Fallin’ Tides (Holly River #1)

1. Alice

ALICE

In Holly River, autumn arrives the first day of August, temperature be damned.

The residents stand determinedly on their front porches, hands resting on hips, eyes cast toward the blazing sun, and collectively decide that summer is over.

Regardless of whether the pool floats are still inflated.

Never mind that their A/C units wheeze from exertion.

Summer is out.

Fall is in.

No one accepts this fact faster than Maggie, who insists we must bid farewell to one season and welcome the next with ceremonial lemon drop martinis. And that I have fifteen minutes to get my rear end to her place.

I rush down the stairs, the steps groaning like bullfrogs beneath my feet.

Through the stairwell window, the street is a cornucopia of orange and burgundy, and Mrs. Devonshire, my neighbor, is wrestling a life-size scarecrow into a rocking chair.

School isn’t back in session for another week, and yet all of Holly River is already huffing pumpkin spice.

But for a small town whose economy runs on tourism, creating a perpetual holiday environment makes perfect sense.

Grabbing the feed from the mudroom, I head outside to where my girls are scavenging for beetles and earthworms. Pickles, an Easter Egger with a deluded sense of superiority, pecks my ankle the moment I step into the grass.

“Calm down, you little piranha.” I smile at her unapologetic audacity, wondering if she could spare a smidge.

As I scatter the grain, Dixie and Mabel join the fray, their feathers catching the fading sunlight.

In East Texas, our Sinclair name is synonymous with HVACs.

Specifically, the industrial-grade cooling systems required for broiler warehouses.

My parents spent thirty years ensuring that twenty thousand chickens at a time didn't turn into rotisseries prematurely.

With that feat came the assumption that their children would one day take the company reins.

Four months ago, my family moved to Louisiana to expand the business, expecting I’d follow suit the moment I tossed my Texas A&M graduation cap and packed the remaining furniture in our home.

Except every time I contemplate leaving the house I grew up in, a cold knot of anxiety forms in my chest. I should be sitting in the Sinclair Systems new Shreveport office right now, talking ductwork and ventilation.

Instead, I’ve parked myself in Holly River, hiding sketches and dreaming about things that don’t involve cubic footage of a broiler warehouse.

I’ve been back here since June, and so far my biggest accomplishment is teaching Mabel how to jump for a grape.

I have plans—big, terrifying, will probably, definitely fail plans.

But summoning the courage to actually take the leap has proven insurmountable. But I’ll get there.

I think.

My phone vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket, laughing when I see the text from Maggie.

If you aren't here in five minutes, I’m telling everyone your middle name is Pervis. Get moving, Sinclair!

Dashing back inside, I throw on a pair of high-waisted jeans, a cream silk camisole, and my favorite pale-blue cowboy boots.

Then I dart for the front door, stopping in the foyer for one indulgent moment.

The wall here is high, damask wallpaper faded.

If it were gone, sunlight would pour across the space, bathing the room in a golden hue each afternoon.

In my sketchbook, I planned it so that local art would hang…

right there. I can see it so clearly in my mind.

It’s a dangerous daydream I’m harboring, one that keeps me anchored to a house that’s no longer meant to be mine.

On my way to Maggie’s, I pass Mug Shots, the smell of coffee and nutmeg wafting through the open window, and The Buttermilk Cafe, the diner where I spend my mornings slinging hash browns and grits.

Further down is the Stagecoach Inn, a gazebo, and a wine and cheese shop that sells the most divine raspberry jam.

The layout of Holly River is dictated by the water.

The town was built in a crescent along the riverbank, and even now, as the sun begins its flamboyant descent, the air holds that familiar earthy smell I love.

I can hear the low rush of the current against the stone embankments behind the main strip.

It’s the steady heartbeat in a town whose months are measured in holidays, festivals, and homecoming parades.

When I arrive, Maggie is already locking the front door of her flower shop, Pardon My Garden, wearing a pink eyelet dress and combat boots.

"Look at you.” Maggie’s eyebrows waggle as she catches sight of me. "You actually left the chickens. I was worried you’d start a cult and crown yourself queen."

"Pickles is the queen,” I laugh. “I’m just the handmaid.”

"Well, the handmaid looks hot tonight.” Maggie hooks her arm through mine and steers me down the sidewalk toward the riverfront. "June is battling a new recipe and existential dread, so we’ll need to be persuasive."

As we walk, we pass shop after shop with windows dressed in faux-foliage. Even Mr. Hernandez is stapling maple leaf garland to his hardware store awning as the streetlights flicker on.

"The Fall Festival’s in November." I gesture to a display of cornstalks outside the pharmacy. "And it’s only August. Do we really need a three-month head start?"

"Uh, yeah. It’s the biggest night of the year. People have to practice their decorating. It’s like the Olympics, but with more burlap." Maggie bumps my hip. “Besides, you love it. We may have just started hanging out this summer, but I know a holiday junkie when I see one.”

I shake my head, but I can’t stop the smile that sweeps across my face.

“I knew it!” she exclaims. “I have a nose for these things. That’s what people always say about me. They say, ‘That Maggie can spot a holi-whore anywhere. And also, she’s really hot.’”

I nod. “They do say that.”

“I know! It’s absurd how much people talk about me. I should be the queen of your cult. I could usurp that…that bearded one…”

“Pickles,” I supply.

Maggie snaps. “Pickles.”

We reach Humble Pie, and June emerges, an ethereal, flour-dusted goddess. She usually rivals Maggie’s artistic energy, but tonight she’s dispirited. June presses her back against the glass door and groans. “I can’t go. I’ve forgotten how to bake and I’ll be bankrupt by month’s end.”

I grab the woman’s shoulders, forcing her to meet my eye. “Don’t you dare doubt your talent, June. I have erotic fantasies about your quiche. Not a single, solitary Texas soul could bake the way you can. You could make a literal dirt pie and I’d eat it.”

June brightens. “Oh, I used to love making those! Maybe I’ll make one tomorrow.

Extra gummy worms! But wait, adults won’t buy a dirt pie unless it’s for kids.

Which is a shame because it tastes heavenly.

” June holds up a finger. “I’ll make it a surprise pie.

Only three available. Can’t open it until you’re home. People’ll go nuts.”

“Yeah, seems like your creative well is entirely dry,” Maggie deadpans.

“I suppose I could go for a drink,” June wavers. “But no more than three. Or four.”

Our trio complete, we make our way closer to the river and reach Holly Hall, a local institution and sprawling wooden structure that’s survived three floods, two fires, and at least one fistfight involving a mechanical bull.

As we push through the doors, we’re greeted by Garth Brooks crooning over old speakers and a dance floor packed with shuffling boots and weather-beaten cowboy hats.

"To the bar!" June shouts over the music.

I place our order, and after the chilled glasses arrive, Maggie hands out our drinks.

“To the end of a perfect summer, and the continuation of an epic—nay, legendary—friendship.” Maggie and June clink their glasses against my own, lemon drop froth sloshing over sugar-crusted rims. I bring the drink to my lips and sip, relishing the tartness on my tongue.

“Could use more mint.” June leans over the bar top, reaching for the garnishes. Dalton, the owner of Holly Hall and June’s childhood best friend, slaps at her hands with his rag. “June, I swear to God, if you don’t get out of my shit. You are a customer.”

“A customer with superior taste buds.” June pops another mint leaf into each of our glasses and nods in approval after sampling it. “You love me,” she fires at Dalton with a wink, and then turns toward the dance floor.

I glance around the room, a wave of nostalgia hitting me.

When I was younger, my brother and I would chase each other around the gravel parking lot while our parents slow-danced to Shania Twain’s "You’re Still The One.

" This place has barely changed over the years. The same wooden beams cross the ceiling, and the same stage awaits local touring bands. There isn’t an act tonight, but when there is, you get a straight shot of them playing while standing in the bathroom line.

Some things are just built exactly right.

“We should dance,” I say.

Maggie scrunches up her nose. “God, no. We don’t dance sober. We sit our beautiful behinds on these benches and rate the cowboys’ asses.”

When I give Maggie my best pleading face, she sighs.

“Give me ’til the bottom of this glass and then I’ll hump your leg on the dance floor all you want.”

“Deal!”

One hour of dancing bleeds into two, and then three.

The initial rush of the martinis, followed by draft beer, leaves me with a satisfying kind of exhaustion.

Outside, the river fog has likely rolled in, blanketing the town in damp coolness, but inside the Hall, the heat is rising.

It’s nearly eleven when I check my phone.

My feet are throbbing, and the music is starting to vibrate behind my eyes.

"I think I’m calling it, guys,” I yell so that Maggie can hear me over the fiddle solo ripping through the air. "I’ve got a glamorous day of refilling coffee tomorrow."

"No! Not yet," Maggie protests, grabbing my wrist. "You can’t leave before the slow songs start. Just one more dance, Alice. For the sake of our youth."

I look to June for backup, who gives a sympathetic shrug. “I’m making cinnamon-sugar doughnuts in the morning. Come by the shop before work and I’ll give you one on the house. But only if you stay.”

I sigh, feeling the siren’s call of my bed, but I’ve only been out with Maggie a handful of times, and June even fewer. It’s been a welcome change having friends in Holly River. Friends that feel like they could become permanent fixtures in my life, which is all I ever wanted.

"Fine," I relent. "One more. Then I am walking straight into the river and floating home."

I stand up, stretching my back, and a guy in a tan pearl-snap shirt approaches our table. He’s a bit older, with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. He asks me to dance, and I accept, mostly because June is making a go expression at me.

He’s a good dancer—he knows when to lead and when to spin—but as we move through the two-step, my mind is miles away.

I’m thinking about the sketches again. I’m thinking about what kind of lumber I’d need and realizing I know nothing about lumber or what lumber even means.

I’m also thinking about the historical romance I’m reading and wishing I could return to those tragically conflicted characters and their lush world.

Across the room, I spot Maggie and June watching me. Maggie catches my eye and, with the subtlety of an earthquake, begins thrusting her hips against the table.

I burst out laughing, nearly stepping on the man’s toes.

"Something funny?" He smiles down at me.

"Just my friend." I shake my head. “Sorry.”

Suddenly, there’s a commotion near the bar. A chair scrapes loudly against the floor, followed by glass shattering. The dancing slows. People crane their necks to get a better glimpse.

"Sounds like a fight," the man holding me mutters. He releases my hand, drawn by the irresistible spectacle of two grown men throttling one another.

The crowd shifts, and now I can see what the crowd does.

I spot a man’s broad back, stretching the seams of a dark t-shirt.

He’s nearly a head taller than anyone surrounding him, and he has a handful of another man’s shirt gathered in his fist. The other guy is shouting something incoherent, but the bigger man doesn't respond.

He simply shoves the guy away as if bored by the interaction.

He shakes his head, points a commanding finger toward the exit, and watches as the troublemaker retreats.

When he turns, my breath hitches.

Because it’s him.

It’s Colt Mitchell.

The boy who made me feel like more than a tennis player. The boy who told me to keep dreaming and was more of a brother to me than Grant was half the time. My parents’ honorary second son who practically lived with us for three years before joining the military.

He’s older now, his jawline stronger, with shadows beneath his dark eyes. But it’s definitely him. I think of the letters I wrote him over the eight years he’s been gone. And the few he wrote back.

I hesitate, my feet rooted to the floor. But then his gaze sweeps the room and locks onto mine. His eyes widen. His body goes rigid. And before I even realize it, I’m moving, cutting through the crowd, drawn toward him with magnetic force.

"Colt!" I cry.

He barely has time to brace himself before I launch myself into his arms.