Page 1 of The Woman in the Hollow
CHAPTER ONE
Hazel
“I’m sorry, my pretties,” I said, running my hands over my autumnal sweater collection I’d brought out of my under-bed storage two hopeful weeks ago when I still had faith that the fall weather would kick in eventually. “Not yet,” I added, grabbing a t-shirt instead and walking over to crank up the air conditioning.
Eighty-something degrees in October. I thought I was done crying over my electrical bill. Alas, nope.
It was opening day of The Hallows—the all-month Halloween festival at the garden center I’d started to work at two weeks before.
It had been a nonstop push to get the place turned over from your average, run-of-the-mill center that sold colorful annuals, hardy perennials, trees, soil, and mulch, as well as a tiny indoor store with planters, watering cans, and some yard decor into the sprawling extravaganza worthy of all the school class trips planned as well as a steady stream of casual visitors.
It was the first year, and apparently, the owner was seeking the same sort of vibes he’d felt when he was a kid and visited the garden center that had sat closed for over a decade.
I figured the guy was a Halloween freak like me. Which made working there even more exciting.
To be fair, I was just as much a freak about Christmas and spring planting. Which made this job even more perfect for me. Because once the autumn festivities wrapped up, the garden center would shift into Christmas mode—selling live trees, wreaths, garland, ornaments, and little gifts from local craftsmen. Not to mention the hot cocoa cart, pictures with Santa, and an actual live manger.
I was trying not to get too ahead of myself with the winter plans, even if my head was spinning with them. Halloween deserved my full attention. Especially on opening day.
I yanked the t-shirt down over my head and looked at myself in the mirror nailed behind my bathroom door.
It wasn’t the look I’d wanted to sport, but the simple black tee and the orange and black checked pants were just going to have to do.
I grabbed my work pin off the counter and secured it to my chest.
DG Greens.
Not the most unique of names, but I heard it was a homage to the old name of the place, just changed to the owner’s initials.
And apparently, the woods around the garden center had the nickname “the hollow” to the locals. Which gave it all the Halloween vibes.
Reaching up, I finger-combed my shoulder-length black hair and curtain bangs into some semblance of order, swiped on a deep autumnal red lip, and lined my dark brown eyes.
“Alright,” I said, nodding at my reflection. “Let’s go make Halloween magic.”
That was my mom’s phrase.
She said that parents (and sometimes grandparents, siblings, or aunts and uncles) were the “magic keepers.” They were incharge of creating that sense of wonder we all felt as little kids. That deep-seated awe that we all looked back on as adults with a soul-aching nostalgia.
Granted, I didn’t have any children yet, but I was a sort of stand-in magic-maker, working where I worked. And I took that job very seriously.
I paused in my kitchen to grab my cutesy ghost-printed water tumbler and my reusable witch hat coffee cup. Both were empty. Because one of the perks of the job meant I got bottomless coffee from the hot bevy cart and as much fresh-pressed cider as my heart demanded.
I skipped breakfast too. Because I had three apple cider donuts with my name on them. And maybe a slice of pumpkin bread while I was at it.
I didn’t even have to feel guilty about all the sweets since according to my fitness watch, I walked roughly twenty-five thousand steps over a general shift at the garden center. My aching thighs the first few days were testament to that.
“Okay. Hold the fort down,” I called to the large rectangular terrarium on my entryway table. That had been a fun project when I’d arrived in town—decorating and planning a real, self-sustaining ecosystem that included substrate, plants, water, and tiny little shrimp. None of which required any work from me to keep it thriving, save for maybe topping off the water when it evaporated.
As much as I hated it, my life didn’t allow for normal pets. I worked too much. But the shrimp let me feel like I had a couple of little companions who basically didn’t even know I existed.
“It’s going to be a late one,” I told them before grabbing my bag and phone and heading out the door.
“Disgusting,” I grumbled at the morning air, hot and soupy with humidity.
I wasn’t a summer hater, per se. It was just the whole of, you know, July and August, and a large chunk of September that I disliked. June was full of the wonder of long, warm days. But the thrill quickly faded as the insects invaded and the air made your clothes stick to your sweaty back and chest within minutes of being outside.
You could say I wasn’t looking forward to summer in the garden center. I might see if I could schmooze my way behind the counter of the small indoor building with the air conditioning and lots of iced coffee.
