I rounded the last curve and hit the straight stretch of road into town, marveling at the fact that this trip wasn’t the usual week of escape before returning to my condo in the city.
This was neither a summer vacation nor a temporary respite. This time I was in Hidden Creek to stay. It was going to be home.
Even though the reality of my move still hadn’t totally sunk in, my packed-full car confirmed that I was about to become a bona fide citizen of the town.
It was crazy but true. Today marked the start of a brand-new chapter in the life of Ava Ann Milton, and I was excited. Making this place my home was a big step, but I was confident it was also the right step. I was ‘ready to charge and up to the challenge,’ as my high school volleyball coach used to say.
Mixed in with all that excitement, however, was a bone-deep sense of loss. Because me moving here permanently wasn’t the only difference this trip. It was also the first time I would be in Hidden Creek without my grandmother—the person who had always been the real draw to this place. The reason for making the five-hour drive several times a year.
The beautiful soul who was now gone.
Grandma. It was almost impossible for me to believe she wouldn’t be waiting for me at the end of my journey, and the closer I got to the town, the heavier my heart felt. I still hadn’t come to terms with losing the one person who had always been there for me. Who had lavished me with love and kindness my whole life, without expecting perfection in return. She’d loved me for who I was, not for what I accomplished. And she’d done it so well.
I blew out a long breath and took a drink from my water bottle. I’d avoided thinking about Grandma during the entire drive because it wasn’t safe to cry and drive at the same time. Instead I’d concentrated on the move itself and all the good things that were going to come out of it, how excited I was to finally call Hidden Creek home.
Things were getting real now, though. I was almost to town, and a few minutes after that, I’d be pulling up to a dark, quiet, deserted house. A house without Gwendolyn Milton waving to me from the front door, with a smile like sunshine and the smell of my favorite banana bread wafting out around her. A house without the woman who had always been my biggest fan.
I hadn’t realized just how much I counted on her support, how comforting it was to know she was always rooting for me and praying for me, until she was gone.
I blinked back tears as I approached the downtown strip. There was no more holding back the emotion. This was Grandma’s turf, and I couldn’t believe she was no longer here. Four months wasn’t nearly enough time to get used to that sad fact—maybe I’d never really get used to it. Yet here I was, heading right into the memories. Right to her house—the place that would hurt the most and feel the best all at the same time.
In spite of the raw emotion, I was still confident I was doing the right thing. The very thing Grandma had wanted me to do. I’d face an empty house, yes, but it was also my house now. Grandma had left it to me, and in doing so, she had given me a whole new reason to come to Hidden Creek. This time to stay.
I was moving here, to my new-old house, for two reasons. Because Grandma had made it possible, and because I wanted to. Simple as that. It wasn’t because I couldn’t afford to live anywhere else, or because I’d always had the desire to roll up my sleeves and modernize a fifty-year-old home as a DIY project. I also wasn’t moving here because I thought it would help me heal after losing Grandma—although I didn’t think it would hurt. We’d had some wonderful times in that house.
No, I wanted to move here because it was a great little house in a great little town and I was more than a little ready to get out of the city. In fact, I’d started making plans as soon as I found out about Grandma’s will. Honestly, I’d felt like it was a sign that it was finally time to venture out on my own and leave the big city behind. It had never been my thing anyway.
That was why I found myself driving my stuffed-to-the-gills SUV toward Hidden Creek, the picturesque town of fifteen hundred people in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains, anticipating my new life in this place far from where I’d grown up—and about as different as it was possible for two places to be.
***
I’ve lived my whole life—all twenty-five years of it—in Washington, DC. Well, not right in DC, but in a city right across the river, which was almost as congested and, in many ways, even more hoity-toity. Lots of big houses and fancy cars, and not a lot of neighborliness most of the time.
I don’t know why I never considered moving before. I work from home and can do that from any location, so getting away from big-city life has been feasible for a few years already. Yet I’d never given it any thought. I guess that was because, for all its annoyances, it was home. My family was there, and I’d never known anything different. I’d even bought my own condo three years ago, fully expecting to stay there long-term. Or at least until I met my dream man and we moved to the suburbs.
Then Grandma died and left me her house, and everything had changed overnight. I knew without a doubt she’d hoped I would make her house my own, rather than sell it. Lucky for her, Hidden Creek had started calling my name from the minute the will was read. Good thing condos in my home city were easy to rent out.
There was a downside to my decision, however. Neither my parents nor my two older sisters had taken the news well. They themselves would never in a million years consider moving away from their beloved city, and they all believed I was making a huge mistake. Of course, they’re all successful and wealthy and snobby, and they absolutely thrive where they’re at—big houses, classy dinner parties, high-powered jobs….all that “important” stuff they couldn’t live without.
Then there’s me. The unexpected third child ten years younger than my next-oldest sister. The gal whose birth had thrown my obsessively organized plan-out-everything-to-the-nth-degree parents for a total loop.
It was almost tragic. The carefully laid plans of Benson and Judith Milton had included two perfect children, starting two years after they got married, and spaced exactly two years apart. When that had been accomplished, right on schedule, the next thing to check off the list was a vasectomy.
That, too, had been accomplished. Fortunately, for me at least, the master plan didn’t include regular checks to make sure my dad wasn’t one of the exceedingly rare cases where things “reconnect” years later.
Turned out, he was indeed one of those rare cases. Which resulted in a surprise child and—possibly even worse—ruined my mother’s figure at the age of forty. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d heard her complain that her abs had never returned to their former tautness, even though she looked perfectly slim and flawless to me.
It had been such a sore subject with her that I’d felt terribly guilty about it, but only until I’d learned where babies came from. Then I was done with that. The next time she broached the subject and sent the usual irritated glance my way, I’d calmly stated that if they hadn’t done that thing that let Daddy’s seed get into Mommy’s egg, her tummy would still be little.
That was the last I heard about her less-than-satisfactory abs.
Mom’s body issues aside, I was happy to say that once I was born, she and my dad came to accept my presence, disruptive as it was. They even loved me, in their formal, stilted way, which is a big relief considering I was everything my perfect sisters weren’t. Loud, energetic, playful, determined to do things my way instead of following “the plan.”
It wasn’t easy for them. While my sisters, Ella and Audrey, played piano, excelled in debate clubs, and held student government positions, I insisted on playing sports and going to public school instead of the expensive private institutions my parents considered so important to the proper formation of the Milton daughters.
I didn’t choose my own path because I wanted to rebel. I did it because I somehow knew, even at a young age, that I had to be true to myself. Conforming would have been the easy way out, but it wasn’t my way. And so, while my parents shook their heads and threw up their hands at my antics, and my sisters rolled their eyes dozens of times per day and locked me out of their rooms more often than not, I found my own way.
So, yes, my parents loved me in their own way, despite my bewildering nonconformity, but no one loved me as fiercely as my paternal grandmother. From the beginning, Gwendolyn Milton recognized me as a child after her own heart. She’d never been much of a conformist, either, and the two of us shared a bond that couldn’t be denied. Therefore, it had seemed totally natural to everyone that I began spending summers with her from the age of eight on. By that time, my parents were busy with college and potential suitors for my sisters, and it was easier not to have a child underfoot. Plus, they knew I was with a great lady who loved me deeply and took wonderful care of me in her darling little house, in the equally darling little town of Hidden Creek, Tennessee.
I’d spent seven entire summers there with Grandma, until I’d turned fifteen, gotten serious about volleyball, and started playing on summer travel teams. I’d continued to visit her at least three times a year, however, right up until she passed. I’d also helped her buy a smartphone and learn to text and Facetime, so it was easier to keep in touch. And I’d never ignored any message or call from her.
I was so glad we stayed close, because she died totally unexpectedly from a stroke. There’d been no warning, no lingering illness. I still had to deal with the grief of losing her, but at least I didn’t have any guilt about not being present in her life.
Yeah, I’d been a good granddaughter, but that was mostly because Grandma made it so easy.
***
I slowed down as I reached the first buildings of the town, taking it all in. The storefronts were quaint and old-fashioned, in good repair for the most part. Some of them were painted in bright colors, while others retained their original white. Many of them had a bench by the front door, encouraging people to sit down and stay for a spell.
Both sides of the entire street were lined with petunias in varying shades of red, purple, pink, and white. It had been that way every summer for as long as I could remember. Hidden Creek took great pride in its famous flower beds, and many teenagers jumped at the chance to earn a little extra spending money when property owners hired them to maintain their section of blooms.
I smiled through the tears. My town. This was my town now. I was going to settle here, at least for the foreseeable future, and it felt amazing. I was so looking forward to being a real member of the community. Shopping at the locally owned grocery and hardware stores, going to Grandma’s church every Sunday, maybe even volunteering for a non-profit or two, which would give me the opportunity to give back and to meet people. People in my town.
Man, I really loved the sound of that.
I drove past a gas station/convenience store combo, then the hardware store, and a barber shop where you can also get your shoes repaired. Across the street was the old-fashioned “dime store”—as Grandma always called it—where you could get crafting supplies, makeup, gardening tools, underwear, and everything in between.
Next was a small pizza restaurant, then the post office beside a surprisingly trendy coffee shop, and then a large office complex set back off the street. That building had sprung up only a few years ago and, according to the sign, it housed a dentist, an insurance agency, a financial advisor, a construction company, and a couple other businesses I didn’t catch as I drove by.
The last part of the downtown strip held a gift shop, a bakery, the local bank, a florist, and at the very end of the block, the grocery store, where I had to stop before going on to the house. Although I’d stuffed my SUV full of things I knew I’d need before the moving truck arrived in three days, I hadn’t brought much food. I needed to make a quick grocery run to tide me over until I could plan a mega-shopping trip to fill all the empty cupboards.
I found a parking spot just around the corner from the front entrance, grabbed my wallet, and went inside. Of course, the store was exactly the same as it had always been, right down to the old-fashioned bubblegum machines just beyond the check-out lanes, and the faded banner painted on the back wall advertising the freshest produce at the lowest prices.
I loved it all. I didn’t want the iconic Hidden Creek businesses to ever change.
I tugged a cart from the row at the front of the store and mentally ticked through the list of things I needed. Sandwich stuff, cereal, orange juice, milk, maybe a few cans of soup. And coffee. Definitely coffee.
I walked up and down the aisles, glad for the chance to stretch my legs after the long drive. I’d located everything but the coffee when I heard my name called from behind.
“Ava Ann, is that you, dear?”
I turned around, surprised to hear my name, and my gaze fell on…..Priscilla. Priscilla O’Malley, to be exact, aka my grandmother’s best frenemy. At least, that’s what I’d always considered her. The two women had grown up together and been nearly inseparable all their lives, but their relationship was a tumultuous one. They competed over everything. Who grew the best flowers. Who was the best baker. Who crocheted the most intricate doilies. Who was the better decorator.
The list went on and on. Gwendolyn and Priscilla each would have given their life for the other in a heartbeat, that was a fact, but while they’d both lived, they were in constant competition.
As I watched Priscilla approach, her steps small and quick behind an overloaded cart, I realized the competition was over now, and the thought was unbearably sad. I felt the sting of tears as she flung her arms wide and I stepped into her hug.
“Oh, you dear, dear girl,” she said fervently, patting my back rapidly as she held on tight. “You poor, poor thing. Such a sweet, sweet girl for coming here to take care of your grandma’s place. But….you’re not really moving in, are you?” Priscilla pulled back and stared at me through her large glasses, the frames embellished with rhinestones. “I heard you were moving in, but that can’t be right. Why would you leave a big exciting city for little old Hidden Creek?”
“Oh, I’m definitely moving in,” I told her. “I’ve always loved Hidden Creek, you know that. And when I found out Grandma left me her house, I knew I had to come.”
She tutted and patted my arm. “But surely you’re going to have some work done beforehand, right? You can’t move in with the kitchen that terrible shade of yellow. And the drapes in the living room—I tried to tell Gwendolyn they were much too heavy and dark, but would she listen? Of course not. When did she ever listen to me?”
I opened my mouth to defend Grandma’s choices, but then I saw the tears glistening in the faded blue eyes behind the thick lenses.
“I miss her too, Priscilla,” I said, smiling gently. “How’ve you been?”
She waved a hand. “So-so, my dear, so-so. Things are different without Gwen. And my sciatica is acting up again. I haven’t been able to go on my walks for three weeks now, which is a shame because the town has a lovely new walking trail—and I was up to half a mile.”
“Half? Wow, that’s impressive. I’m so sorry your regimen was interrupted.”
Priscilla nodded sadly. “It’s a cryin’ shame. Now Donna and Rosie are going to pass me. Rumor has it they’re closing in on a whole mile, but they’re trying to keep it all a big secret until they get there so they can make a big announcement at the sewing circle meeting. But Sarah Beth heard them bragging about it to Donna’s visiting cousin, so that cat’s out of the bag.”
I tried to keep my smile hidden. “Well, I think it’s great that all you ladies are seeing the importance of exercise,” I said sincerely. “Maybe when your doctor clears you to get back out there, you and I could take a stroll.”
“I’ll call you,” she promised, jumping all over that. “Just don’t invite Donna and Rosie. They’ll try to show us up, and we can’t have that.”
“Definitely not.”
“Did you see that Cool Whip is on sale this week, dear? It’s always good to have a tub or two on hand for desserts. And Jell-O is buy two, get one free.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I suddenly remembered that Grandma had always taken Jell-O salads to the church potluck dinners, which meant Priscilla probably did the same. It made me feel emotional all over again and I cleared my throat, fighting tears. “I just need to grab some coffee yet, then I’ll head on over to the house. You’ll have to stop by sometime, once I get settled in.”
“You bet I will. You can show me all the things you plan to do to the place. The girls at the sewing circle will want to hear all about it.”
“Um, yeah, I’m sure they will. You take care, Priscilla.”
“You too, Ava Ann. Will we see you at church on Sunday?”
Her eyes had a laser focus now and I quickly nodded. “I’ll be there.”
She relaxed and patted my hand again. “That’s a good girl. Gwen would be proud. Go on and get your coffee, now. The Folgers is on sale.”
“Great, thanks,” I said, making my escape and hurrying into the next aisle before she could think of anything else that needed saying. I tossed a bag of Folgers into my cart, then headed to the front, managing to check out and clear the store without any more of Grandma’s friends making an appearance.
I left the business section of the town behind and drove through two residential blocks. At the stop sign I turned left, then right, then drove almost a quarter mile farther, just past the village limits, to Apple Tree Drive. Left onto the dead end street, then all the way down to the second to the last house on the right.
5201 Apple Tree Drive. Home.
I smiled at the sight, even though my eyes had started stinging again. I ordered myself to think of the happy times. The house was empty, yes, but I had so many joyful memories. Memories that would be with me until my own death.
Even so, the way I felt as I pulled into the drive was the very definition of bittersweet. I turned off the car and just sat there, my throat aching from pent-up emotion. How could I go in there? How could I face the emptiness?
My phone sounded with a familiar text tone, providing a much-needed distraction. The sound was muffled because the phone was way at the bottom of my purse, and it took me a bit to find it. From the tone, I already knew the text was from Myla Garrett, my best friend and fellow Hidden Creek resident—although, unfortunately she wasn’t here now because she’d enlisted in the army over three years ago and was currently stationed in Arizona.
I hated that I was here and she wasn’t, but I was extremely proud of her for serving in the military. She was thriving in the army and took her job very seriously, even though her reason for enlisting had been to escape from a bad breakup rather than a strong patriotic desire. Apparently, small towns aren’t so great when you’re running into your ex at every corner. Myla couldn’t take being around hers, so she’d looked for a way out.
The army had offered the quickest escape—so quick in fact, that no one even knew about her plans until she’d already taken the test and signed the enlistment papers. As soon as she got her dates for boot camp, she’d quit her job as a loan officer at the bank and hightailed it to Fort Benning.
I’m sorry to say she hasn’t darkened the streets of Hidden Creek since, although I haven’t given up hope that she’ll return when her enlistment is up in another six months. It just doesn’t seem right that I’m finally here to stay and she isn’t.
Myla and I go way back—so far back I can hardly remember life before she was in it. Our first meeting was in Sunday school at Hidden Creek United Methodist, the very first summer I spent with Grandma. We’d started off as two skeptical second-graders eying each other warily the first few Sundays, then we’d begun making small overtures of friendship. I gave her the little box of raisins Grandma had tucked into my pocket to keep my stomach from growling during church, and Myla gave me a pencil with pink flowers from a pack she’d been given by the teacher for memorizing Bible verses.
Soon we were fast friends. It was a friendship that had not only survived our long separations, but grown stronger each summer. She’d even visited me in the city several times after I’d taken up volleyball and stopped coming for extended visits. When we graduated from high school, we’d chosen to go camping and hiking in West Virginia for a week, just the two of us, instead of joining our respective classmates partying it up during “beach week.”
We were really bad at camping and we got nasty blisters from the hiking, but it was one of the best weeks of my life.
I finally located my phone and read her text.
Are you there yet?
I quickly replied. Just pulled up to the house. Trying to get up the nerve to go inside. Can’t imagine it without her.
Ugh, I know. It still hasn’t sunk in that she’s gone. But it’ll be ok. She’d love knowing you’re moving in.
I opened the car door, typing a response as I got out. That’s true. I just wish you were here to help me get settled in. You sure you don’t want to go AWOL?
When she didn’t immediately reply, I began to regret my teasing comment. Pushing her to come back before she was ready might make her mad, yet I wanted her to know how much I would love to have her here.
It’s always been hard for me to know what I should or shouldn’t say on the subject of her leaving town, because I don’t know what happened between her and the guy she was dating back then. All I know is that whatever it was, it not only drove her away in the first place, it’s still keeping her away.
I’ve given up hoping Myla will tell me more details. To this day, I know very little about their relationship. When they were dating, all I knew was that he was a new guy in town, and Myla had fallen hard and fast. I hadn’t heard from her much in the few months they were together, which, to be honest, I’d been pretty peeved about. I mean, we’d always talked about boys, the ones we liked and the ones we didn’t, and this was her first real boyfriend. I should have gotten all the details. Instead, she’d all but cut me off.
It hurt, and I’d sulked for a while. I understood why her first serious boyfriend would take priority over an absentee friend, I just didn’t like the feeling of being cast aside for something new and more exciting.
Three months later they’d broken up, which I learned about only because her mother told my grandmother. She said Myla’s devastation had been so great it had driven her to seek escape by signing up for four years at whatever base the army saw fit to send her to.
The whole thing had been so weird. A week after I heard the news, Myla herself had called to tell me about the enlistment. She didn’t come right out and apologize for her long silence, but I could tell she felt bad. It was also obvious she was suffering. Of course, I’d forgiven her immediately, even without her asking, and then I’d tried to get her to talk things out so I could understand what she was going through.
First, she tried to claim she was simply sick of Hidden Creek and needed to get out before she suffocated. I called her out on that lie. She’d always loved the town, and I wasn’t buying it. When I’d flat-out asked her if it was because of the guy, she got snippy with me, and I could tell it was because she was having a hard time containing her emotions.
Eventually, she’d told me the bare minimum. She referred to the guy only as JP—as if she was afraid if I knew more than his initials I’d try to look him up somehow, even though I’d never set up a Facebook account and I wasn’t the stalking type. She’d also revealed that the mysterious JP worked for a construction firm, he was a total jerk, and she wanted to forget he’d ever been a part of her life.
And with that, she’d asked me to not mention him again.
There had been so much more I wanted to know, but she was adamant in her refusal to talk about him. It bothered me terribly, because I felt like, as her best friend, I could help if she would just trust me. But at least we were talking again, and since I wanted that to continue, I put my hurt feelings aside and let it go.
Once Myla realized I wasn’t going to keep pushing her, she’d started acting more normal, and pretty soon we were back to communicating as much as we ever had—aside from the months she spent in boot camp with very limited access to her phone.
But I’d never learned anything more about JP.
***
After waiting a couple minutes for a reply text, I sighed and pocketed the phone while I rooted once again in my purse, this time for the house keys. I really hoped Myla didn’t think I was trying to make her feel guilty about not being here. It’s just that I was feeling a little lonely and nostalgic. How awesome would it be to actually live in the same town as my best friend after all these years? It would’ve happened, too, if not for that idiot JP.
Her text tone sounded again just as I saw the glint of keys in my bag. I grabbed them with one hand and my phone with the other.
Can’t go AWOL, but maybe, just maybe, I’ll look into taking some leave time so I can come see how you’re doing.
My heart leapt when I read those words, because I knew even the suggestion was huge for her. Huge. I hoped to goodness she meant it.
I kept my reply casual, determined not to push.
That would be so great. I’ll be a lonely gal until I meet some people here.
Come on, you already know all Gwen’s friends. LOL. And you could always buy a cat to keep you company.
I literally laughed out loud at that. You’re seriously going to let me become a lonely old cat lady? No thanks. I’ll hold out for your scintillating presence.
Yeah well it won’t be any time real soon. Maybe a couple of months.
That was longer than I’d hoped, but way better than nothing. Fine. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that. Thanks for checking in. I’m gonna be brave and unlock the door now. Later, bestie.
Buck up, buttercup. You’ll be fine.
Yes, I would be, in time. But as I stepped inside the front door, I knew some major tears were going to be shed. I’d mourned Grandma an awful lot already, but walking into her silent house made my loss feel raw and painful all over again.
I walked down the hall to the living room and stood there looking around, taking it all in. Memories pressed in on me, making my throat ache. I noticed a musty smell and quickly busied myself with opening a few windows, trying to get a cross-breeze going.
If Grandma was still alive, she’d have been ushering me into the kitchen for banana bread right now, her arm around my waist, her gait a little stiff because of the knee replacement she’d had a few years ago. I’d always loved our catch-up talks over warm baked goods, and it hurt so much to know it was never going to happen again.
I closed my eyes and gave in to the memories, letting them wash over me here in her house. Mrs. Gwendolyn Marion Milton had truly been one of a kind. When I was growing up, before I switched to public school, most of my peers were from well-off families. They had youngish, hip grandmothers who were still in their fifties and early sixties. These trendy ladies went to the gym and the spa and the theater. They dressed in expensive, stylish clothes, and their hair and makeup was impeccable at all times. They took my friends to malls and boutiques, spoiling them with cool clothes and gadgets, making sure their beloved grands were solidly part of the haves, rather than the have-nots.
I seriously doubted whether any of those fancy grandmothers had ever baked a loaf of calorie-laden banana bread—or even allowed their cooks to make such a thing.
My own grandma was neither young nor hip. She was seventy when I was only ten, eighty-five when she died. When I came to visit, she fixed me three big meals a day, heavy on the meat and potatoes, light on the salads. She baked delicious, comforting desserts. She crocheted doilies and afghans. She dressed up for church, but her everyday attire involved an assortment of indestructible, double-knit polyester pants in various colors, most of which I’d bet good money were a minimum of thirty years old when she died.
Every Saturday morning found her at the hair salon, having her blue-tinted hair coaxed into curls that would hopefully last the week. To that end, she wore a weird little cap thingie to bed each night, pulled snugly up over the curls by way of a drawstring at the top, which made her silhouette in the night-light look a lot like an alien when she peered into my bedroom to make sure I was tucked in tight and all was well.
My elderly, decidedly un-hip grandma was also the smartest, funniest person I’d ever known, and she loved me madly and unconditionally. I wouldn’t change her for the world. And right now, I was missing her like crazy.
I crossed the living room and curled up in her favorite wingback chair, the one with the extra-large doily hanging over the back, and gave in to the sobs I’d known would come.
When my head started pounding from the long bout of crying, I tried to talk myself into acceptance. Eighty-five years was a good, long life, right? I should be glad I’d had her for as long as I had, right?
Maybe that was true…..but it didn’t seem like long enough. I wanted her back.