11. Mallory
Chapter 11
Mallory
From my research, I learned Simon was murdered on the day of the eighth annual Olive Festival.
He'd left Summerhill earlier than his wife and kids, with plans to help his employees set up the Summerhill booth. When Sonya and their children showed up at the booth and learned nobody had seen Simon, Sonya located a rookie police officer put in place for crowd control and told him. Using his radio, he'd alerted the officers at the station. According to an interview given by Sonya at the time, this is when her heart sank. She knew something was very wrong.
Simon was found lying beside his car on Six Digit Road, not too far from where the festival was taking place. The investigation went on for months, and the family went quiet. The police exhausted their resources, and for the next two years, the Olive Festival was shuttered. Nobody wanted to gather on that day for any reason other than to remember one of their beloved townsmen, a man whose family had been a fixture of Olive Township, and even the reason for its name.
Though I searched, I couldn't find online when the festival had resurrected, or who was responsible for bringing it back to life.
The park where the event is held isn't too far from the inn, and I'm on foot. Yesterday I'd gone on a bit of a shopping spree, picking up two new sundresses, a cute pair of court-style tennis shoes, and a few loose tops. I'd also stopped for more toiletries, and snacks and water to keep in my room. I'd forgotten to refill my water bottle before I left, and I'm regretting that now. Pregnancy makes me thirstier, makes physical exertion more tiring. Growing a human is hard work.
Is that perspiration I feel gathering at my hairline? I've only been walking ten minutes. I either need to exercise more, or never exercise again. Right now I'm leaning toward the latter. Good thing I chose to wear one of my new tank tops, and a pair of linen shorts. Any more fabric and I'd be roasting.
The park that holds the festival gets bigger and bigger the closer I get. The faint offbeat of a song reaches me, the lonesome sound of bluegrass.
Hugo's face pops into my mind. I've known him less than a week, and already I've seen him wear numerous expressions. Flirtatious, surprised, tense, angry, resigned, sorrowful. The many faces of Hugo De la Vega.
For a man so guarded, he's easy to be around. Does he do that on purpose? Make being around him effortless so nobody knows how deeply he's hurting inside?
Takes one to know one .
An old defense mechanism I didn't know I had until I began taking psychology classes in college. I've met plenty of people who've experienced tragedy, but none who chose to deal with it the way I did.
Until now.
Hugo, and the way he palms the back of his neck, how he looks down at the ground when he's weighing his response.
Hugo, and?—
"Hey."
Stumbling, I smack a hand to my chest. Hugo's arm shoots out, catching me by the elbow.
Fun fact: that bony little point is the least sexual part of the body. Unless you're pregnant .
Hugo's hand still grips me, his thumb rubbing over the inside of my upper arm. Does he know he's doing that? It's making me lose sense. Making me want to lean into him, allow my hands to peruse his chest.
The tenderness in his dark-eyed gaze fades, replaced with mirth. "How did I manage to startle the true crime podcaster? Shouldn't you be impervious to surprise?"
I pull my arm away from his touch, ignoring the indignant woman inside me who wants nothing more than to continue to be touched by Hugo. My reaction to him needs a leash.
Possibly an ice bath.
"I'm not a ninja," I respond, adjusting my shirt.
Hugo watches my hands as they move my straps to the appropriate place on my shoulders. "No kung fu for you, then?" Hugo turns for the festival.
I fall in step beside him. "Hardly. I tried karate when I was ten but I was terrible." A smile breaks over my face. "Maggie, though, she was?—"
What am I doing?
Talking about Maggie with ease, remembering her as if I were telling a funny story that held no pain? The memory brought with it nothing that hurt, only an effervescent bubble of happiness.
Since the moment Maggie left this world, I have not thought of her without an underlying sadness, longing, regret. The list goes on and on.
It's as if somehow, with Hugo, I slipped into another realm. A place where pain is not a prerequisite to my memories of Maggie.
Hugo touches me again, lightly on my non-sexual elbow. "Mallory?" He says my name softly, neither of us breaking stride. "Maggie was...?" He trails off, eyebrows raised, urging me to continue.
My lips press together as I take a deep breath, composing myself. "She was naturally good at karate. When it came time to break a board for her belt test, her 'hiya'"—I slice through the air with my palm to demonstrate—"was high-pitched. Childlike. She wore her hair in a ponytail, and she had the cutest little bangs. She pushed the bangs out of her face right before she broke the board. And after she did it, she looked at me first."
The memory grabs me by the throat. Chokes me.
In a move that takes me by surprise, but soothes me all the same, Hugo's hand slides down my arm, slips into my palm. His squeeze is gentle, reassuring. "Your little sister was proud of herself, and she wanted to share that with you."
Gratitude fills me. Not only for his kind words, but for his ability to remain here with me in this. This situation, these feelings. He's staying in the storm with me. I squeeze his hand back. "How do you know that?"
I'm certain I already know the answer.
"Because every time I won a fencing match, I'd look for my dad. No matter how old I was. No matter how many years had passed."
He walks us forward with purpose, his strong jaw and carved cheekbones not giving away a single sliver of the emotions coursing through him. But I see it. In the very places he hides it, are the same places he gives it away. A person need only know what to look for to discover it.
We arrive at the edge of the park. The music slips over us, closer now, and the scents of fried dough and sugar permeate the air.
"Come meet my friends," Hugo says, tugging me sideways.
I follow along, looking down at my hand in his.
Does he realize it's still there?