Page 63 of Last Seen
“Hi!” they say in unison, four pure, innocent voices offering succor to the weary traveler.
“Hi there,” Halley replies. “I was wondering if you could direct me to the writers’ retreat.”
Four comically confused faces.
“The Brockville Writers’ Retreat?” she repeats, as if the formal name will make a difference.
The fourth kid on the right says, “No, we know what you mean. It’s just not in session now.”
“Oh.” Good job, Halley. You didn’t think to see if it was a regular thing.
The third kid chimes in. “But one of the instructors, Tammy Boone, lives here in town. Maybe you could talk to her. I don’t know if they take in-person applications.”
Kid Two shakes her perfect blond head. “No, it’s really exclusive.”
Kid One: “But Tammy likes to eat around this time, so if you want to talk to her, you could find her at the Rustic Crust. Noah had a special tonight, so most everyone is there.”
Kid Four: “That’s a great idea, One.”
Did Halley just hear that right? Did Four really call that kid One? Or is she tired and hearing things? Not to mention—Tammy Boone. That’s the person the cop in Nashville said filed a report on her sister. Bingo.
“Thanks, Cody.” The girl dimples at him, and he blushes a deep red.
Halley has to get this right. “Your name is ...?”
“Jenna Whon. Nice to meet you. You are?”
Ah. So she’d misheard slightly. Still, that was funny. “I’m Halley. Halley James.”
The moment it’s out of her mouth, she mentally kicks herself.Way to be incognito, idiot.Too late now. “So where is this restaurant?”
They must have it practiced, because each kid hands her a piece of literature, one after the other. Town brochure. Real estate listings. A brochure for the Inn at Brockville—it’s late enough she might consider staying there instead of going back out to the highway motels. Then One plops her sheet down on the counter, and Halley takes in a detailed map of the area.
“We’re here.” One draws a smallXin pencil. “The Rustic Crust is here, in Glaston. I’d drive your Jeep if it were me. They have parking.” She draws the lines with exaggerated care so there’s no missing the path Halley is supposed to take.
She knows what car I’m in,Halley thinks. Are there cameras? Were they watching out the window? She realizes it’s just her and these four teenagers in the building now; the other folks who were shopping have disappeared. Maybe out the back? Weird.
“Left, then right at the sign to Glaston, you’ll pass the farm, and then all the restaurants are in a row. That’s where everyone is right now,” One says, almost as if she read Halley’s mind. “Dinner service starts at seven. Noah’s making a lobster pizza tonight, it’s the best anyone’s ever had. It’s a crossover night between Pesche and the Rustic Crust. You can get the pizza at both restaurants. Main Street Eats is the other restaurant, but I’m willing to bet Ms. Boone’s at the RC. It’s always a special occasion when Noah cross-pollinates.”
Four chimes in. “And if you stay at the Inn, in the morning, you can go to the Steep and Brew for your coffee. Or Croissant Moon, but they don’t open until ten. You do drink coffee, right? If not, they have a wide assortment of teas. The juice bar next door is to die for. Do you need us to look at the Inn, see if there’s a room available?”
Two smiles. Three smiles. Four smiles. One smiles.
They’re like perfect little hospitality robots. Wind them up and watch them go. Maybe she was wrong about the Lollipop Guild after all.
“Thanks,” Halley says. “That would be great. I’ll go check all this out. Appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome,” they say in unison. One continues alone with another charming smile. “Leave us your phone number, and I’ll give you a shout once we know about the Inn.”
Halley does and is relieved to get back outside into the cool mountain air. She looks up the name “Tammy Boone,” finds the woman’s website. There is a smiling photo under the “About Me” section, a glamour shot of a bottle blonde with blue eye shadow andher hand under her chin. Maybe not the most current look, but enough that Halley will be able to identify her.
She consults the map, then turns the Jeep southwest into the hamlet called Glaston. The sun has set now, and she must navigate by the streetlights. She assumes they’re solar; a large box attaches to the bases with reflectors on it, and the signs are well lit and easy to follow. Golf carts whizz past in the opposite direction. She sees a stylized sign:The Farm. And another two blocks of the black, white, and cedar cottages later, the street opens up into another small-town square. As promised, there are three restaurants in a row. Pesche and the Rustic Crust flank Main Street Eats. Pesche’s building is sharper than the other two. She’s impressed that the architecture so obviously signals the level of dining experience.
The lights of the restaurants bleed onto the street; they are packed. There are outside tables with heaters, too, also packed.
There’s parking on the street, but not a single empty spot, so she follows the signs down a small alley to parking in the back of the restaurants. Walks around to the entrance of the Rustic Crust—the RC, according to the Stepford Quadruplets. A hostess with a wide smile and a bun of blond confection on top of her head greets her. “Hi! We’re pretty slammed but I might be able to get you a seat at the bar.”
“Thanks. I’m actually looking for someone. Tammy Boone?”
