I took a cold shower and spent the rest of the morning unpacking, then made up the full-sized poster bed I'd slept in the night before. My large bedroom was on the second story with its own bathroom and views of the coastline. Oakwood planked the cathedral ceiling with low beams running above.
Through the French doors and out onto the balcony facing the sea, a staircase curved to the ground below. I took the stairs and walked across the overgrown brush to the garage, where Gramps had said the scooter would be.
After a few tries, the single garage door lifted, and clouds of dust ballooned out as it folded at the top. Boxes stacked one on top of the other, lining the walls inside. I walked past a covered vehicle, and sitting behind it, a white scooter.
It looked as if it hadn't been used in quite some time, the key still resting in the ignition. I ran my white fingernail across the frame. Beneath the thin layer of dust, the remnants of a faded silver emblem branded the side. The same emblem embossed over the cracked leather of the photo albums I'd found in the attic back in Texas.
A five-pointed star with five symbols all inside a circle.
I turned over the engine, and the little thing popped before it roared to life. In leather pants and my hair tucked inside the helmet, I rode the white scooter up and down the neighborhood streets before taking it into town.
There had been more souls walking the streets at night in Weeping Hollow than during the day. Circling the gazebo, I saw tiny shops; a bookstore called The Strange & Unusual, a post office, Hobb's Grocery, a doctor's office, The Corner Store, and The Bean coffee shop Gramps had mentioned, to name a few. The grim town was decorated in dull oranges and yellows and browns as if it weren't summer. As if the town was trapped in fall, even at the beginning of August. Artificial autumn leaves wrapped around the spindles of the gazebo, and hay bales and pumpkins decorated the storefronts. The depressing scent of dying leaves was laced in every fierce breeze, unlike the intimate and playful winds back in Texas.
I parked the scooter in a horizontal space in front of Mina Mae's Diner and pocketed the key. Inside, the atmosphere was a drastic change from the somberness stirring just outside the doors. Cushioned bar stools lined the long counter space stretching from one end to the other, and in front of the hungrily awaiting patrons, the kitchen. The staff and waiters—wearing black and white pinstripe shirts with food-splattered aprons—moved swiftly to accommodate the lunchtime rush without looking up to see where they were going. Somehow, no one ran into each other through the hustle and bustle.
Upon my arrival, everyone stopped to stare in my direction. But just as quickly as they looked my way, they looked away, going about their work, meal, or company, as if realizing I was nothing special.
I plucked a menu from the sleeved-pocket of a standing sign that read Seat yourself and spotted an empty booth beside a window. My gaze roamed over the diner as I slid across the bench.
Mina Mae's seemed to be a melting pot for Stepford wives, judging eyes, and regulars who most likely came here every day for the last fifty-plus years. Three elderly ladies in fancy hats stared at me and lowered their voices to a whisper as I returned my attention to the menu, feeling their gazes move to the back of my neck.
"Let me guess," a voice said, causing my head to pop up. "Fallon Morgan."
A guy in his mid-twenties was standing in front of my table, wearing beige slacks and a newsboy hat.
"Yes," I confirmed, looking around to make sure he was talking to me, even though he'd said my name. "I'm Fallon Morgan, and you dress just like my grandfather."
"Cranky ole Benny?" He sat down across from me and dropped a pile of books and papers between us, resting his elbows over the table. Nodding, I stretched back against the booth, thinking he was mistaking me for another Fallon Morgan. No one ever willingly sat with me before. "I'll take that as a compliment. You see," he tilted his head and lifted a finger, "that man is a legend."
My brow arched. "Is that so?" I asked, and the guy nodded. "How do you know my name?"
"Word gets around. I'm Milo, by the way. Where did you come in from? New York?" He lifted off his newsboy hat to reveal soft-brown, side-swept hair, naturally curling at the ends. The guy was slender with honey-brown, soulful eyes and a million stories to tell in his smile.
I lifted my head a smidge. "Why you say New York?"
"You stick out like a sore thumb," his finger moved in a circular pattern in the air over my wardrobe, "with all your fancy clothes going on here."
I bit my lip, looking down at my boxy silk blouse, which was the cheapest thing I owned, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "No, San Antonio," I corrected, looking back at him.
"Mhm … Never would���ve guessed."
An elderly lady approached our booth, a long braid of gray hair hanging off one shoulder. She shrieked with her hand over her mouth. For a moment longer, she stared at me with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Oh-my-word. Yah Benny's granddaughter." The sweet-faced waitress laughed without belief. "I'd hug yah, but I don't wanna freak yah out." Her eyes steered to Milo. "Milo Andrews, give tha girl some room, would yah? Can she be heyah more than five seconds without the paparazzi swarmin'?"
Grinning, I waved away the intrusion. "He's fine. It's a nice change for once, talking to someone who doesn't have a stick up their ass."
"Oh, Benny?" She clicked her tongue. "Don't let that man fool yah, he's gotta heart somewhere … Deep, deep, in there."
Milo flashed me a side-eye and a crooked smile. "Mina Mae and Benny go way back if you know what I mean." He wiggled his brows.
Mina slapped Milo upside the head. "Don't be spreadin' rumors, boy."
"Hey, now … a good reporter only states the facts," Milo said in defense with his palms up in front of him.
Mina shook her head, returning her eyes to me with a pen pressing against a notepad. "What arya havin', dear?"
Milo was quick to speak up, "Two submarines and two coffees. Let me treat the outsider."
Mina closed the pad and dropped it with the pencil inside her apron. "Fallon Morgan is no flatlander." With certainty and a single nod, she took off in the opposite direction.
"That lady scares me sometimes," Milo admitted, watching her walk away. "But she makes a mean submarine."