2. Pancakes, Flapjacks, Hotcakes
Chapter 2
Pancakes, Flapjacks, Hotcakes
T here is no end to the list of things I’d rather be doing right now. It spans from dreaming about being on the sailboat I someday hope to own, eating ribs and watching a game, to sitting in the doctor’s office in a paper gown waiting for ... an exam that only men get when they reach a certain age for cancer detection and prevention.
Unfortunately, I fall into the category of needing a prostate exam early. I’m in my mid-thirties and am seriously avoiding it. I lost my father to the disease and because of this, I qualify for early screening, along with the dire warning that I may never have children. Not that I want them. Kids are needy, whiny, and sticky. At least the ones I’ve been around.
All the same, my mother claims that I’m a miracle baby.
The only miracle I’d like to experience is an end to the nightmare that was my marriage and divorce. So there won’t be any children in the foreseeable future because first, I’d have to get married again and that’s never happening again .
The only “I do” I’ll be saying is, I do want coffee . I do want paid vacation time. I do want a sailboat.
Yet here I am, being not-welcomed by the faded, splintered, and partially busted Hogwash Holler sign. Instead of saying Hogwash with an O , part of the top is missing, so it looks more like a U. Hugwash Holler.
Being hugged by a swampy backwater town on the bayou isn’t my idea of fun, but I’ve masterminded a payback plan to make this acquisition tolerable, potentially lucrative, and dare I say ... diabolical. I am not above revenge after what Emberly did to me.
Instead of tapping the brakes and flipping a U-turn, I’ll admit that curiosity spurs me forward along Metairie Road.
It’s not every day you inherit an entire town.
There’s a gas station, post office, library, car wash, and a town hall—all the usual small-town suspects. I spot a hair salon that may double as a craft store, given all the festive fall décor.
Yeehaw...or not.
A massive rotating mug of root beer greets me from the roof of The Penny Gamble, a soda fountain. That’s old-fashioned but cool. Down the road is a Coffee Loft which looks new. However, everything in between is in a sad state of disrepair, including Cory’s Automotive, which ironically boasts car repairs.
I hit a bump and my bag slides into the passenger side door of the rental truck—the thing is huge with knobby tires. Practically a monster truck. The only thing missing is neon paint and the word Beast on the side.
The Department of Public Works should repave the road or I should’ve rented a vehicle with better shocks, but it was all they had with four-wheel drive—a precaution in swamp country.
Considering I own the town, I wonder if I am the DPW.
Woot ... womp!
As if trying to under do itself, Hogwash also boasts Cherry’s Vintage and Resale with an advertisement for black and white televisions. I’ve either stepped back in time or this place was forgotten by time.
Speaking of, the clock tower is a few hours off. I check the clock on the dash. Nine hours, to be exact. The Flying Pig Theater all but grovels for saving with plywood over the windows spraypainted with the words Save the Pig!
Main Street dead ends at Sunnyside Mobile Home Park & Camp Ground. You can take a right toward what looks like a farm road or a left. Hidden in the bramble is a small wooden sign that says Shady Lane . I peer down that way before taking the turn. It’s covered by a tapestry of overgrown live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. Bald cypress stands ankle-deep in water farther into the swamp before it fades into deep darkness and occupied by the kinds of giant lizards we don’t have out west.
Let’s not go!
I’m concerned that the community center doubles as a laboratory for creating experimental or illicit substances, given the state of the pool.
Pulling to the side of the road, as I see it, I have two choices: hit the accelerator and pretend that I was never here or carry out my evil scheme.
Plan A will probably keep me out of jail, but I’ll always wonder—not about jail, but about Hogwash Holler and how I could’ve made my ex as embarrassed and subsequently miserable as she made me.
Plan B will probably result in me also banking some regrets, but what those are, I’m not sure. Avoiding tetanus or dysentery?
I’m not so much thinking it through as I am looking for a coin to toss. Plan A, heads. Plan B tails.
My chest lifts and expands as I draw a deep breath, the kind I haven’t been able to take in months. Not since I found out Emberly was drawing money out of my bank account and gambling with some guy in Reno on the weekends.
Then my phone rings, jarring me from thinking about why my inhales have been on the shallow side lately—not ideal in my line of work. Never mind a doctor’s office to check on my prostate, I know well enough to chalk this up to stress.
I’ve been running on fumes lately.
My phone rings a third time. I’ll admit that I’m surprised they have cell service out this way.
“Maddo,” I answer—a habit I picked up from my father, who always answered by saying his name.
“Witt, where are you? I’ve been calling all morning.” It’s Captain Leyton from the Carson City FD who refers to me by my last name.
“You don’t want to know,” I mutter.
“As long as it’s not in trouble.”
I glance around at my surroundings. “That remains to be seen.”
He proceeds to try to woo me into a temporary teaching position for a new crew posting that bridges a need in the wildlands between Reno and Carson.
Before I left, I told him I’d think about it, which I’ve postponed until now. An incoming text helps me put off my decision a little longer. The message says that the meeting with the lawyers was moved up to this morning. I thought I had until after lunch to officially claim the rights to Hogwash Holler—or get back on a plane and forget this ever happened.
Keeping one ear on what Leyton is saying and one eye on the map app on my phone, returns me to civilization. Just over half an hour later, I’m parked in front of Chandler & Associates Law Offices in New Orleans. This truck moves.
“When can I expect you back?” Leyton asks.
I stall, wishing I had a quarter on me. I’m based in Reno and his offer is more than decent, but like everything, there are pros and cons. On the upside, being asked to instruct means I’m qualified to teach a crew and respected enough for leadership—maybe become a captain myself one day. Plus, I’d make more money. The con is I can’t do things my way—I tend to operate on instinct and think about the details later. In this role, it’s do things by the book or have it thrown at me.
Leg jittering, I blurt, “I might take a little longer than expected. It looks like I have a bit of a project ahead of me.”
Before I left, some might have called me a workaholic. I prefer to think of it as dedicated. Pouring myself into my job was better than the mess I was dealing with Emberly. For more than a minute, an hour, or a day, I want things to be stable. No drama. No chaos. No ex-wife.
“Remember when I was at the academy, like the fire safety rule to Stop Drop Roll ? you taught us to Stop Assess Act ? I stopped and now I’m assessing.”
He pauses. “Smart not to rush into things.”
“Especially this. It appears as if I inherited a town,” I say slowly, deliberately, hardly believing it myself.
Or, more accurately, this was supposed to be Emberly’s inheritance. It’s more like a settlement because she didn’t have the resources to pay back all she took from me, so she offered up Hogwash Holler. Must be a real prize if Princess Emberly didn’t want it. My thoughts seep with sarcasm.
“A town?” he repeats.
“Correct.”
“Is that possible?”
“Apparently.”
“I take that to mean you need a bit of time to get your affairs in order,” Captain Leyton says.
And have revenge on the woman who had an affair and nearly robbed me blind, but I digress.
We say our goodbyes and my phone beeps with another text. It’s the lawyer asking for my ETA.
To be fair, Hogwash Holler wasn’t a one-horse town—though it only has one stop light. In all honesty, I like small towns. Prefer them to the city even though I live in one.
The pace is slower, life is quieter and generally more peaceful.
Most real estate transactions can take place virtually with digital documents, but I quickly gather things in Cameron Parish are old school. Plus, transferring the heritor holding isn’t an ordinary process.
About an hour later, the ink is dry on the certificate of rights to Hogwash Holler and I am now the conflicted owner of a small town.
Had I not been distracted by Leyton’s call, maybe I’d already be heading back to Nevada. Had I been able to find a coin to toss, perhaps I’d be able to forget about what Emberly did.
But I can’t and now that I own Hogwash Holler, her fate is sealed.
Returning the way I came, I don’t stop until the town leers at me in all its faded glory.
“I apologize in advance that you’ll be collateral damage, but it must be done,” I mutter.
Yeah, I’m talking to the town.
A wooden alligator head that forms part of the sign for the Laughing Gator Grille seems to do just that. Laugh at me with its chipped teeth and sun-bleached paint.
“I’ll be the last one laughing,” I add, kind of sounding like a movie villain.
Maybe my blood sugar is low. All I’ve had today is coffee. This place looks good and greasy. I take a wide turn into a parking spot in front of the diner’s plate-glass windows.
Seemingly out of nowhere, a red Porsche approaches from the other direction and makes a sharp turn, nosing into the slot.
Slamming on the brakes, I lift my arms. “What gives?”
The ladder truck engineer in Carson City would envy the available on-street parking here. He wouldn’t even have to bother himself with cars occupying tow-away zones. If this place even has a fire department—which should be at the top of my list of things to look into.
Well, except for this fiery little number. The rental truck is considerably larger than the Porsche Spyder, but the woman with wildflower blonde hair behind the wheel is persistent.
Like we’re in a standoff in a dusty western town, neither one of us backs up.
She glares at me.
I flash a smug smile.
Our front bumpers are almost kissing.
She signals for me to move.
I wink.
I’m not one to pull an ace card, but I do own this town. Technically, the spot is mine.
The door to the Porsche flies open, missing the truck’s front panel by a millimeter. The driver looks up at me with fire in her eyes. I brace myself for impact.
Instead, she leaves the car door hanging open, casts a glare over her shoulder in my direction, and marches into the restaurant.
Leaning back in the seat, I’m stunned at her audacity. Her beauty. But I can’t let myself get distracted. That was aggressively bold.
Maneuvering the truck into a parking space that’s safely away from the Porsche, I do the courtesy of closing the vehicle’s driver’s side door so the battery doesn’t die.
Taking my chances, I enter the Laughing Gator Grille.
The sizzle of bacon comes from beyond the order window behind the long counter. A song about the power of love recorded from before I was born and featured in one of my favorite movies of all time plays on the stereo.
No one fills the tables along the windows. A hefty man sits at the end of the counter, nursing a milkshake. A spindly woman sits on a spinning stool and snaps her gum. A plump woman stands behind the counter. Crudely written with pieces of tape across her apron is the name Molly .
She leans toward the thin woman and says, “I think that’s him.”
“The hot firefighter?” she asks.
Apparently, newcomers get noticed around here, whereas I’d expect the showdown between the massive truck and the little Porsche would’ve been the talk of the town—unless the driver is Hogwash Holler’s resident untouchable rich girl princess. Suffice it to say I am not a fan. Emberly can take her frilly coffee drinks, her manis, pedis, and shopping addiction on a hike in the swamp.
If the Porsche Princess thinks she’s in charge around here, she has another thing coming.
And here she comes, clocking in at least five foot ten with blonde hair and long legs, wearing a pageant winner smile and red lipstick. Her brown eyes land on me, and her expression falls.
Instead of taking a seat or storming outside to her vehicle, she, too, wears an apron. Only, instead of the cheapo tape job, hers is embroidered with gold thread and says Honey .
“What can I get you?” she asks as if prepared to reply by telling me to get lost.
Molly whispers, “I’ll add him to my cart. One-click shopping.”
I’m not the only one who heard. Honey has no shortage of sharp looks in her arsenal and fires one at Molly. She mouths, No way .
“I’ll take a coffee and a menu.” Then, as an afterthought, I add, “Please,” along with a smile—sometimes you can’t fight fire with fire.
She drops the ceramic mug on the counter with a thud and the coffee sloshes as she pours it.
“As they say, ‘You catch more flies with honey.’”
With a strong Cajun accent, she asks, “Cream, milk, sugar?”
“No thanks. I drink it black.”
All three sets of eyes are on me. Scratch that. Four. Even the guy at the end of the counter stares.
I shrug. “I like it bitter.”
Honey lets out a laugh that isn’t at all sweet. It’s the sound of a woman who’s been scorned ... or jaded.
As if anticipating that I won’t be able to stomach the stuff, Molly says, “There’s a Coffee Loft across the street.”
Assuming Honey is the head honcho around here, I turn to her. “Sounds like your waitress is suggesting I visit your competition.”
“We’re all one big happy family here in Hogwash—” The end of her sentence dangles with the unspoken suggestion that outsiders aren’t particularly welcome.
Conveniently, the documents in my truck make me the opposite of an outsider. I’m the owner.
“They have amazing jumbo beignet buns,” Molly adds.
Honey not so subtly or delicately stomps on Molly’s foot.
The thin woman at the counter says, “Have you tried the pumpkin-flavor?”
“They keep selling out, but I got one with the coffee-flavored glaze.” Molly all but drools.
As if annoyed by the conversation about the coffee shop, Honey scrubs the counter next to the coffee maker as if it did something to offend her.
Molly clears her throat. “Since you’re new here, everyone orders the pancakes. Honey is the pancake queen. They’re her specialty.”
Her scrubbing pauses as if she considers allowing the compliment to penetrate her armor.
“Let me guess, the secret ingredient is honey,” I say, meeting her big brown eyes. I glimpse something in them—an old wound? Secrets? I can’t quite put my finger on it, but they’re not bitter like the coffee, which I’m enjoying despite the suggestion I add cream and sugar.
Everything about her is sweet except the scowl on her lips—her full red lips—and the way she drives that fast red car.
My gaze flits to a large gold trophy emblazoned with a racecar on the shelf behind her. The engraving reads Honey Hamilton and the year—about a decade ago.
Her gaze follows mine and her expression hardens. “What do you want?”
“Do you mean in general or from the kitchen? Actually, I want to know why you were about to knuckle up over the parking spot.”
“We know all about guys who drive vehicles like that.” She points out the window.
Molly whips her head around. “We do?”
“Vehicles like what?” I ask, eager to hear what she has to say because I know next to nothing about women who drive red Porsche Spyders, not that I’d admit that fact.
“Monster trucks.”
“Hardly. It’s a Ford F-450.”
“It’s lifted.”
“It has four-wheel drive.”
She snorts. “Obviously.”
“It’s a rental.”
“Oh.” That detail simmers her down.
I explain that I wasn’t sure what kind of terrain to expect in Hogwash Holler, but leave out that I didn’t imagine a gem like this would exist in such a small town. It’s like meeting myself in a mirror, only she’s far prettier. Not that I’m bad looking.
Honey is witty, gritty, and confident. Capable too. She can be a brat, but she also knows her manners and chooses whether to use them. She doesn’t hold back the sass, but her name is Honey, so there’s sweetness, thoughtfulness, and kindness inside. She knows her strengths and hides her weaknesses. She’d never ask for help but usually doesn’t need it.
We’re basically the same person. Not sure how I feel about that.
I point to the hardware behind her head. “Tell me about that trophy.”
Leveling me with her gaze, she says, “The problem with monster truck drivers is they think they can just plow over anything in their way.”
“Can’t they?”
“Not if they still want a windshield.” Ah, so she’s vengeful too. My kind of woman. The guys back at the station all agree that my attraction to wild women will be my downfall.
“Technically, you don’t need one.”
Her smile is thin. “Slashed tires.”
“Have you seen how thick they are?” I hold out my hands to demonstrate, not quite sure why I’m defending monster truck drivers. I have a fully outfitted Tacoma out west that’s suited for off-roading because it helps with my job and recreational activities.
“Brake lines,” she says, the words dropping like a threat.
Undaunted by our little game, I angle the menu in her direction. “I’ll take the flapjacks.”
“Pancakes,” she says.
“Yeah, the flapjacks.”
She shakes her head. “Want me to spell it for you? P-A-N-C-A-K-E-S.”
Molly’s head bobs between us as if she’s soaking in this bit of banter.
“Hotcakes,” I say, waggling my eyebrows at Honey to see how far I can push her. Yeah, I can play that game too.
“They’re called pancakes,” Honey says.
“Not where I’m from.”
“And where’s that?” Molly asks.
But I don’t answer. Instead, I’m in a deadlock with Honey. Our eyes hold, neither of us looking away like we’re in a staring contest, waiting to see the other one flinch, swerve, look away.
But she doesn’t waver.
My gaze magnetizes to her, but those big brown eyes on mine mess with my pulse ... and I lose.