Chapter 7
Seven
Swayze
The Sasspatch Society was an entourage in the best possible sense.
They were exactly the kind of unapologetic uniqueness I adored, wrapped up in Southern sass and bold style.
And if their help felt a little like being caught up in a very fashionable riptide, I didn’t have it in me to fight when they announced we were going into town “for provisions.”
I’d finished my tea and one of Monique’s lemon squares. Breakfast of champions. It was so good, I’d grabbed a second one for the road, which I finished off from the passenger seat of her hatchback.
“Tell me true. How many proposals have these lemon squares earned you?” I licked the sweet tart filling off my fingers.
Monique grinned, a flash of white teeth against her smooth, dark face. “Like your lift, many have tried, none have succeeded. But they are damned tasty.”
“True story. Have you considered trying a margarita flavored version?”
She blinked long lashes and glanced over at me with speculation. “I haven’t, but I like the way you think.”
We drove down the mountain in a caravan of vehicles, and I finally got my first in-person glimpse of Gibson Hollow.
In the past year and change, they’d come a long way from the photos of catastrophic flood damage I’d seen online.
There were still signs of repairs in progress everywhere—sawhorses, strips of caution tape, bright orange plastic netting blocking off sections of sidewalk.
The landscape itself still bore the scars of trees having been uprooted and landscaping fully washed away.
But I also spotted new signs and fresh awnings over sparkling windows displaying announcements like “Grand re-opening!” and “Welcome back!”
Monique pulled up to a storefront midway down Oak Street, flanked by other shops in various states of reopening.
The highly ornate sign caught my eye immediately—swirling script in gold leaf that read Devine Interventions, with smaller text beneath declaring “Vintage thrifting and restoration for the fabulous.”
I squinted at it. “Shouldn’t that be D-i-v-i-n-e?”
“Not when the owner is Delilah Devine.” Monique killed the engine and grabbed her purse. “That was Dee’s stage name before he retired and moved back home.”
We climbed out of the car, and I shut the door, absorbing this new piece of information about my rescuer’s uncle. “Stage name where?”
“New Orleans. He had a show at The Bourbon Belle for a good long while.” Monique’s voice carried genuine pride. “Hell of an act.”
“And now I’m giving one hell of an act in other areas.”
I jumped.
Dee materialized beside the storefront door, keys jangling from one neatly manicured hand. He unlocked the door with a flourish, then swept it open and stood aside with one arm extended in invitation. “Come to my sanctuary, darling.”
I stepped over the threshold and stopped dead.
The shop exploded with color and texture—vintage clothing racks organized by era and style, furniture pieces in various states of restoration, glass display cases glinting with jewelry and accessories.
A velvet fainting couch the color of ripe plums sat near the front window.
Mannequins posed throughout wore outfits that ranged from 1920s flapper to 1980s power suits, each styled with an attention to detail that spoke of genuine love for the craft.
String lights zigzagged across the pressed tin ceiling. A vintage record player sat on an Art Deco side table, and the faint scent of lavender and old books hung in the air.
“Oh, wow.” The words slipped out unbidden.
Dee beamed. “I know, right? Everything deserves a second act. Clothing, furniture, people.” He winked at me. “Especially people.”
A second act. God, he couldn’t possibly understand just how devastatingly relevant those words were to my current situation.
When I’d first chosen Gibson Hollow as my next destination, it hadn’t been with any intention of starting over or running away from anything.
I’d been genuinely intrigued by their community rebuilding efforts after the flood, and I’d wanted to see if I could lend my skills to help in some meaningful way.
And if I was being completely honest with myself, I’d been itching to be somewhere closer to home for a while now.
Somewhere I could actually see my family more easily when the urge struck, instead of always being thousands of miles away with nothing but video calls and the occasional holiday visit.
But then the scandal struck, and my carefully built reputation was left in complete tatters in less time than it took to binge Project Runway.
Sponsors and contracts had been yanked out from under me as everyone I’d worked with actively scrambled to distance themselves from the fallout, desperate to avoid any contamination by association.
Not a single one of them had even bothered to ask my side of things or give me a chance to explain what had actually happened.
They’d all just figured it was better to cut ties immediately, to be safe rather than sorry.
And now here I was, stranded in this tiny mountain town without even the basic tools of my official trade—the laptop, the camera equipment, the backup drives that had allowed me to make a living wherever I happened to roam.
I was entirely dependent upon the kindness of relative strangers, reduced to accepting charity from people I barely knew.
A gentle hand stroked down my upper arm. I blinked to find Dee just there, concern in his eyes. “You alright there, sugarplum?”
“I… yes. I just…” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight.
“I guess I’m overwhelmed by everything that’s happened.
” The weight of it all pressed down on my shoulders—the loss, the uncertainty, the complete upending of my life.
My circumstances were starting to feel less like a temporary setback and more like a trap I couldn’t escape, walls closing in from every direction.
“That’s to be expected. Come on. You’ll need to take a trip into Asheville to replace a lot of your things, but a girl needs some outfits that don’t say bargain bin basics.”
I looked around the shop again. “We’re here for clothes?”
“We are.” He looked at his friends. “Ladies, you know what to do.”
Miss Glory, Miss Bea, and Monique split apart as if it had been choreographed, diving into the racks of clothes while Dee nudged me onto the fainting couch. “Sit and be tended to.”
“But… y’all don’t even know my size.”
“Pssh. Ye of little faith. I’ve been fitting people for costumes since before you were a twinkle in your mama’s eye,” Miss Bea declared.
I was a little afraid of what this group would dress me in. Not that I didn’t appreciate their style, but I wasn’t exactly in a place where I wanted to be… loud. Under the radar was the name of the game for now, until I figured out what came next in my life.
Miss Glory held up a pair of black pants.
Dee nodded. “Yes, those will do nicely.” He took them from her. “Trade off with me. Let’s get some more lists made. I know how much you love them.”
Miss Glory blew him a kiss and came to join me on the fainting couch, producing her tablet like a magician with a rabbit out of a hat. “Okay, the practicalities, darling. Do you have renter’s insurance?”
“Thankfully, yes. I don’t know if I’ll need the report from the fire department to file a claim or not.”
“Colter will see that you get it, but I expect you can get the ball rolling there without it.” She added something to the list.
“I don’t have any of my policy numbers or passwords or anything. They were all with my laptop and phone.” Shit, how the hell was I even supposed to start making sense of this mess?
“Then those will go on up to the top of the acquisitions list after clothes and toiletries.” More tapping on the screen.
A headache began tapping at my temples again. “I’ll need new credit cards, driver’s license, to contact the rental agency about the car because the keys were also in the house.”
“Added to the list. We’ll get it all sorted.” She said it with the kind of confidence of a woman who always had it together.
But I wasn’t that woman. I had been. For years, I’d been Miss Independent, living my traveling lifestyle on my own terms, taking care of my own everything and loving every minute of it.
In theory, the past week hadn’t erased that capacity, but I felt so out of my depth right now I couldn’t imagine everything being all right.
Everything will turn out all right in the end. If it’s not all right, it’s not the end.
The quote from one of my favorite movies, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel, scrolled through my brain. I’d lived my life by those words. All this time I’d managed to have faith, and it had worked out. Maybe this time wouldn’t be any different.
The universe had, after all, sent me a quartet of fairy drag queens.
Dee emerged from the racks with multiple garments. Miss Bea and Monique were right behind with more. “These should get you started. We’ve coordinated by outfit.”
Two minutes later, I found myself behind a heavy velvet curtain, stripping off the borrowed sweats and examining the tags of the clothes. Shockingly, they mostly had gotten my sizes spot on. I pulled the first pair of slacks from the hanger.
Miss Glory’s voice floated from the other side of the curtain. “Now, not to put too fine a point on it, but was everything in the house or is there a moving truck showing up later that will need somewhere to stockpile?”
“I don’t—didn’t have that much. I’m something of a digital nomad, so I carry only what I actually need and lease places that are already furnished. Almost everything I brought was in the house, other than maybe my carry-on that could be in the trunk of the rental car still.”
For a moment, I closed my eyes at the fresh reminder that I’d lost everything, along with some irreplaceable pieces that I’d been carrying on my travels for years.
I knew I ought to be grateful. I had my life.
I hadn’t been injured. But the fire had simply been the last straw on my already overloaded back.
“Digital nomad?” Miss Bea asked. “What sort of work do you do, sweetheart?”
I pulled on a sweater as an excuse to hesitate for a few moments. “I’m a graphic designer.” It wasn’t a lie. That was how I made a living beyond the sponsorships I’d once had. And it was likely how I’d be going back to paying the bills. At least for a while.
“So you just bounce around wherever you want?” Monique asked.
I pulled back the curtain and stepped out. “I love to travel. This has allowed me to do it for several years. And y’all are a wonder. This fits perfectly.”
“Mmmhmm. That deep aubergine contrasts so well with your hair,” Miss Bea declared. “You just need some slouchy little booties.”
“Great minds.” Dee thrust a pair in my direction.
I stared down at the booties. “Do you have everything here?”
“Not everything, but a lot.”
I tried on the booties, sadly not the perfect fit—a little too wide for my narrow feet—then got sent back in to try on the next outfit.
“So where is home, then? Where are you from?” Miss Glory asked. “I know that’s a Southern accent I’m hearing.”
“Georgia, originally.”
In the silence that followed, I could hear what they didn’t ask—why didn’t I choose to go home when I returned to the States? But I didn’t want to get into my failures or my complicated relationship with the family I adored.
They didn’t press. Instead, they shifted topics.
“So how did you decide on Gibson Hollow?” Dee asked.
“I saw the social media coverage of the rebuild earlier this year. I thought I might be able to offer some help.” Of course, that was when I still had a massive platform to bring attention to good causes.
For the moment, I was glad I didn’t have my phone or computer so I couldn’t give in and keep checking what people were saying about the scandal and my subsequent disappearance.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Monique declared. “We’ve had so many wonderful people come help. We’re thrilled to add you to the list.”
I stepped out in the emerald green wrap dress. “Well, I can only hope to repay y’all’s kindness.”
“The time will absolutely come,” Miss Bea insisted.
I hoped she was right, and that I didn’t end up disappointing them, too.
Miss Glory studied me from head to toe. “That dress will properly make a man swallow his tongue. Definitely a keeper.”
“I don’t have one currently in the wings.” And dating was definitely not a part of my reinvent-my-life plan.
“Nonsense. One does not have to have a man to torture them,” Miss Glory purred. “How else do you think I managed to get four ex-husbands?”
“Four? Wow. I’d be happy to just have one someday. But I seem to be doomed in that department.”
“Doomed? Why’s that, sugar pie?” Dee asked.
“My brother is in a long-term, perfect relationship with his partner, and my sister is married to her high school sweetheart, whom she reconnected with after a stalker situation, and they’re all disgustingly happy. Meanwhile, I can’t seem to keep one longer than about three months.”
Monique arched one perfectly tweezed brow. “Does that have something to do with why you bounce around doing the digital nomad thing?”
“Do you mean am I leaving before I can get in too deep because secretly I’m running from commitment? Because my mother has suggested that particular point before.”
The ladies exchanged a look.
“Listen, if she’d had her way, I’d have stayed put in our hometown and married some local boy whose idea of travel is going down to Atlanta for a football game.
No, thank you. I just… haven’t found anyone worth staying for.
Someday I will. In the meantime… there’s plenty to enjoy about the world all on my own. ”
“A woman who knows her mind is a beautiful thing,” Dee insisted. “Now, go try on the rest of what we pulled. I’m dying to see you in that cobalt blue number.”
As I slipped back behind the curtain, I wished I had as much faith in that someday as I’d made it sound.