How embarrassing.
I reached the corner where I would have turned right to go to the bakery or left to go to the Common Ground, but instead of doing either of those things I crossed Main Street and stepped into the town square.
Nestled between Main Street on one side and State Street on the other, the square was a leafy park at the center of town. So far I was most familiar with the shops on Main: the bakery and the flower store owned by Clara, the Common Ground (site of yesterday’s mayhem) and the antique store and ice cream shop I hadn’t yet visited.
State Street had its own array of shops, but I’d only seen them from afar, and if ever there was a day to get lost in a new part of town, it was today while I was trying to avoid Beck and Noah (and Dane too, because for all I knew the other two had told him all about the Kitchen Incident).
I followed the walking path that meandered through the square, marveling that one town could have so much cuteness packed into such a small space. I passed a wooden playground where a cadre of kids laughed and played and a fenced-in dog park where two dogs chased an orange ball while their owners chatted between throws. A couple of joggers passed and more than a few walkers, in pairs and alone, all clearly enjoying the sun and warmth of late spring. Benches lined the walkway, all of them with brass plaques with memorial messages.
Daniel Hollis: loving husband, father, and friend.
Violet Quimby: who loved to watch the roses bloom.
I thought about Aunt Evelyn. She deserved a bench too, a place where the town she loved could remember her. Once myembarrassment subsided, I’d ask one of the guys about it. Or maybe Irving Norwood.
The thought of Aunt Evelyn’s lawyer was a reminder that I needed to contact a realtor about listing the house and bakery. My arrival in Blackwell Hollow had been chaotic for obvious reasons, and I’d spent the last two days learning my way around town.
I needed to remember that I wasn’t here to stay.
I’d been walking for about five minutes when I came to the center of the square. Several people chatted on the stone ledge surrounding a fountain while a couple of kids floated small boats in the water. To the left, the walking path wound past a pavilion, three people tying balloons to weighted bags at the center of a row of picnic tables.
Outside the pavilion a sign readingEMILY’S EIGHTH BIRTHDAY PARTY!had been taped to one of the posts.
To the right, signs pointed towardTOWN HALL, theSHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT, and theBLACKWELL HOLLOW LIBRARY.
I started to make the left, toward the pavilion, then caught sight of the gazebo next to it. The gazebo was a little too much like the one in Aunt Evelyn’s garden for my liking, a little too reminiscent of the place where I’d found Harold Pembroke’s body, so I detoured away from it and headed for State Street instead.
I’d explore the rest of the town square another time.
The shops on State Street looked like the ones on Main: same green awnings, same gold lettering on the shop windows. There was Lyle’s tea shop, A Goodnight’s Steep, situated directly across from Rosie’s coffee shop, plus a market called the Morning Basket and the Plant Parlor, its window overflowing with lush greenery.
I passed them all as I headed for my destination, a cute little cafe with two bistro tables on the sidewalk, the wordsField & Forkspelled out in gold on the window.
I’d spotted it from Main Street during my initial explorations of the town, and it seemed like a perfect place to get some food and hide from my new roommates.
I stepped into a large room with modern art showcased on peach-colored walls and an array of houseplants that gave the establishment a homey vibe. At one end of the room, a glass case displayed an assortment of whole cheesecakes, pies, and cakes, and I wondered if there had ever been a town with more baked goods than Blackwell Hollow.
The place was empty except for an older man sitting alone with a newspaper, a cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich on a plate in front of him.
I was trying to decide whether to wait for someone to seat me or seat myself when the door behind the glass counter swung open and a guy in his thirties emerged with a smile.
“Hello!” He had neatly styled brown hair and tailored ankle-length slacks under a slim-fitting button-down shirt. He looked like he should have been teaching a class at the Fashion Institute, not greeting customers in a small town two hours outside the city. “Welcome to Field & Fork!”
“Thank you,” I said.
He cocked his head. “You must be Avery.”
I laughed. “How did you know?”
“You don’t look like a tourist,” he said. “And everyone’s been talking about you for weeks.”
“They have?”
He nodded. “I’m sorry about Evelyn. She was amazing. I’m Jared, by the way.”
“Thank you. She was.”
It felt wrong to say it when I hadn’t known her in the years before her death, but after only a few days in Blackwell Hollow, I knew enough to know Jared was right: Evelynhadbeen amazing. She’d built a beautiful home and thriving business all on her own, and she’d left behind a community who’d clearly loved her.