Chapter 1
Lelane
Some people come home because they have no choice. Perhaps a family member is sick, or they are sick themselves. Others get dragged back by guilt. Some even truly miss it and wish they’d never left. I came back because I had bought a business.
The “Welcome to Lilac Mountain Ridge” sign appears around the curve before I’m ready for it. Population 2,847. That number hasn’t changed in fifteen years, but I bet it’s still close to accurate. People come and go, but the number levels out.
I keep both hands on the wheel and continue to drive. Main Street opens up exactly as I remember it. There’s the feed store, selling food for dogs, cats, goats, horses, pigs, and chickens.
Speaking of the feed store, I remember when Conrad Sigmund’s parents got him a peacock named Susie. It polarized the entire town. Half of them thought Susie was adorable, but the other half hated her. She screamed constantly, pooped everywhere, and scratched paint off cars when walking by, thinking it was another peacock. Conrad kept her on a leash and pranced her around everywhere.
Anyway, the point is: Conrad and his parents petitioned the feed store to start stocking peacock food, since there weren’t any. And they did, for exactly six months until Susie “ran away.”
Except, that’s another local legend. Did Susie run away, or did Boone McGregor steal and release her on Lilac Mountain? Boone McGregor—my husband for the last five years. We weren’t married back in Susie’s days, though.
Cedar and lilacs drift through the open window. That’s the thing about Liliac Mountain Ridge; its name is literal. The entire town is surrounded by lilacs and our town is settled at the bottom of a mountain. Most of the townsfolk live either above the businesses in small apartments on Main Street or in a subdivision on Elm Street. The only exception are the McGregor’s, who live a couple miles up the mountain.
I spot the salon from half a block away. “Curls & Claw Clips” sits between a gift shop and an insurance office, sandwiched into a narrow storefront with an overhang that shades the big front window. The sign is intact. The awning is faded to a dusty pink. It needs lot of work. I knew this before I signed the papers.
I parallel park and cut the engine. Then I sit staring. It’s mine.
The sedan is packed to the ceiling behind me—two boxes of hair-care products, my bag of tools, a duffel with clothes, and a much-too-large-for-my-car cactus that Erica made me take because, “You need something living in that space, Mom.” Even though my twenty-six year old daughter says she didn’t dig it out from the desert, I still have my suspicious.
Once inside my salon, I take a deep breath. The styling chairs are a vintage teal as are the actual furniture. They have cast iron bases and hydraulic pumps that grunt when you press the foot lever. There are four of them on each side of the wall, in a row, facing the long mirror. While authentic, they have also been well maintained.
The reception counter runs along the left wall near the door. On it sits a spiral bound appointment book. Flipping it open, I note the last entry is dated nine months ago. “Heather M., trim and style, 4p.m.” Yeah, paper appointment books aren’t going to work for me. Ideally, I’ll purchase software that can go on a laptop and my phone. That way, if I happen to step-out of the salon, I can take the phone call and schedule from anywhere.
Now the real hard work begins.
This is titled Lilac Whiskey & Regret by Audrey Halliwell. If you are not reading this on her Inkitt, it has been stolen.
***
My phone lights up while I’m on my knees behind the reception counter, setting up my extension cords and laptop. Standing, I see it’s Erica.
“Google Maps says you made!” she says.
“I did! Sorry I haven’t called you yet. Once I parked I just jumped right in.”
“No problem, I understand. How was the drive?”
“Fine. Long through the mountains, but the road’s been repaved since I last came through.”
“Oh my God. Remember when we left town and Devin had purchased soup at Ola’s soup cart?”
Do I ever? Devin is my twenty-two year old son. He was eighteen when we left Lilac Mountain Ridge—a day after marrying Boone. My children knew why I was running. They’re the only ones who knew. Not even my ex-husband knows. He’d, thankfully, had already moved to California. Since our youngest was eighteen, there was no need to further communicate about my personal life.
“He just had to eat that clam chowder, of all things, up and down the mountains. My car stunk for a full year after that,” I say.
Erica laughs. Then, “You seen Boone yet?”
“I’ve been here three hours.” I move to the sinks to test the hot water tap. “I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.”
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I reach past the product bottles and straighten two that are leaning. “And the answer is no, I haven’t spoken to anyone. I’ve been unpacking.”
“And you have a plan for that.”
“I have a salon to run. That’s my plan.”
Knowing when I’ve drawn a line, she doesn’t push it.
We talk for a few minutes about the drive and state of the salon. While I’m starting my business, she’s getting into the groove of her own career. Erica is a marketer. One of the best things about family is getting to lean on one another. She’s agreed to do some virtual marketing services for me at a discount, and her work will go nicely into her portfolio.
We end our call, genuinely happy for one another: “You’re an amazing role-model, Ma. You’re proving that it’s never too late to achieve your dreams.” My children didn’t care that I started beauty school at forty-one; they only cheered me on.
Movement catches my eyes. Through the front window glass, a man in a navy blazer is already reaching for the door handle. Oh my gosh, that’s Conrad Sigmund. The old salon owner told me, but to be honest, I hadn’t actually believed her. Yet, here Conrad is. He’s dressed for a ribbon-cutting even on a Tuesday—blazer and pressed slacks. Silver hair perfectly combed. His smile visible before the door is even open.
He lets himself in.
“The prodigal hairstylist returns!” He says it like he’s been saving it. Both arms slightly wide, the full welcome gesture of a man who has practiced welcome into a professional skill. “Lelane. It’s wonderful to see you.”
“Conrad.” I set down the poster. “You too, except you haven’t even seen my skills yet. For all you know I’ll butcher everyone’s hair.”
“Since you’re our only hair stylist, that means we’ll just have to grin and bear it, won’t we? Ain’t no one driving fifty minutes away for a haircut.”
I nervously chuckle. “Well, that’s reassuring. Glad to know I can butcher away.”
“Actually,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back, turning to face me now, I wanted to let you know that we’ve put together a little gathering for tomorrow evening. Just a welcome-back thing. Rosebe’s organizing it at the community center.”
Rosebe is the town’s busy-body. Not only does she own the town’s bakery, but she organizes all of Lilac Mountain Ridge’s events. Despite Conrad rising to the Mayor, everything else feels exactly the same.
My heart pitter-patters at the unexpected news of a welcome party. Somehow, I thought I’d seamlessly blend in. “Oh,” I saw slowly, wondering if my secret husband will be there. “Who all will be there?” I need to have a sit-down with Boone at some point, though I hope it’s not in front of the entire town.
“You, I hope. Me, Rosebe, Heather, Ola, Marta, Marty, Bryce, Georgia.” He pauses. “There’s a million of us, it’s hard to keep track.”
No mention of Boone, but he did say my best friend will be there. At least, I hope we’re still friends. We haven’t really spoken since I left town. Still, I snort at his overestimation of how many people live here. “A million?” Clearly Conrad’s never left our small town. “Sign says less than three thousand.”
“Yeah, that was before our doctor had her baby. Bet we’re over three thousand now.”
“You’re forgetting how we lost dear Susie.”
His eyes widen and his hand presses to his chest in a mock gasp. “That was years ago, and… Now, Lelane I hate to accuse you, but did you have something to do with her disappearance?”
I mime zipping my lips.
