1. Welcome to Willow Valley #2
I snatch my keys from the hook by the door and turn back to my sister, Emma. She’s seated on the rug beside my nephew, Auggie, with coloring sheets spread out across my coffee table.
“You sure you don’t mind staying with him?” I ask.
“We’ll be fine, right, buddy?” She ruffles his hair, and he grins up at her, nodding once.
“Thanks, Squirt. I owe you.”
She groans at the use of her childhood nickname, hurling one of her Doc Martens across the room. I’m at the door before she can hit her target, and the shoe collides against the wood with a muffled thud.
It’s a short walk to the library, but I decide to take my Harley instead. I park in the alley out back for a quick getaway and head inside the massive stone building where half the town is already gathered. The air is tinged with the scents of leather, paper, and something almost earthy.
Rows of chairs are set up in the large meeting space upstairs with a long table at the front of the room.
Seated dead center is the Willow Valley mayor, Milton, more commonly known as Gramps, clad in his customary trucker hat, with his mustache freshly groomed.
To his right is Janet, the septuagenarian librarian—try saying that five times fast—with her short grey bob, dressed in her Sunday best. I think she stopped aging around a decade ago.
To his left is my sister’s boyfriend, glorified nepo baby Teddy Sinclair.
His dad is a bigshot hockey coach in Lexington.
Their ancestors founded the town, and Teddy never lets anyone forget it.
He resembles every rich kid you’ve ever met, in a pressed button-down and slacks, greasy dark hair with a classic side part, and way too much gel.
The three of them, Teddy, Janet, and Milton, make up the town council.
I pick a spot in the back row and scan the crowd.
All of the usual suspects are here: about fifty of the town’s more prominent—and nosy—figures.
Ben waves from a few rows ahead. Seated next to him is his sister, Quinn, and beside her, on the end of the row, sharing a large bucket of popcorn from the Grove is my neighbor and tenant, Clio Marsden—beautiful, curvy, fucking infuriating.
Sunshine wrapped in neon colors and a smile that could probably melt an iceberg—but not me. I’m immune.
Muffled chatter fills the room as the rest of the townies file in, filling most of the empty seats in the rows ahead of me. As usual, nobody sits beside me.
Gramps stands, the buttons on his plaid shirt straining against his midsection.
He bangs his gavel twice and silences the crowd.
“Welcome to the Willow Valley town meeting. Let’s cut to the chase.
” His voice is rough as sandpaper. “Our first order of business is the issue of parking in the town square. It has been brought to the council’s attention that residents have been blocking the gazebo entrance on the east side.
I would like to kindly remind everyone that there is a perfectly good parking lot on the other side of the square where you will not be a nuisance. ”
“Oh, come on, Milton. It was one time, and my wife was in labor,” a masculine voice protests. “What was I supposed to do, let her have the baby in the middle of the Grove?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Landry.” Milton flips a page on a clipboard and runs his finger down the list, muttering to himself. “Oh. Right. The fiftieth annual Willow Tree Festival is coming up, and we’re looking for volunteers. The sign-up sheet will be at the front desk with Janet.”
He glances at Janet and winks. A furious blush spreads across her face, and she looks away, patting her cheeks.
For the next thirty minutes, we go over landscaping and HOA regulations, parking grievances, leash laws, and every other mundane small-town neighbor dispute you can think of, and I nearly fall asleep in the back row.
“The final order of business I would like to address was brought to me by The Willow Valley Business Association.”
Oh fuck.
I sit up straighter.
The WVBA has had it out for me ever since I refused to join three years ago.
They’re constantly in everyone’s business.
The association is run by an insufferable woman named Karen Parker, a realtor in town who thinks she can dictate how other people do things.
She says it’s for the benefit of Willow Valley and its residents, but I think she’s on a power trip.
The woman in question stands and faces the crowd with a look of smug satisfaction.
“As you know, Willow Valley takes great pride in our small town charm,” she says in a forced country accent, flipping her blonde hair back.
“We’re known for our rich history and, quite frankly, our whimsy.
Businesses like Saps and Swirls, the Grove, and Branch Out thrive because they subscribe to the overall theme of our quaint town.
I would like to further our appeal as a tourist destination with a few minor changes.
First and foremost, I have filed a motion with the council that Lunar Ink should change its name to something more thematically appropriate. ”
I stand abruptly, chair legs scraping against the linoleum. “Over my dead body.”
Chatter erupts, but I can’t make heads or tails of any of it. Whether they’re on my side or Karen’s is anyone’s guess.
Gramps bangs the gavel, calling everyone to order. “Thank you, Karen. I’ll take it from here.”
Karen retakes her seat, but I stay standing. Gramps cocks his head at me.
I cross my arms. “You got something to say, say it.”
“She has a point, Weston. Tourism’s been down this year.”