6. Kissing is Gross
Chapter 6
Kissing is Gross
B eing around Honey is like walking into a rosebush, though her scent is closer to honeysuckle. And this property is anything but sweet. Vines and creeping plants slink and hang from the cypress and tupelo trees.
The air is thick and stagnant. Slime pools along the edges of the murky swamp. This is the kind of place where people disappear—whether because they’re eaten by an alligator or fall into a pit of quicksand, I’m not sure.
Dead leaves rustle from beyond a thick mat of greenery.
“Watch your step. We have cotton mouth snakes around here,” Honey says.
“We have rattlers out west. At least they have the decency to warn us.”
“Got those too,” Honey warns.
A squawk comes from a nearby tumble of weeds and I startle slightly.
“It’s just a peacock.” Honey waves the feather she picked up earlier.
“I thought chickens were in charge around here.”
“You mean Chick Jagger. It would be a shame if the crocogator got him.”
“Do you mean crocodile?”
“Crocogator.”
“Alligator?”
“It’s a hybrid and albino,” she says matter of fact.
I squint because that sounds an awful lot like a tall tale someone from a small town would tell an outsider. All the same, I keep a better eye on my surroundings—ahem, including Honey. Wouldn’t want either one of us to get lost or separated.
“A hybrid alligator and crocodile that has white hide? Is that even possible?”
“Anything is possible in Hogwash.” She seems unfazed by that fact, the humid air, and the squelchy ground beneath our feet even though she’s wearing wedge sandals with little straps around her ankles that make me wonder about her being a pageant queen. Her legs are long, toned, and tan. She steps lightly and almost seems to glide rather than stomp like she did on the sidewalk earlier.
I’m not sure whether she’s wary of outsiders or if her gaze darting to me and then quickly flitting away means something else. Something I should not be thinking about because Honey made it clear that this isn’t Hugwash ... or Kisswash.
“Should we go back and get the truck?” I ask, concerned for her with the muck underfoot.
She says, “We wouldn’t be able to go much farther than this, anyway.”
We stop in front of a fallen stone portico surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that reminds me of a set of crooked teeth.
“I can’t decide if we’re on the site of ancient ruins from history books or a horror film set,” I say.
Starting forward, she glances over her shoulder, and with a challenge in her voice, she says, “Come on. Unless you’re scared.”
No sooner does she challenge me, than she skids in a slick of mud. Like the gallant fellow I am, I loop my arm around her and use my body to steady her. Face to face, we’re a feather apart. I catch her gaze after she avoided mine for so long outside the restaurant. They shine in the dim light under the trees and clouds. My breath falters and my pulse turns irregular.
After a long beat, Honey presses her palm to my chest. She glances at it and then up at me.
My voice is rough when I say, “I’m not scared of anything. Not even of your lips on mine.”
She jerks back. “Ew. Kiss you? No way. Gross.”
“Why would kissing me be gross?”
“You’re probably all slimy and—” She wiggles her fingers and wrinkles her nose.
“Yeah, well, kissing you would be like getting bitten by an alligator.”
We sound like a pair of bickering children.
She continues into the cemetery, stepping more carefully now. “Have you ever been?”
“Kissed?” I hold back a large tuft of elephant grass, blocking the path, and gesture that she proceeds.
She grunts. “No. Have you ever been bitten by an alligator?” But before I answer, as if still thinking about the prospect of kissing, she says, “Just no. Gross. Worst idea ever.”
A beat passes between us and she fights against having her eyes all over me—instead focusing on the dead air between us.
I say, “But you were thinking about it.”
“Was not. You brought it up. That means you were thinking about it.”
“How could I not? You know you want me.”
“You are so full of yourself.”
I duck under a thick blanket of creeping ivy. “I’m getting Indiana Jones vibes.”
“Watch your step, Short Round.”
“No, way, I’d be Indy. He’s a dude. You’d be the love interest.”
I expect her to turn around and shoot me a glare. Instead, she lets out a robust laugh that scatters a gathering of crows. Her response suggests that love isn’t part of her story these days. Unless there are strings attached.
Instead, she says, “ Allons .”
“Allen? I thought we were going to pay our respects to Hogan Tickle.”
Honey’s Cajun accent is thick and I find myself enjoying the rhythm and occasionally having to decipher her meaning like a puzzle ... or a riddle.
She repeats, “ Allons. It’s Cajun or Franglais. Whatever you want to call it. It means Let’s go .”
Clouds obscure the sun as it dips toward the west. It’s later in the day than I’d like when visiting a cemetery. The path is overgrown and the long grass tickles my ankles. Unlike the cemeteries at higher elevations, the above-ground burial sites here are marked with chipped and broken stones like the dead aren’t really at rest. A massive live oak hangs over one section like it’s given up. A gust of wind clears the swampy air, replacing it with a salty brine. In the distance a sheet of water gleams. Only now getting the lay of the land, I had no idea we were so close to the coast.
When we reach the back, Honey stops in front of a mausoleum with embellishments carved into the stone. The top comes to a peak and underneath reads the name, Hogan Darius Tickle, and the years: 1890-1963 .
“He was the finder of Hogwash Holler.”
Not sure I heard correctly, I ask, “Do you mean founder?”
“This isn’t a cream brool situation.”
“Flapjacks,” I say, catching the reference to different terms and pronunciations of words from earlier.
She scowls at me but even in the fading light of the day, I see a shimmer in her eyes. “Pancakes. But as I was saying ... Way back in the way back?—”
I point to the gravestone. “Sometime in the early 1900s?”
She nods. “Hogan Tickle’s adventures led him in search of pirate treasure. Some say he was a distinguished member of the Royal Navy and went rogue. Others, believe that he was a pirate himself. No one knows the truth, only that he had in his possession a map which brought him here. Well, there.” She points toward the fort.
“The Metairie Stronghold,” I say, recalling the plat I’d looked at earlier while with the lawyer.
“Along with two other guys?—”
“Friends or foes?”
“Both? Jeb Dubois, Roger Cahoot, and Tickle called themselves the Boot Beer Boys, ”
“Let me guess, this was during prohibition.”
She nods. “However, on account of the abundance of sassafras, Tickle brewed root beer. He also gambled. Anyway, they discovered what we call the Dubois Diamond and the Roger Cahoot Ruby.”
“That’s three guys. Two treasures. Was there a falling out?”
“It’s pure speculation, but supposedly there was a third stone or treasure. Again, no one knows for sure, but they’ll all claim they do.”
I lean in, rapt by Honey’s sweet yet smokey voice as if we’re gathered around a campfire and she’s telling old tales. “What do you think?”
“I figured you’d know considering you’re supposedly Tickle’s kin and all.” She clicks her tongue.
I shake my head. “No relation. As I said, I came into this inheritance in my divorce settlement.”
“What did she end up with?”
My lips bunch up with a shameful amount of self-satisfaction. “Nothing. Not even an ounce of my regret. I won’t let myself remember so much as her name.”
“Never mind a woman scorned ...” Honey mutters.
“If withholding my forgiveness was worthwhile, trust me, I’d do it.”
“So you forgave her?”
I nod, just barely. However, I’ll never forget.
Honey golf claps. “Yet you’re here and you’re not the first person to come through, claiming the property. Though this approach is new. Well done. As it is, my sleep is spotty and you’d have had to get up mighty early in the morning to pull one over on me.”
I sputter. “Wait? You don’t believe me?”
“Remember where you are. This is Hogwash. Ground Zero for nonsense.”
“Honey, I have the documents to prove it to you.”
“Papers can be forged.”
“You say that like you have experience.”
She chortles.
“If you think this is a scam, why are you out here with me? Or are you just seeing how far I can be strung along?” Like Molly sweeping up whatever crumbs of gossip she can, is Honey gathering information about the treasure? Granted, I’d heard vaguely about it when the town came into my possession, but I didn’t believe it. As she stated, this town is called Hogwash.
With a dismissive snort, she gestures to the tomb. “Why don’t we pay our respects.”
I study the writing on the grave marker and read, “‘When Pigs Fly.’”
“It’s kind of the town slogan,” Honey says.
I read the next line, “‘I would just as soon imbibe this root as take to the air and make a hoot. Look up and see me on the blocks, the blocks made of pinkish rocks. You’ll find me sketched there, most rectangular seldom square.’ What does that mean?”
“By my reckoning, the best people to ask about the first riddle would be Lexi and JQ, but that doesn’t mean they’ll answer you.”
“This seems like a bunch of gibberish.” Before Honey can remind me again that we’re in Hogwash, I read the next one. “‘Take one from apple but none from tart. Find one in liver but not in heart. The last you’ll discover in giant as well as ghost but never, ever in a roast.’”
Honey hugs her arms around her chest. Without the sun, it’s cooling off. If I had a hoodie, I’d offer it. But I’m not sure her shiver is because she’s chilly.
“What did Hogan Tickle mean by these riddles?”
“Legends have grown up over the years, but one thing is for sure, instead of leaving his fortune to his son, he cut Sebastien out of the will. These are the only clues to his inheritance.”
“So there’s more to it than the chateau?”
Honey’s arms shift from a hug to crossed in front of her chest and she levels me with a sharp and accusatory look. “I figured that’s why you’re here.”
I shake my head slowly.
“People have tried to solve the riddles because supposedly they lead to Tickle’s Golden Tokens, which would then bring them to the treasure. A bunch of scavenger hunters really, every year descending on Hogwash, making a mess of things and thinking that if they find an owl, an apple, or a pig, that’ll lead them to a fortune.”
“But no one has ever solved a riddle or found a token?”
“Some say it’s cursed.”
“That isn’t a direct answer.”
She remains tight-lipped.
“Any idea what happened to the other Boot Beer Boys?”
“One was hung. Another died in a duel. Supposedly.”
“And their treasures?”
“I’ve heard that the diamond was chipped into pieces and sold—the Swans had a chunk. As for the ruby, no one knows.”
I read the last three riddles in my head, trying to make sense of them.
I have a head and a tail. I can break, but I am not frail. If you feed me, I will plink, but don’t you worry, I do not stink.
I chuckle.
“Everyone thinks that has something to do with a skunk.”
“You have your doubts.”
“If there was a treasure, trust me, it would’ve been found.”
“You sound confident.”
“More like convicted.”
“In the court of law?”
“Something like that,” she mutters, shivering again.
The next one reads, You can hold me tight but not to cuddle. However, I prefer the muddle minus three especially if there’s a puddle. I cannot sew or sow, but I am the latter and getting fatter.
The final one says, The story is that of the three, one lives in a house made of a tree. The other you could blow over, but not mine even though it’s in a field of clover .
My gaze trails back up the list of riddles and lands on the second one before drifting over to Honey who watches me intently. My pulse trips.
She says, “You inherited this place. Shouldn’t you know its history?”
“Probably better to hear it from a local.” This local, in particular, with her smoky voice, as sweet as honey and as crackly as a campfire.
I tell myself I’m not looking—not at her brown eyes filled with secrets or her full lips covered in promise. Nor am I looking for the treasure, but if I found it, I wouldn’t complain.
Shrouded in the silence of twilight, we make our way back to the truck.
Once inside, I ask, “So what do you think?”
“About the treasure? I say don’t put any stock in false hopes. Foolish ones. They’ve been the doom of many people.”
“Dramatic.”
“I think living a quiet life, a simple one is the best course of action.”
“Says the woman who has a Porsche in her garage.”
She snorts a breath. “It’s more of a carport, er, a tarp strung up between two trees, a broken laundry drying pole, and a broom handle.”
“You should have a car like that in a garage.”
“I’m well aware. As it is, I’m not in possession of a garage. I’m lucky I have a roof.”
“I have a garage.”
She pumps her hand in the air. “Well done. You succeeded at life.”
I gesture over my shoulder toward the chateau. “I have a proposal. Help me fix up the place. You can park your Porsche there and make me flapjacks.”
“I don’t see how that works in my favor. Also, they’re called pancakes.”
I chuckle. Having scrapped the plan that brought me to town this morning, a new one takes an amorphous shape. I’m not sure what it’ll look like in the end, but I want Honey to be part of it. Show her that life isn’t all briars and bramble. I’ll have to reformulate my revenge plot later.
I say, “You have a vision for what it once was.”
“There are old photos on the wall in the town hall. An entire book in the library. More of a scrapbook, but Friends of Hogwash preserved what they could.”
I idle at the end of the overgrown road that intersects Main Street.
“Maybe I want your help.”
“And how would that benefit me?”
“You said you’re lucky you have a roof. When the chateau is restored, you can live there.”
Her laugh is robust then cuts off abruptly. “Why would you let me do that?”
“Because you have every reason to leave this town, yet you haven’t. Something keeps you here.”
“I’m beholden.” Her voice is faint then louder when she adds, “As it is, I can’t stack more onto my plate. And I don’t mean pancakes because there’s no such thing as too many pancakes, but there is such a thing as too much work ...”
“Flapjacks.”
Her phone beeps a few times. She checks the text. “I have to get back. Now.”
“So long as no one tries to take my parking spot, I’ll have you to the Laughing Gator Grille in less than sixty seconds. By the way, any recommendations for lodging?”
Her fingers fly across her phone’s screen as she replies to a text while saying, “There’s the Pigs in a Blanket B&B.”
“Huggers really go all out with the theme, huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “Hoggers.”
“Sounds to me like you’re saying Huggers.”
“Anyway, I don’t think Thelma will let you stay. At least not yet. She’s wary of outsiders and only allows locals, though Jesse recently moved out, so I know there’s space. Why not stay at the chateau, unless you’re scared.” The corner of her mouth curls with a smile.
“I’ll figure it out. Good luck trying to get rid of me.”
“And good luck sleeping at the chateau. Watch out for swamp zombies.” She laughs as she gets out of the truck in front of the restaurant and hurries inside.
Lexi and a man sit at the counter. She holds a baby and Honey lights up.
I can’t say I’m particularly afraid of ghosts, swamp zombies, or even the crocogator, but babies terrify me because they operate on their own principles. On the flight here, an infant wailed for a solid forty-five minutes. I know they don’t come with an off switch, but how can a guy who’s used to turning off alarms, not feel helpless in that situation—and, let’s be real, somewhat annoyed?
But what frightens me even more is the way Honey Hamilton messes with my pulse.