4. A Revenge Plot WIP
Chapter 4
A Revenge Plot WIP
L ike we were kicked out of the restaurant for bad behavior, Honey and I careen toward each other on the sidewalk. We stop short of making contact much like our vehicles earlier. But it’s like there’s an invisible elastic tension between us.
One hard snap and ... I wonder what would happen.
Then I remember why I’m here and it’s not to woo a woman. More like making one regret the day she betrayed me.
No longer wearing her apron, Honey brushes off her denim skirt that gives way to a pair of long, tanned legs and wedge sandals with red painted toenails that match her car.
Vavavoom .
I smooth my hand down my shirt.
She glances at her feet, then her car, before her gaze darts across the street, and then back at the sidewalk. She’s looking everywhere but at me.
Something sparks inside, making me want to change that, but then I remember the last time I let a woman lure me in.
A welcome fall breeze ruffles the palms and the waxy leaves on the myrtle trees, cooling me off from within.
Honey marches over to her car, opens the glove box, and pulls out a lollipop. I half expect her to offer me one, but she puts it in her mouth, drawing my attention there.
Unfortunately, the air is now still.
And I’m burning up again.
In an annoyed tone, she says, “Let’s get this over with.”
Something about the lollipop, her lips, and her no-nonsense attitude messes with my pulse.
She stops short and I nearly bump into her.
Not unexpectedly, I receive a scowl as if it’s my fault she decided not to keep walking.
A magnet draws me close while an invisible force seems to push me away. The tension makes me imagine what her smooth skin would feel like under my calloused fingers, her silky hair in my hand, and her lips ...
Whoa there, Hotcake.
A woman with a cane, toting what looks like a battery-operated dog, crosses the street toward us.
Hardly moving her lips, Honey says, “Looks like you’re getting the full Hogwash Holler greeting committee. Buckle up.”
“Honey, is that your red car?” the older woman asks.
“Yes, Mrs. Halfpenny.”
“Earlier, I saw a truck almost plow into it.”
“That truck?” Honey points with her lollipop.
She squints. “I can’t be sure. They all look the same to me.”
I start to protest, but the animatronic dog barks.
Mrs. Halfpenny stiffly crouches down and soothes the toy. “Frodo, there there . It’s okay. I won’t let him run you over with that big mean truck.” Straightening, she says, “Who are you?”
“My name is Maddock Witt, ma’am.”
She peers up at me through thick glasses. “I’m Shirleen Halfpenny and I have my good eye on you. Don’t miss a trick. Understand?”
Despite how very seriously I take her cautionary comment, given that she thinks all trucks look the same and thinks her battery-operated dog is real, I fight a smirk. “I understand, ma’am.”
Mrs. Halfpenny looks at Honey for a long moment and then turns to me. “Hogwash Holler isn’t the kind of place where matches are made. Rather, hearts are broken. Now that you’ve manned up, I don’t want to have to break any legs. So if you try to run off again—” She brandishes her cane.
Small towns are known for having characters, but this place is something else.
In a much sweeter voice, Mrs. Halfpenny asks Honey, “Did you save any bacon for Mr. Frodo?”
“I’ll bring it by later.”
“Good. Someone has to bring home the bacon around here and help a girl out.” Mrs. Halfpenny looks me up and down, then nods at Honey before stumping off.
“What was that all about?” I ask, walking toward the truck.
“She thinks you left me high and dry.”
“Why would she think that?”
Honey’s shrug is lethargic. Then the comment about broken hearts floats back to me. Maybe someone special in her life left, leaving her bitter. I know the feeling.
I open the passenger door to the truck.
Shaking her head with more vigor than the shrug, she stands there, sucking on her lollipop. “I’m not riding with you.”
“I don’t know where I’m going.”
She points down the street. “Drive that way until you hit the bayou.”
“And have to call a tow truck?”
“You said yourself that you rented this monster because it has four-wheel drive.”
Touche. I’ll check the brake lines just to be safe.
She shifts her weight. “The chateau isn’t hard to find. You don’t need a tour guide.”
“But Molly said you’re the best.”
“Molly doesn’t know everything—” Honey tilts her head as if reconsidering that.
“You still didn’t tell me about the trophy.”
“Ancient history.”
The window of the Laughing Gator Grille fills with three women, all staring at us as if waiting for Honey to get in the truck.
“Or you could go face them.” Plastering on a smile, I proffer a cheerful wave.
“Fair point.” She gets into the truck.
I close the door, wondering which one of us will lose this proverbial game of chicken. Honey is in it to win it, but I’m no slouch either. She has a strong will. Is a bit wild. I remind myself why I’m here ... and who got me into this mess. A growl escapes at the thought of Emberly.
When I get in the driver’s seat, her honeysuckle scent fills the cabin and I figure there has to be some sweetness hidden under her sassy exterior.
After I back out of the parking spot, I continue down Main Street. “Not much here, huh?”
She huffs as if affronted—like only residents are allowed to comment on the town’s shortcomings. “There’s plenty. Hogwash Holler has Hallmark Town potential but a home video budget. If you squint, you can imagine fresh paint, flowers instead of weeds, and adorable shops instead of the This & That.”
“Hugwash Holler definitely has character.”
“Hogwash,” she says.
“The sign says Hugwash.”
“It’s Hogwash and we’re Hoggers.”
“Huggers.” I veer left down Shady Lane, passing under the canopy of live oaks, dimming the interior of the truck. “I figured I’d get a hug while we’re exploring my new place.”
“Not on your life. Hoggers aren’t the cuddly type unless you want to cozy up with a gator.”
“Sounds like you’re saying, Huggers .”
“I have an accent, but?—”
Which is adorable when she’s not being so feisty, but it draws me like a flame. “I’ve noticed.”
She turns her head in my direction as if I’m teasing. “I’ve lived here for a long time It’s Hogwash.”
“I like Hugwash better. I’ll make a motion to officially change it.”
“You’re not actually the mayor.”
No, but I own this place. I wonder if there are any rules about changing the town’s name.
Honey crunches the remainder of the lollipop in her mouth. “This isn’t like the whole pancakes versus flapjacks thing.”
“We can agree to disagree. Or we could settle on Hotcakes.” I wink.
She snorts an exhale through her nose as if beyond frustrated with me trying to irritate her. But as I see it, we’re on equal footing. She has her feminine wiles and my only tool is to rile her up, making us even.
The tunnel of tree branches dripping with moss opens to a slight clearing, but the surrounding old live oaks climb toward the sky as if reaching through the canopy of branches and leaves for a skylight, leaving us in the gloom.
“Now where do I go?” I ask, wincing because she’ll probably tell me to go back the way I came. Meaning, leave Hogwash.
“There’s nothing out this way other than the Tickle Chateau, an old fort called the Metairie Stronghold, the graveyard, and the swamp.”
I’m starting to wonder if I got a bad deal in the divorce settlement. This was supposed to be payment for all the stolen money and damages, but by the looks of things, this place has seen more than a few storms and lost a battle with the bayou.
“So you’re a Tickle?” Honey asks with a combination of hesitancy and defiance in her voice.
“No. My last name is Witt.”
“But you’re the heir to the estate, so you must be related.”
“It’s a long story. But the one I want to hear is about this place.”
“You inherited it, surely you know the history and about the hunt.”
I don’t, but I’ll let her fill my silence how she wants.
“Thousands of people have visited Hogwash Holler, seeking fame and fortune. No one has found the treasure, no less the inheritance. But they all left town in worse shape than when they arrived. It’s broken families, caused rivalries, bitterness, and bankruptcy. That wasn’t Hogan Tickle’s intention.”
The truck’s tires crunch over fallen branches and dead leaves before a large structure with ivy creeping along its columns and a broad front entryway covered in moss comes into view. Broken windows, sooty mildew, and tarnished ironwork make me think the place is the set for a horror movie. If we’re the characters, the viewers are telling us to turn back.
“It’s kind of spooky,” I say.
Honey laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”
“Pfft. I run into burning buildings for a living and before that, I battled wildfires. I can handle this.”
“It’s not haunted.” She says with a smile as if to imply the opposite.
Except that some of the choices I’ve made in my life linger like ghosts, and I wonder if Honey has a few specters of the past who occasionally show themselves. I’m not rethinking my decision to take on this town but am reconsidering my tactics. Above all, I wish I’d never gotten involved with Emberly.
“You say it’s not haunted like you’re reverse trying to convince me not to go in.”
“That’s like calling a pancake a flapjack.”
I grunt. “So you’re not scared?”
“Nothing scares me, Maddock.” The way she says my name suggests the opposite. Like she’s trying to be brave. Not because she’s afraid of me but of what would happen if she let down her guard.
“This will be an adventure.” My gaze holds hers for one lingering moment before I get out of the truck.
Honey exits before I can open the door for her. Breezing past me, she strides toward the chateau. The falling sunlight makes the stained glass window on the north side of the house glow like a beacon.
Honey picks up a peacock feather and twists it in her hand. During wildfires out west, birds are always in need of new homes. After the last months of settling the divorce, I feel like I’m trying to outrun a fire and find someplace to land. The stone steps are slick with slimy moss, but even in the wedge sandals, Honey’s steps are sure.
I say, “I take it you’ve been here before.”
“Many times.”
“Was it a high school dare to come here at night or something?”
“No, that was to sleep in the graveyard.”
“Which you did?”
“Of course.”
Honey gestures for me to open the big wooden door. I take out the key.
She says, “You won’t need that.”
“It’s unlocked, meaning anyone can come in and rob the place.”
Her smile suggests that I should know the answer. “Generally speaking, yes.”
I shoot her a quizzical look but stick close to her as we enter a cavernous rotunda-style entryway with a chandelier overhead. It’s barely hanging on as if someone once literally swung from it.
I say, “Looks like a fun party.”
“Depends on your definition of fun.”
Everything is damp. Wallpaper peels in long sheets from the plaster. Moldering leaves carpet the floor and the actual carpet squelches underfoot. Nature and a pack of wild boars hardly spared a single item, fixed or decorative. Why would Emberly let a place like this fall to ruin?
Honey juts her hip like she’s bored and would rather be anywhere but here. Yet, in her gaze, I see sadness as if memories filter back, but instead of saving them in a scrapbook, it’s like she’d rather toss them in a fire.
“What happened?”
Her expression falters. “To me?” she asks as if that’s none of my business.
I’ll bookmark that for later. “To this place.”
She answers with a question as if running a background check. “What are you really doing here?”
“A revenge plot.”
“I can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“Oh, I assure you, I am.” Emboldened by my purpose, I stride deeper into the house but then glance over my shoulder.
For a fraction of a second, Honey looks like a lost little girl who’s not eager to take a step further.
I ask, “How about you? What are you doing here?”
“The better question is, why didn’t I ever leave Hogwash?” she mutters.
The chateau consists of high ceilings, pillars, and furnishings with ornate details. It’s part opulent and part gaudy and all French Renaissance style. I imagine antiques of the crystal and gilded gold variety once covered every available surface.
“Looks like a pack of raccoons has been occupying the place.”
Honey replies, “Worse than raccoons. Just about everything that wasn’t nailed down was pilfered.”
I’m not sure what’s worse than raccoons, but we pause in front of the fireplace with a carved wooden and marble mantle. The air is thick with humidity and there’s no need for a fire, but something stokes inside. The same thing messing with my pulse.
Honey looks up at me with her big brown eyes. “My first draft failed and I never got back to writing the story.”
Picking up on her analogy and recalling what Mrs. Halfpenny said about broken hearts, I reply, “I like to think of life as a work in progress.”
She takes a few steps away. “Mostly just work.”
“Is that how you deal with a broken heart?”
Honey gazes toward the window and snorts. “Don’t believe everything Mrs. Halfpenny says or sees, if that robot dog is any indication.”
“I do okay reading people on my own.”
“If you mean that you think I have a broken heart, you’re mistaken. I have a broken life. But a good one. I accept the cards that I was dealt—” Her gaze drifts to the large round table in the corner. “I don’t want pity or help.”
“I wasn’t offering.”
She sniffs as if not expecting me to say that and lengthens her spine.
Recalculating my approach because I’m punch drunk on the bayou breeze and Honey’s scent, I say, “Maybe I want your help.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “With your revenge plot?”
“Possibly. We’ll see how things unfold.” I lift my shoulder.
Pain splits her expression and then just as quickly disappears. “If you’re looking for me to do anything illegal?—”
I pump my hands. “Whoa. Let’s not get carried away.”
Honey tilts her head as if waiting for me to explain.
The corner of my lip twitches. “To carry this off, I’ll need a steady supply of flapjacks.”
She lets out a frustrated exhale. “You’re a twit, you know that?”
“Nah, I’m a Hugwash Hugger.” I open my arms because despite the way people may perceive me—Leyton says I’m cocky—I recognize when someone needs a hug.
Her nostrils flare.
I wiggle my fingers, indicating she come in close, but she doesn’t budge.
A light flashes through the window—police red, blue, and white.
Almost reflexively, Honey coils like she’s about to make a run for it, but then relaxes, wearing a smile that hides secrets. She stares through the window as if defying the odds that we’re going to be booked for trespassing.
“Are we in trouble?” I ask, joking.
“Everyone in Hogwash Holler is. It just depends on how much peace you can amass to cope with that fact.”
My pulse lurches. I wonder about Mrs. Halfpenny’s comment. I wouldn’t need a cane to break legs if some guy ran off on Honey. She’s defensive, but there’s a reason for that. Whoever hurt her deserves worse than whatever they’ve gotten.
I rock back on my heels. But why am I considering defending her? Maybe she’s right and I am in trouble.