Dark Hollows. Steve Frech

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СКАЧАТЬ normally wouldn’t do an extra check, but tonight, I’m breaking a rule.

      Here’s the deal—a few years ago, my parents died. We weren’t particularly close. In fact, we weren’t close at all, which is strange for an only child, but there was history. They were the successful, wealthy, married couple who had done everything right, while I was nothing but one dumb decision after another. I could never get my feet under me and it was my own fault. I squandered every chance they gave me.

      It got so bad that they finally cut me off after I screwed around my sophomore year in college. I had to find another way to pay my tuition, which I did. I told them I got a job, but not the whole story about what the job was. They were pleased that I had finally taken responsibility for myself and tried to reconnect but for me, the damage had been done. I wanted nothing to do with them. There were obligatory phone calls on Christmas and birthdays, filled with awkward conversations. I was living in Portland, Maine, while they had moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina.

      Their passing was quick. Mom became ill. I offered to come down and help out, because that’s what an only child does, right, even if we hadn’t really spoken in years? Dad declined my offer, claiming he could handle it. Well, he couldn’t. The stress got to him and he had a heart attack. It was over before he hit the floor. I got the call from the nurse Dad had hired to look after Mom. On my way down to the funeral, Mom passed away. The nurse said it was from a broken heart. I didn’t know how to feel. They hadn’t been a part of my life for so long, it felt like they were already gone, but I did wish that I had maybe tried to patch things up.

      The dual funeral was surreal. There were a lot of people there, and I didn’t know any of them. When they found out who I was, they came up and commented on how painful and sad it must be for me, and what wonderful people my parents had been. I tried to be sympathetic, but I worried that they would be able to tell that I really didn’t know my parents. The worst was having to give a speech. I felt like a fraud. No, I was a fraud. Thankfully, any question of my sincerity could be chalked up to shock and grief. I felt guilty for not knowing them. All those people were moved by their passing, and I was ashamed of myself. I pictured what my funeral would look like, and it was not a well-attended affair.

      Then came the will.

      My parents left me everything. There was no personal declaration in it—no directions as to what I was supposed to do with their life’s savings. There was only the simple instruction that I was to receive everything. I assumed that it was their way of saying that I had shown myself worthy after making my own way. Maybe they were saying that they were sorry. Maybe they thought that some day, we really would be a family again. I don’t know, but that’s when I made the decision. I had made so many mistakes—the worst of which were only known to me. I decided then and there—no more messing around. It was time to straighten out my life.

      I grew up in Vermont, and since I was looking at this as a reset, I decided to go back. I did my research, found The Hollows, and bought the property on the outskirts of town. The nearest neighbor was a half a mile away. The property was secluded, but not isolated. I loved the plot of land, which was nestled up against the woods. There was the main house, the pond, and the cottage. The cottage had been the main house when the land had been a farm, but around a hundred and fifty years ago, the land had been sold, the new house built, the pond dug, and the cottage was abandoned. The fact that the main house was old gave it a sense of maturity and responsibility that I now craved.

      I also loved The Hollows. It had originally been settled by two French explorers in the early 1600s, who named it “Chavelle’s Hollow”. Then came the British, and after the French-Indian War, they decided to change the name to “Sommerton’s Hollow”, in honor of the British General, Edward Sommerton. The problem was that the town was so small and located right on the border between the French and British territories, people called it by both names. Then the American Revolution happened, and Sommerton served in the British Army. After the war, the citizens of the newly formed country didn’t want to have a town honoring their recently vanquished enemy, so they changed the name to “Putnam’s Hollow”, in honor of Rufus Putnam of the Continental Army.

      This all happened so fast, relatively speaking, that people were calling the town by all three names at the same time, depending on if they were French, British, or American. When the town finally got a post office, which is what makes a place an official town in the eyes of the government, the surveyor was so fed up with trying to determine the correct name for such a small town, he simply wrote down “The Hollows”, and it stuck. The Hollows became one of those towns you see on travel websites—a charming New England town with a Main Street comprised of three-hundred-year-old, colonial-style buildings, a town green, an old stone church, and winding roads, hidden among the rolling hills and forests.

      After purchasing the house, I moved on to the next phase of my plan—opening my own business.

      I rented a storefront on Main Street and opened a coffee shop. Like the rest of the town, Main Street was a postcard. The centuries-old buildings that line the street each have a plaque identifying the year they were built and for whom. Instead of switching to electric lights, the town kept its old gas lamps. At night, it was a fairy tale.

      My shop was a small, single-story structure just down and across from the church, which everyone called the Old Stone Church. My coffee shop’s large front window gave the perfect view with the town green across the street, and the old cemetery next to the church, to the south. I named the place “Groundworks” and began my little endeavor. I quickly realized that I had bitten off way more than I could chew, but since there was no Plan B, I had put nearly all of my inheritance into the house and the shop, so I had to stick it out.

      Little by little, I got it under control. I started by giving out free samples of Groundworks’ signature coffee to the local hotels and B&Bs to put in their guestrooms. They jumped on it as a way to promote local business. That’s what the fall tourist season is all about. The Hollows is a cottage industry. It also paid off in that everyone staying at the hotels and B&Bs came to the shop during their exploration of the surrounding hills and countryside. I slowly fought my way out of the red, and while things were looking up financially, it was really hard work.

      One downside of moving to a new town and putting in so many hours was that I was lonely. On an impulse, I took a trip to the local animal shelter. Behind the shelter was a pen where they allowed the dogs to run and play. I told myself I was going to adopt the first dog who came up to me. I stepped through the gate and this little black ball of fur with oversized paws broke from the pack and came flying at me, ears and jowls flapping wildly. He charged and didn’t stop. He simply plowed into my shins and careened across the ground. He instantly sprang up and repeated the process. After the third time of tumbling over my feet, he was going to try again but was so dizzy, he fell over.

      I was laughing so hard, tears poured down my cheeks, and I had to sit down. The mutt leapt at me and attempted to lick my face off. That was that. I named him Murphy, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I’m not exaggerating about that. In four years, we’ve rarely left each other’s side. With the long hours I was putting in at the shop, I couldn’t leave him at home, alone, so I brought him with me. Before long, Murphy was Groundworks’ unofficial mascot.

      I remodeled Groundworks to give it an “old-timey” feel and it started to pick up steam. I was there almost fourteen hours a day, seven days a week. Business continued to grow.

      One morning two years ago, Maggie Vaughn, who runs the Elmwood Hotel a block away, stopped by to pick up her supply of coffee, and remarked that her hotel was so full, she was turning people away.

      That sparked an idea to give myself a side project and make a little extra coin.

      By that time, I had hired some staff to lighten СКАЧАТЬ