2. Penn
Chapter 2
Penn
I wouldn't say I'm hiding, but it would be hard to make the argument I am not at least hiding out .
Summerhill Olive Mill, by way of Summerhill Road, is the perfect place to lie low while I wait for the relentless sun to loosen its grip on Olive Township. Lucky for me, a road winds around the town and north to the turn off for the mill, saving me from having to drive through town.
Inevitably, I will make that drive, and probably soon. But I'll avoid it if I can, and right now, that is within my control.
I'd planned to arrive in the town in which I was born, and spent the first thirteen years of my life terrorizing, under the cover of darkness. I wanted one night to ease back into this place, to give myself some breathing room. My plan was derailed by the fact I made damn good time from San Diego. With only a few eighteen wheelers to slow my progression, my truck tires ate up Interstate 8. The dust storm in the distance spurred me to step on the gas, as did the lead foot I adopt when I'm anxious. I stopped once at a famous hole-in-the-wall in southern Phoenix for the largest size they sell of prickly pear lemonade, and a second time on the Salt River reservation for fry bread drizzled with wildflower honey and dusted with powdered sugar.
The sugar induced coma was worth it, not to mention the reprieve it gave me from having my nerves being the only thing making me queasy.
Olive Township and I, well, we have a storied history. Some of it pretty, some of it ugly, and some of it I'd rather forget.
The single glimmer of relief for my apprehension comes from my best friend, Hugo De la Vega. He's the only person who knows I'm returning, but not even he knows why I left. Now that my mother is gone, there is nobody but me who knows the truth, and I wish I could take a Magic Eraser to that memory.
It's only been a few months since I last saw Hugo face-to-face, when he came to San Diego for my mom's funeral. He won't mind me crashing his place at the olive mill for the next hour while I wait for the sun to set. Once that happens, I'll mosey on back to Hugo's rental property in town, one of those cookie-cutter stucco homes where there's an HOA and your neighbor is too close.
I roll my window down and prop my forearm on the frame, taking a deep, clarifying breath as I climb slightly in elevation. Slim Jim, my two-year-old Belgian Malinois, pokes his nose out of my window from his place in the back seat.
He sniffs frantically, catching new smells. He's a K9 defense trained dog who washed out of the program because he won't bite to the corners of his mouth. I was lucky enough (or unlucky, depending on how I look at it) to be available when he needed a home. We've only been together five months, but I already love him.
Beside my head, Slim Jim continues his sniffing, acquainting himself with the place that will be our home for the next five or six weeks.
As much as I hate to admit it, I missed Olive Township. The gently sloping hills, the olive grove stretching as far as the eye can see. It's a gorgeous little corner of the Sonoran Desert, but there's something else about it, something a little extra. Almost… magical .
I could kick my own ass for saying that, sounding like a tourist who has just exited the world famous Sagewood Wellness Spa in town, but something about being gone for so long puts this place in a different perspective.
Or maybe it's me who has changed. Hell, I know that to be true. I'm not even a fraction of the person I was the last time I called this place home. Thirteen-year-old me and twenty-eight-year-old me are nothing alike. On the inside, and most definitely on the outside.
The worn metal sign announcing the Summerhill Olive Mill with its olive branch logo appears a quarter mile away. I take the turnoff, steering my truck with motions that are second nature. I didn't have my driver's license when I lived here before, but I'd rode passenger enough to know each shift and bump, the way the road rises higher on the right a moment after the turn. And, just like I knew it would, my body shifts left to accommodate the rise.
I feel oddly comforted knowing that although almost everything else has changed, this hasn't. The constancy grounds me a bit, puts me back in a feeling of control. I'll be ok. I've got this. I can tango with Olive Township, and come out the other side.
Buildings appear on the horizon. One, maybe two stories, white-sided buildings with the modern farmhouse look, as if that famous interior design couple had their way with the place. The olive mill restaurant sits behind these buildings, and set back a quarter mile behind a copse of trees, is Hugo's home.
Hugo has kept me in the loop over the years, telling me about the updates his family had been doing at the mill. What I'm seeing now is far greater than I imagined. It looks cozy as hell, and I'd very much like to lay out on one of those porch swings the size of a bed.
Considering the number of cars filling the medium-sized parking lot Hugo had poured last fall in front of the Summerhill store, I'll have to live out my porch swing fantasy another time.
The corners of my mouth turn down. I avoided town, only to find most of the town is here. Must be some kind of event. Hugo mentioned he made the decision, along with his sister and his mother, to expand on the offerings of the already bustling olive mill. He called it agro-tourism. Olive oil tastings, cooking classes led by his sister, and hosting events. Hugo mentioned they're considering splurging on some kind of locally built fancy wedding arch so they can begin offering weddings.
Since I'm steering clear of everybody, that would include any and all gatherings, though I admit, I am just a little curious. I'd like to see what Hugo and his family have accomplished, but it'll have to be another time because there is no way in hell I want to run into people on my first night back. I'm almost positive they won't know it's me, especially once I introduce myself as Peter.
There will be no using my real name while I'm here. The very last thing I want or need is Daisy St. James finding out I'm back, even if only temporarily. I'm not here to disrupt her peace, or the life she's built for herself. Just like all those years ago, the most thoughtful gift I can give Daisy is to be absent from her life. Back then it was for her own good, and it’s much the same now. Who am I to show up and throw a wrench in whatever it is she’s doing? Then again, maybe it would mean nothing to her to see me again. Maybe she’d say Penn, oh my gosh, how are you? and offer me a friendly, incredulous hug and we’d make small talk that would fizzle out, leaving us checking our watches and making excuses to scurry away. But probably not.
Daisy and I might have been kids, but we were something exceptional and outrageous. Lungs beginning their first deep breath. Possibility a hair’s breadth from discovery. We had potential with certainty.
Selfishly, I want to hunt her down and force myself into her orbit. Catch her eye and the rise of her chest as she gasps. It could just as easily be from horror as relief, and the thought pulls me from nostalgia and puts me squarely back where I belong.
Fuck, but it hurts.
Necessary though, so I press on, driving around back of a different building and slowing to a stop. I could leave, but then I risk drawing more attention to myself by going back the way I came, and since there is no other exit, I'll hide away back here and wait for the sun to set.
It's fine. Concealment is my modus operandi for the next month anyway. After that, I'll point my truck west, hopefully with a bank account newly padded with cash, and leave Olive Township in the dust.
For a second time.