3 - Margaret
For the last ten years, her primary mode of transportation had been the back seat of a Mercedes S-Class, driven by a man named Thomas who always had the climate control set to a perfect seventy-two degrees. If she needed to go to New York, there was a first-class ticket or a chartered flight.
The fuel light on the dashboard blinked, a bright, angry orange.
Don’t panic, Margaret told herself, her heart executing a fast, erratic flutter. It’s just a car. Millions of people put gas in their cars every day. You organized a silent auction that raised three million dollars for pediatric oncology. You can dispense liquid into a tank.
She pulled off the highway at the next exit, easing the rattling Camry into a dusty, brightly lit Exxon station.
She pulled up right next to the pump, threw the car in park, and took a deep breath.
She grabbed her purse, stepped out into the chilly mountain air, and walked around to the back of the car.
The gas cap was on the other side.
Margaret closed her eyes, letting her head drop back. She could practically hear Charles’s voice, smooth and dripping with condescension: Spatial awareness, Maggie. It’s not that difficult to observe your surroundings.
“Shut up, Charles,” she whispered to the empty parking lot.
She got back in, started the engine, and drove in a wide, clumsy circle around the pump. She parked again, this time a solid four feet away from the machine, just to be safe.
Stepping out, she confronted the pump. It had a screen, several buttons, and a card reader. She pulled out the prepaid Visa card she’d bought at a pharmacy—untraceable, the internet had said. She slid it into the slot.
The screen beeped: PLEASE ENTER ZIP CODE.
Margaret froze. Did prepaid cards have zip codes? If she used her Richmond zip code, would Charles’s security team somehow get an alert? Wife located in sector four! Deploy the helicopters! A cold sweat broke out across her back.
She punched in 90210. It was the only other zip code she could think of, courtesy of a television show from her childhood.
The screen beeped cheerfully: APPROVED. PLEASE SELECT GRADE.
There were three buttons: 87, 89, and 93.
Margaret stared at them. Thomas always took care of the cars.
What did a 2010 Camry drink? In her world, you always bought the best. The highest number.
The most expensive option. You didn’t put cheap wine in a crystal decanter, so why put cheap gas in a car?
She confidently pressed 93. It was nearly a dollar more a gallon, but surely the Camry deserved a treat for making it this far.
She lifted the heavy, rubber-coated nozzle. It smelled sharp and toxic. She unscrewed the gas cap, inserted the nozzle, and squeezed the handle.
Nothing happened.
She squeezed harder, using both hands. Still nothing.
Oh, God. I’ve broken it. I’ve broken the gas station.
Panic bubbled in her throat. She looked around, wildly hoping for an attendant in a neat uniform to appear and politely take over, perhaps offering her a sparkling water while she waited.
The only other person was a guy in a pickup truck two islands over, casually leaning against his vehicle with his arms crossed.
She looked back at the pump screen. LIFT LEVER BENEATH NOZZLE HOLDER.
“Oh,” Margaret said aloud. She reached into the cradle where the nozzle had rested and flipped up the little plastic lever. The machine hummed to life.
She squeezed the handle again, and the satisfying rush of fluid began.
She stood there, holding the handle in a death grip.
Her forearm began to burn after three minutes.
How do people do this in the winter? she wondered, shifting her weight.
Do they just stand here, freezing, gripping this filthy handle? It’s barbaric.
It wasn’t until the pump clicked off and she was walking back to the driver’s side that she noticed the man in the pickup truck wasn’t holding his handle at all. There was a little metal latch keeping it in place while he casually checked his phone.
Margaret stopped in her tracks, looking from his pump to hers.
Of course there’s a lock. Of course there is.
She let out a breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh, dropping her forehead against the cool glass of the Camry’s window. She was thirty-five years old, she had a closet full of Chanel suits she had left behind, and she had just discovered how a gas pump worked.
“You’re an idiot, Maggie,” she murmured, but there was no real venom in it. For the first time in a decade, the voice in her head wasn’t Charles’s. It was her own.
A wave of guilt, sharp and unwelcome, washed over her as she thought of her children, Emily and Charles Jr. She hated leaving them, ached for them in a way that hollowed out her chest. But the grim reality she had faced in the foyer returned to steady her trembling hands: she was no good to them dead.
To Charles, the children were essential props for his public image; they were safe for now.
She, however, had become a liability. They were Charles’s children, raised by the army of nannies and tutors he’d hired, not by her.
She was their mother only by the stretch marks Charles sometimes pointed to, tracing them with a detached finger when he deigned to want her physical body, which wasn’t often anymore.
He probably had someone younger, more desirable, already waiting in the wings—someone who didn’t know his secrets.
She put the car in drive, her eyes fixing on the dark silhouette of the mountains ahead.
Monterey was up there somewhere. A place where nobody knew what a Winslow was.
A place where she could finally figure out how the rest of the world worked, even if it meant humiliating herself at every gas station and coffee pot along the way.
The sign for Monterey, Virginia, appeared and vanished so quickly Margaret almost missed it.
She eased the rattling Camry down the main drag, which seemed to be the only drag.
There was a handsome old courthouse, a hardware store, a bank, and a scattering of brick and clapboard buildings.
There were no towering glass facades, no valet stands, and definitely no boutique hotels.
In fact, the entire town looked like it could fit inside the footprint of her former Richmond country club.
Her stomach gave a hollow, aggressive growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten anything but a stale granola bar since she left.
She parked in front of a place with a faded wooden sign that read Highland Diner. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her cashmere sweater, now smelling faintly of 93-octane gasoline, and walked inside.
The bell above the door jingled cheerfully. Instantly, the low hum of conversation stopped.
Five men in flannel and work boots sitting at the counter turned in unison to look at her.
A couple in a corner booth paused mid-bite.
Margaret felt a familiar urge to shrink, to apologize for taking up space, but she forced her spine straight.
She gave a polite, practiced, society smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and slid into the nearest empty booth.
The vinyl seat hissed beneath her. The table was slightly sticky.
Margaret sat with her hands folded politely in her lap, waiting for a hostess or waiter to present her with a menu.
Five minutes passed. The men at the counter had gone back to their coffee, but she could feel their covert, amused glances.
She looked around for a waiter’s station, feeling a flush creep up her neck.
It wasn’t until the couple in the corner got up to pay at the register that she realized there were no physical menus—just a dusty chalkboard hanging over the kitchen pass.
A woman in her late fifties with a messy gray bun, an apron smeared with cherry pie filling, and a pencil tucked behind her ear finally walked over. She carried a steaming glass pot of coffee and a thick ceramic mug.
“You’re a long way from the interstate, honey,” the waitress said, her voice a thick, comforting Appalachian drawl. She flipped the mug right-side up and poured the coffee. “I’m Mabel. What can I get you? Soup today is potato, special is meatloaf.”
“Hello, Mabel. I’m Margaret,” she said, her voice slightly too crisp and formal for the intimate space.
She cast a brief, uncertain glance at the chalkboard.
“I believe I shall have the meatloaf. And, if it would not be too much trouble, might I inquire whether you have a wine list? Or perhaps some sparkling water—San Pellegrino, if it is available?”
Mabel stopped pouring. She looked at Margaret’s $800 Italian leather boots, the smudged designer sweater, and then met her frantic, exhausted eyes.
“I have tap water in a plastic cup with ice, or I have Sprite,” Mabel said flatly. “And the only alcohol in here is the rubbing kind in the first aid kit.”
“Tap water will be quite satisfactory, thank you,” Margaret replied promptly, offering a composed smile despite the warmth rising to her cheeks.
Mabel nodded and walked away. A moment later, a large plastic cup clanking with ice was deposited on her table without a word.
For the next twenty minutes, Margaret sat in agonizing isolation.
When the meatloaf arrived, it was a massive, intimidating slab covered in brown gravy, flanked by a mountain of mashed potatoes.
She ate with surgical precision, keeping her elbows pinned to her sides, hyper-aware that she was a sideshow for the regulars.
She didn’t know where to look. She didn’t know what to do with her hands when she wasn’t holding her fork.
Every clink of her silverware against the heavy diner plate felt deafening.
Finally, unable to eat another bite of the heavy food, she placed her knife and fork at the standard four-o’clock position to signal she was finished—a gesture entirely lost on the room.
She sat there for another ten minutes, staring into her murky coffee, wondering if she was supposed to walk to the register to pay, or if a check would be brought to her.
She had absolutely no idea how this worked.
Mabel returned with a plastic bus tub and began clearing the plates. She paused, looking at the neatly arranged silverware, and then at Margaret, who looked like she might shatter if someone spoke too loudly.
With a sigh, Mabel dropped the dirty plates into the tub. With a surprising lack of ceremony, she plopped down heavily into the seat opposite Margaret, making the vinyl sigh in protest.
“Alright, Margaret. Let’s skip the dance,” Mabel said, leaning her elbows on the sticky table. “You look like a woman who just fell out of a spaceship. You need help?”
Margaret blinked, entirely disarmed. In her world, people danced around issues for years. Nobody just asked.
Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back with quiet resolve. “I find that I need a place to stay, if only for a short while. Is there a hotel nearby? Or perhaps a leasing office for furnished apartments?”
Mabel let out a short bark of a laugh. “Honey, this is Highland County. We don’t have leasing offices.
There’s a motel out on Route 250, but if you’re looking to stretch whatever cash you’ve got in that fancy purse, you want to talk to Mrs. Gable.
She rents out the rooms over the old pharmacy.
Nothing fancy, but the locks work and she minds her own business. ”
“Thank you. I shall do that.” Margaret pulled a napkin from the dispenser and began tearing it into small, anxious strips.
“And I find myself in need of employment—a position, if possible. May I ask how one typically proceeds here? Is there a central registry, or would it be customary to present a letter of introduction to the town council?”
Mabel stared at her, her jaw slightly slack. “A letter of introduction?”
“A résumé, rather. I do not possess one. I have never been employed in the conventional sense.” Margaret swallowed hard, humiliation washing over her.
“I managed a very large household and organized philanthropic galas. I am well versed in managing budgets, coordinating caterers, and navigating the demands of temperamental board members. Yet, I am uncertain how to convey that upon a formal document.”
Mabel’s expression softened from amusement to profound, motherly pity. She reached across the sticky table and patted Margaret’s trembling hand.
“Lord have mercy, child. Where on earth have they kept you?” Mabel sighed, shaking her head.
“You don’t need no letter of introduction.
You just need grit. And you’re in luck, sort of.
There’s a fella who’s set up a spot here in town called the Monterey Care Clinic.
At least, that’s what folks are told it is.
It isn’t open to the public yet. It’s just a kind of office, some say a consultation place, mostly tied to that bigger project he’s working on. ”
She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Way up the mountain, Dog, that’s what they call him though nobody knows his real name, is putting together Blue Ridge Recovery & Rehabilitation.
Most folks think it’s just some fancy resort, but I hear it’s a place to help his army buddies and others dealing with the hard stuff. ”
“Dog?” Margaret repeated, furrowing her brow in disbelief. “Like a canine?”
“Like the animal, yes. He’s got a crew of fine-lookin’, hard-workin’ fellas up there swinging hammers and hauling lumber.
But from what I hear when they come in for breakfast, they’re drowning in paperwork and logistics.
They need somebody to organize the chaos.
” Mabel gave Margaret a long, appraising look.
“You might not know how to order off a chalkboard or pump your own gas without gettin’ it on your sleeves, but if you can handle temperamental rich folks, you can probably handle a bunch of grumpy soldiers. ”
Margaret looked down at her hands. Organizing chaos. That was literally what her marriage had been.
“How do I apply?” Margaret asked.
“You drive up there, find the man who looks like he’s running the show,” Mabel said, sliding out of the booth and grabbing her bus tub.
“He’s a big fella, got some scars on his face and a bit of a limp.
You just tell him you’re the answer to his prayers.
Now, I’ll take care of this check. Consider it a welcome to town. And Margaret?”
Margaret looked up.
“Around here, we don’t care who your daddy is or what your last name is or was,” Mabel said kindly. “We just care if you work hard and tell the truth. You’ll be fine.”
As Mabel walked away to the kitchen, Margaret wrapped her cold hands around the thick ceramic diner mug. For the first time since she packed that single suitcase in the dead of night, the tight knot of terror in her chest loosened, just a fraction.
Find the man who looks like he’s running the show, she thought, a small, wry smile touching her lips. The one drowning in paperwork. Now that, she had experience with.