2. Sophie
SOPHIE
Shack Shock: Arrest Stuns Locals at Holloway Reopening
By Lloyd Keating – The Nantucket Gazette
What began as a jubilant relaunch of one of Sconset Beach’s most beloved eateries ended Saturday night with an unexpected arrival courtesy of the Nantucket Police Department.
June Parker, 35, owner of the well-known Aiden June Gallery on Main Street and one of the three Holloway sisters behind the newly reopened Holloway Lobster Shack, was taken into custody shortly after 4:30 pm in full view of a packed dining room.
Police charged Parker with aiding and abetting her husband, Ashton Parker, in the alleged sale of counterfeit goods.
Witnesses report that the Shack, which had been filled wall-to-wall with locals and long-term summer residents, went silent as the officers arrived.
“It was simply shocking,” said Marlene Abrams, owner of Marlene’s Boutique and a fixture of the island’s social scene.
“One minute she’s smiling and serving, the next she’s being led away in handcuffs.
Of course, people will draw their own conclusions…
but we had no idea June was even engaged to Ashton.
Though the two seemed quite cozy a few weeks ago. ”
The arrest comes as another blow to the Holloway family, who have spent the last months renovating and reopening the Shack, a legacy business once run by their late father, Aiden Holloway.
Their stepfather, Richard Grant (62), is also in hot water, having recently been linked to the ongoing Town Hall inquiry into allegations of improper influence over the proposed waterfront rezoning (read more here).
While police declined to comment on the details of Parker’s ongoing investigation, they confirmed that she was transported to the Nantucket Police Department without incident. Representatives for the Holloway Lobster Shack did not respond to requests for comment before press time.
Pictured before the chaos: from left to right, June Parker (35), Meredith Perez (37), Sophie Holloway (29), Trent Holloway (16), Davon Marks (23).
I place my phone face down on the counter, as if this will somehow block the words from the news article regurgitating in my mind. It doesn’t help.
“Soph?”
“Mmm?”
“You want coffee?”
God, I love this boy. “Yes, please.”
I hear Trent scoot around into the kitchen, banging about like he owns the place. Like we’re not currently freeloading in the home of a potential criminal.
All I can do is lean against the table and breathe. Eyes closed, in and out.
There are positives to this; there has to be.
Trent. Trent was a positive. Merely a footnote on a photo of an article where everyone was far more interested in June’s arrest to give my half-brother the time of day. Already yesterday’s news. Which will make things a lot easier if we’re staying here.
If we’re staying here.
Richard. Another positive. I don’t know how they did it, but Eddie explained (hurriedly, in the chaos of closing the Shack early) how Meredith found out that Richard was handing off bribes to Town Hall to get the street rezoned. He thought the cops had shown up to arrest him, not June.
No one knew why June was arrested.
Meredith. She would find out. She’d flown out to Boston before I’d even managed to get Trent home last night, promising to drum up her contacts to get June the best legal support she could muster. Meredith was a positive; she always knew what to do in a crisis.
And this is a crisis. An ongoing, likely very long crisis.
There’s a low thunk on the table.
“You should sit down before you fall over.”
I finally crack open an eye to see the teen leaning over the table, coffee placed in front of me, his own clutched in his hand.
The sight stalls me for a second. “Since when did you drink coffee?”
“Since my sister got arrested and my other sister is MIA. You’ll need me pulling double shifts,” Trent slides into a chair opposite and takes a labored sip. I stare at his grimace for one patronizing moment before wordlessly going back into the kitchen for creamer and sugar.
When I return, Trent is staring at the black liquid like it’s personally offended him.
“You won’t need to pull double shifts, we’ll hire someone else,” I say as I fix up his coffee.
“With what money?”
He has a point.
“We’ll manage,” I reassure him instead. “I’ll switch out with Davon every couple of days, and if we need reinforcements, Eddie and Roland are just over the road. Hopefully, Mere will be back soon.”
Trent examines his newly creamed-and-sugared coffee before taking a tentative sip. He still grimaces, but it’s slightly less aggressive this time. “If we sell the apartment in LA, we could hire someone.”
I take my time responding. Suddenly unsure how to respond, thanks to the knee-jerk lurch in my stomach at the prospect of selling our home. A snug, two-bed in Azusa that I’ve barely made a dent in, mortgage-wise, but still a point of pride.
Selling it would make sense if we were going to move here—house cost inflation is bad in LA, but it’s astronomical in Nantucket.
And moving here makes sense. Or at least it made sense before.
When Trent seemed to settle into island life like he was born to it and we were already looking for a new high school for him to attend in the fall.
When I was out of work and the Shack opening offered to take up all my time and energy.
Now that being close to my mom feels so much more important.
Now that we were close to all our family felt like the best thing in the world.
“I’m not sure if it works like that, I’ll have to ask Mere,” I say, carefully sidestepping my own emotions on the matter. “You still wanna stay here, huh?”
Trent gives me a confused look. “Well, yeah, who’s going to look after the Shack?”
“The others can handle it,” I counter. “They’d understand if we wanted to stay out of all this.”
“Stay out of what?”
My phone suddenly starts vibrating violently on the table as if to answer the question. I pick it up, relaxing at the caller ID.
“Hey, Mere. What’s–”
“Soph, listen to me. The FBI is going to come to the house with a search warrant, probably today. Don’t panic. Don’t try to hide or move anything. Just stay calm, cooperate, and call me as soon as they leave.”
Don’t panic.
What an easy thing to say.
I stare across the table at the teenage boy opposite me, his mug halfway to his lips.
He notices the look and puts it back down, concern slowly seeping into his expression. I’m not entirely sure what my face is doing, but I could hazard a guess that it’s not reassuring.
“Trent is here,” my voice cracks.
At the sound of his name, his dark eyebrows furrow deeper over his half-lidded (exhausted) eyes.
I take in the pinpricks of patchy stubble forming over his chin and upper cheeks that I know he won’t shave unless directed to.
Desperate for manhood and all the independence that brings, but still harboring baby fat around the neck.
He’ll be tall. He is already tall, but taller.
His shoulders will fill out like Dad’s did, and if he keeps up with football and track, he’ll have that same broad chest. He’ll probably be breaking hearts soon—if he ever cared to get off his computer back in LA, I imagine he’d have done so already.
He can be so smart when he puts his mind to something.
If he finally starts taking school seriously, he could get into any college he wanted.
There’s so much life in him. So much life to be had. He’s perfect and amazing and the best thing that ever happened to me, but even now, he’s just an echo of everything he’s going to accomplish.
And I can’t stop looking at him. Bone-deep, gangrene-inducing fear suddenly, irrationally, taking over. Like if I stop looking at him, he might disappear. Like the feds might take him away.
“I know,” Meredith is quick to respond. “They shouldn’t ask him anything, but?—”
“He has nothing to do with this.”
Trent abandons his mug entirely to reach over for my hand. Tuned in to every microexpression. Comforting me. Like I’m the kid in this situation.
“Soph. Please. I know. This is scary, but they won’t find anything at the house. We would have noticed if June were painting at home. She kept everything at the gallery: her computer, all her paperwork. They’ll lose interest in the house after the initial visit, I promise you. It’s just procedure.”
I close my eyes, letting myself become grounded to the way Trent squeezes my hand. Reminding myself to be an adult, to take control. Not to let things happen to us because things feel hard.
“Will they find anything? At the gallery?” I force myself to ask.
There’s a pause, a long, drawn sigh. “I don’t know yet. She said–”
“I won’t forgive her for this. Not for getting Trent involved.”
“If she’s innocent–”
“If. Meredith.” The anger feels like a lifeline out of the spiral of panic. I cling to it, hoisting myself back up to the surface. “If she’s innocent. You don’t even know, do you?”
“She said she didn’t do it, and I believe her.”
“How?” A dry mockery of laughter escapes me. “She’s a liar, Mere. Or did you forget that she got married without telling any of us?”
“I know, Soph. I’m furious at her, too. But right now, there are bigger things we need to worry about.”
The dismissal grates more than it would have had I not been so on edge already. Because now I’m realizing we do have bigger things to worry about, and I’m the only one here, in Nantucket, capable of dealing with them.
The Shack, the house, Mom, Trent. Richard.
The fallout from the disaster of the reopening, every gossip-monger from across the island will be on our doorstep in a matter of hours.
The reputation of my only source of income is on the line, and the reputation of my family is already in shambles.
I have no idea where to even start picking up the pieces.
And June, in New York, so far away from it all.
“Right,” Trent flinches at the sound of my voice. “Because another wedding without inviting family is just a regular Sunday morning activity to you.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath down the line. I can’t even bring myself to feel bad about it.
“Hey,” Meredith’s tone sharpens to an icy pick at the low blow. “Don’t do this right now. It’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair is having to sit back and watch the feds rip through all my kids’ things when we have no part and want no part in any of this!”
Trent visibly reacts to this, eyes wide, mouth agape. Fear creeping into the space that concern used to occupy. “Soph, what’s going on?” he half whispers.
“Nothing is going on,” I reply normally, knowing full well that Meredith can hear every word. “We have nothing to do with this.”
I hear Meredith’s forced breath, as if I’m wearing on the last of her patience.
“I’m sorry that this is happening, Soph.
I really am. I was calling to give you a heads up and to make sure you have time to warn Trent.
But I’ve not slept yet. I’m currently trying to find a bus to New York because I maxed my credit card on the flight to Boston.
I just had to walk into my old office and beg–”
I don’t want to hear it.
There’s a logical part of me that knows it’s not Meredith’s fault.
But there’s a larger, louder, panicked part of my mind that is calculating risk versus betrayal versus protective instincts. To snatch Trent away and not look back.
“We’re moving out,” I say to both Meredith and Trent. “When you see June, tell her thanks for an unforgettable summer.”
I hang up before waiting for a response.
Just as three unmarked SUVs pull up outside the house.