Chapter 11 Starving
CHAPTER ELEVEN
STARVING
Harlow
My mom brought me back to Winslet each year before she died. Dad worked nonstop and rarely joined us. It didn’t bother me that he’d skip out. I was used to it—his job was demanding.
Now I’m happy to have the memories with my mom. Those times together were untouched by anyone else. They shine bright in my heart.
We’d come every summer for the Gooseberry Festival. No one back in New York even knew what a gooseberry was, let alone why we would vacation somewhere that was barely a blip on the map to celebrate them.
I didn’t care. Mom loved where she came from and passed that on to me.
Back then, there was no five-star resort.
We stayed with my grandma in her old farmhouse on the edge of town.
It sat on over twenty acres, even though I had no concept of how land was measured.
We lived on the Upper East Side. Twenty acres might as well have been a million—I’d never know the difference.
What I did know is when we were in Winslet, we didn’t have a driver or a need for security. I could play outside until my feet were dingy with dirt. No one cared. Not my mom, not my grandma, and certainly not a housekeeper who mumbled under her breath about footprints on marble.
I’m not shallow enough to think that my job is hard.
Giving money away isn’t brain surgery, even though I take pride in what I do.
But what I love the most about my work is visiting the tiniest corners of the earth that most people in the world never see.
Often, it’s so remote, most humans don’t even know they exist.
My love for remote places comes from spending time here.
The days were slow, easy, and no one kept track of time. When we were here, I never wanted to leave.
The town square park is still the centerpiece and everything around it is what makes small town America shine.
The town hall, a library, the post office, and police department with a single jail cell make up downtown Winslet, which is a whopping eight minutes from the manor.
There’s The Combover Diner, which has been around since my mom was little.
The other restaurant in town changes ownership as the wind blows.
I remember when The Cutie Couture Boutique opened.
It’s certainly not couture and will never be mistaken for being fashion forward.
In fact, they always seem to be a decade behind current trends.
The original owner was my grandma’s bridge partner, Opal.
My grandma always talked about how she shopped there to be nice, even though she didn’t like it.
She swore us to secrecy because she always said if that got out, Opal’s son would rig Bingo so she’d never, ever win.
Grandma liked her games. I wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize Bingo for her.
She did like the boutique’s selection of reading glasses, but then again, the only other place to get those was at the Fill-‘er-Up gas station on the edge of town. It was also the hardware store, garden nursery, and the local feedlot.
Then there’s the town doctor, dentist, insurance agent, a mortuary, and two churches, because every town needs choices.
Oh, and Grandma would always talk about The Other Bar. The story was there was a tavern in town named The Bar. The owner got in a fight with his best friend, so just to piss him off, he opened The Other Bar.
That’s when it got tense.
The Other Bar was bigger and better, but Grandma said it came down to the fried pickles.
The Bar’s pickles were limp and soggy, and that was it.
Word got out, and by the next year The Bar was no more. The Other Bar became a Winslet staple and is still thriving.
Not that I’ve been to try the fried delicacy for myself. I’ve only been here once since I turned twenty-one, and that was to bury Grandma. I wasn’t exactly in the mood for fried pickles.
Devon holds the door to The Combover for me as the chiming bell tugs at my heartstrings from the memory. The last time I was here was before my mom died. It was our last trip to Winslet before she got sick.
Devon barely has the chance to step inside when an older woman behind the bar pouring coffee yells through the diner, “There’s my favorite Brit! Haven’t seen you since before the big, fancy wedding that went to shit.”
I freeze at her words, but Devon’s hand hits my back to nudge me inside. “Morning, Winnie. Two coffees and one menu when you have time.”
“Will do,” she yells back before glancing at me. “You brought somebody? And here I thought I was your girlfriend.”
A voice booms through the open window from the kitchen. “It’s like I’m not even here, woman.”
“Well, shit. I forgot about my pesky husband. I guess you’re outta luck, Donnelly.”
“And everyone complains that no one new moves to town. You scare them off,” Devon drawls.
I flinch as Winnie’s high-pitched cackle carries through the small space that smells like a mix of bacon, pancakes, and memories.
Devon leans down just far enough that only I can hear his words. “Pick a table. I’ll get the coffee.”
Half the tables are taken, probably by locals, and they are all staring at me like I’m an alien.
I smile at a group of men playing dominoes by the window, and eye a table in the back.
I go straight for it without making eye contact with anyone else and take the seat with my back to the room.
It’s not even lunch time, and I feel like I could fall back into bed and sleep for a week if I weren’t so hungry.
The emotional rollercoaster I’ve been riding since Devon sat at my table last night pushed me over the edge after the wedding.
The desire to sleep for a week is overwhelming.
My ass barely hits the cracked pleather seat when a mug appears in front of me.
Devon drops a grease-stained, faded menu next to the steaming coffee and takes a seat across the table.
His large frame takes up more space than most humans require when he shifts to the side to rest an ankle on his knee.
I glance at him as the strong aroma of coffee hits my senses. “Do you work here too?”
Devon must be immune to scalding hot liquid, because he takes a drink before leaning back in his chair.
“I might as well. I’ve been in town for most of the time since I bought the property.
I lived there during construction. Let’s just say I could read you that menu in my sleep.
Carl is willing to fry anything. Keep that in mind when you order. ”
I glance at the menu. “Some things never change. I think it’s the same as when I was a kid. At least no one recognizes me. That’s a relief.”
“That won’t last long,” he mutters.
He barely has a chance to set his coffee down when Winnie appears at our sides. “What’ll it be, and who’s your friend?”
Devon’s sharp blue eyes zero in on me. He wasn’t kidding when he said I won’t be able to fly under the radar long, but I didn’t know he’d be the one to out me. “Do you need more time, Harlow?”
“Oh my Lord!” Winnie exclaims. “Oh my Lord, Harlow Madison? It is you!” She turns to yell over her shoulder. “Carl! Get out here! There’s a celebrity in the house!”
I glare at Devon across the chipped Formica table.
He winks.
The man actually winks at me and has the nerve to follow it with a smirk.
I have no time to process it. Or how that wink combined with a gotcha smirk makes me feel. It’s foreign, and I’m trying to remember if I ever felt that with Albert.
“A celebrity?!” Carl echoes. My back is to the room, but I hear chairs scooting on the chipped tile and murmured whispers behind me. “I’ve got bacon on the griddle! Take a picture. We’ll slap it on the wall with the others.”
Winnie turns back to us. “We haven’t put anyone on the wall in years. Not since that one guy who was stuck on the deserted island with a basketball stopped in.”
A man from two tables over butts into the conversation. “It was a soccer ball.”
“Real fans call that football,” Devon corrects him.
“You’re all wrong,” a voice says from behind me. I turn in my seat where two women are sharing an enormous plate of fluffy pancakes. The one with thick white hair goes on, “It was a volleyball, and its name was Wilson.”
“Whatever,” Winnie chides and turns back to me.
“That guy’s on the wall. The collection is small.
It’s him and an Elvis lookalike from Vegas who was passing through.
Carl has a thing for the oldies and insisted on adding him to the wall even though he was a lame dupe for the real thing.
Not that I ever saw Elvis. I’m not that old. ”
“No, you’re not,” I agree.
“See! I like you already.” Winnie slaps my shoulder so hard it stings.
“I’d sit down and make you dish out all the goodies on why you left that squirrely guy at the altar, but it’s just me and we’re in the middle of the mid-morning rush.
Come back around two this afternoon. That’s when we’re slow before the early-bird specials kick in. ”
I make a mental note to never visit The Combover unless half the tables are occupied. Maybe the mid-morning rush means she won’t have time to take my picture.
She keeps talking. “That Humphries guy is skin and bones. I always say don’t trust a man who can’t carry your suitcases. You know what I mean?”
Winnie has a point. Now that I think about it, I don’t think Albert ever carried his own suitcase let alone mine.
Shit. I don’t like what that says about me.
“Harlow Madison in The Combover. I can’t believe it. Your grammy was a daisy. We loved her, God rest her soul.” Winnie crosses herself. “What are you hungry for?”
I pick up the menu to skim it, so she doesn’t have to wait. “I’ll take two poached eggs—”
She gives me the palm of her hand. “You know what? I’m gonna have Carl whip you up something special. Are you gluten free? I heard everyone in Hollywood is gluten free.”