouted that soft rosebud mouth, I bet people gave her whatever change they could scrounge from their pockets and car seats.
An unsettling feeling came over me as she left. I shook my head and headed to the liquor section to grab a consolation prize—some of Hop Hop Hooray’s specialty beer. Why did I feel so…perturbed? It wasn’t like I’d never seen a wack-case before. Being out on tour was like a magnet for them.
But you’ve never felt a spark for one before.
I pulled myself up short. A spark? For her?
I mean, there was definitely a weird sensation. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and my skin prickled. But that had been annoyance and disbelief, not a spark. I hadn’t felt a spark in…
Too damn long.
My mood deflated further. My sister Miriam said I was burned out, and that was why everything felt about as exciting as a wet blanket in a rainforest. She would know—she was the queen of burnout, having gone through it three times already. I’d been busy, working nonstop for over a decade. And although my band had made a big splash five years ago, and the media still called us “an overnight sensation,” the actual work to get ready for our debut had taken years of dedication, day and night.
Recently, I hadn’t been able to muster the energy or creativity to write songs or play music. And it had been scary as hell backstage after our final concert when my vision went blurry…then turned black. Since then, I hadn’t come up with a single new lyric or idea for where the band should go next, creatively and musically. And that was more terrifying than passing out. My brain had never been such a black hole of nothingness when it came to music.
Granted, my band mates had their own ideas, but I’d never failed to provide some kind of opinion—some meaningful contribution.
Being back in Kingstree should help, though. This was my true home, with friendly folks treating me like a person rather than some celebrity to hassle. They were too familiar with my teenage shenanigans to be awed by my current fame.
I stopped abruptly in front of the beer section, my jaw slack. Not a single bottle of Hop Hop Hooray beer. Are you kidding me?
I spun around and marched to the cashier, Jenny. I tried to remember how old she was now…fourteen? Fifteen? She was the daughter of my junior prom date, who’d married the captain of the high school football team the next year when she found out she was pregnant. Because Jenny hadn’t witnessed my colorful history of teenage pranks and dares, she looked at me with half awe and half shyness. But unlike the people I encountered outside of Kingstree, she implicitly understood the proper boundaries, just like everyone in this town. She’d never take a photo and upload it on whatever junky social media kids these days liked to be on.
“Hi, Mr. Axelrod,” she squeaked. “Or should I call you Killian?”
“Killian’s fine. Do you have any more Hop Hop Hooray in the back?”
She shook her head, her young face falling. “I’m so sorry. Gerry put everything out before heading home.” She cleared her throat. “I think Emily bought it all.”
“Emily?” I didn’t remember any vagrant named Emily in Kingstree. And even though I’d been away, Grandma had kept me in the loop.
“You know, the lady who checked out a few minutes ago?”
“That cra—” I caught myself before I called her a “crazy hobo.” It probably wasn’t an appropriate thing to say in front of Jenny.
“Yeah. Have you met her?” She blinked her big, owlish brown eyes, then continued without waiting for a response. “I’m sure you will soon. Sometimes she doesn’t leave the house for, like, forever. But she’s your next-door neighbor.”
“My what?” I asked, stunned.
“Next-door neighbor. She bought the old Thompson place. You know.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly.
She grinned, then leaned closer with an eager light in her eyes. “When she bought it last year, the roof needed to be replaced. And she chose pink! I heard it was a custom job. Cool, huh? Told Mom we should do the same to our house, but she’s totally not into spending that kind of money, which seems crazy to me. Pink is such a cool color!”
I nodded, not paying attention to the rest of the gossip pouring out of her eager mouth. I left the store dazed and empty-handed as my brain tried to work overtime to find a way to digest what Jenny had just shared.
Grandma had mentioned the neighbor who’d moved to Kingstree a year and a half ago several times.
A nice, sweet girl. A true Virginia lady.
Her job must be important. She’s always working. It’s impossible to catch her for tea or even a neighborly chat. Since she moved next door three months ago, I think I’ve run into her twice. Exceptionally polite. Such lovely bearing.
Oh, did you know she attended UVA? And Harvard for some kind of master’s degree. A smart child. Wonderful, isn’t it?
She has the most elegant name. Emily. I always wanted to name my daughter that if I’d ever had one. I wish you could meet her. You would love her.
I invited her to dinner. She’s all alone, and she could use some company.
My mental picture of “Emily” had consisted of a lady because Grandma had said so. Elegant, too. Maybe in a pale dress and slim-heeled shoes, her hair perfectly done, nails flawlessly shaped and lacquered. Speaking with precise, proper diction. And her manners impeccable.
Not some ice-cream-thieving maniac in dumpster couture who walked around muttering to herself.
I drove to the house Grandma left me when she passed away last September, then slowed down as its pink-roofed neighbor came into view. The same neatly trimmed lawn and small pine tree in front. But the walls were buttercream-colored now, and colorful gnomes held giant lollipops.