—
I pass by Goodnight Textiles as I head into Newberry. It’s the largest textile plant in the South and third largest in the United States. A certain fondness for it warms me because my dad put his blood, sweat, and tears into the family business he inherited. It’s now being run by his brother, who moved from CFO to CEO after my parents died. However, he runs the company from his home base of Chicago, as he’s a city slicker to the core. Of course, Grandmother sat on the board of directors and had a lot of input about how to run the empire she’d also helped to create. I’d heard through the cousin grapevine that she actually became more involved after her fourth husband died and she gave up on remarrying. I suppose it was a way to occupy her time when she wasn’t traveling.
Regardless, the family business was never for me. Even before I fell into modeling, I was considering a career in law. I wasn’t sure why or if that was really what I wanted, but it’s one of the things I was greatly interested in. I figured I’d be exposed to a lot of things in college that could lead me in a different direction, and ironically, that’s exactly what happened to me. Things changed radically when Carlos Sanchez walked into my life, and my education sort of became moot.
Newberry hasn’t changed much that I can see. It would be considered a small town with a population of close to five thousand, even less when I lived here. Most of the businesses are independently owned, and everyone knows everyone.
It’s been fourteen years since I’ve surveyed the town streets, and I feel like a stranger now. Even though I see the same old storefront signs on the businesses bordering the main square, for a moment I feel discombobulated as I drive into town. Like I’m seeing it for the first time.
I find a parallel parking spot in front of my first destination, which is the local diner called the Pit Stop. I’m starved and I didn’t even bother to see what type of food Coop had in the house. He could have had a fully stocked pantry and fridge, but I wasn’t touching any of it. So I’m going to eat lunch and run to the grocery store so I have my own food.
Almost everyone turns in their seats when I walk in. The large windows bordering the sidewalk made my entrance public, and while I’m used to people staring at me because of my fame, this is different and weirdly disconcerting. These are my hometown folks and I don’t want them looking at me as if they don’t know me.
There are a several people I don’t recognize but who clearly know who I am. Some of them look awestruck, and I hope that doesn’t lead to someone tipping off the paparazzi that I’m here. One woman gives me a hesitant smile, but the others look at me like I’m a stranger.
And really…I am.
I see Mason Woodard, who graduated a year behind me, sitting with Debbie Hemp. I smile at them, but they just look at me with blank stares. As I make my way to an empty booth—because at the Pit Stop, you seat yourself—I smile and nod at others I know. George Molton, who owns the local garage, and Suzanne Daly, who owns the hair salon I used to go to. They’re older by fourteen years, but they’re still the same people.
I smile at them and they don’t smile back. This is disconcerting, but I figure perhaps they are nervous or shy around me since I’ve become a celebrity. I hope they get over that fast, because I have never wanted to be treated that way.
As I slide into the red vinyl booth and grab one of the menus, I catch the eye of Bonnie Ventura, who I’m surprised to see is still a waitress here. She was old when I’d left town, but she hasn’t changed that much. Her iron-gray hair is still short and permed, and her face is overly powdered. She stares at me a moment before she goes back to filling coffee cups at a table, and I assume she’ll be over soon to take my order so I give a quick perusal of the menu.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting on Bonnie to come to my table. I’ve tried to catch the other waitress’s attention, but she won’t even make eye contact with me. It’s only when Bonnie has to pass me to bring food to the table beside me that I finally get her to stop.
“Bonnie…I’m ready to give my order,” I call out, and she ignores me.
She doles out plates of food, sweet talking up the group of guys in for lunch. She calls them “sweetie” and “honey pie.”
Finally, she straightens, pulls her order pad from the pocket of her apron and her pencil from behind her ear, and turns to me with a huff. “What do you want?”
Her voice is cold and unwelcoming, and I am completely flummoxed. “Well, hello to you too, Bonnie. It’s good to see you after so long.”
She just stares at me, tapping the end of her pencil against the pad.
“Okay,” I say as I look down to the menu. “I’ll take a burger and fries, and some ice water.”
Bonnie jots a few notes and doesn’t say a word as she turns her back on me. I watch her with my mouth hanging wide open, completely stunned by her rudeness. I look around the diner and no one is looking at me anymore. In fact, I’d say I’m being patently ignored.
This is just weird, and I know there’s clearly something wrong when it takes almost half an hour for Bonnie to serve my burger, which is cold, and my fries, which are oversalted. I never did get my glass of ice water.
I eat a few bites, but the food and the reception are unpalatable. I throw a twenty down on the table and walk out, my head spinning over the way Bonnie treated me.
Still starved as I walk back to my car and a little depressed over my homecoming so far, I spy a new business that wasn’t here last time I’d been in town. It’s called Missy’s Cupcake Gallery, and well, the word cupcake garnered all my attention. I walk down to it and open the glass door, immediately assaulted by the wonderful smells of chocolate and cream and strawberries and cinnamon. I inhale deeply as my eyes immediately start roaming over a huge glass case of cupcakes on display.
“Well, if it isn’t Eden Goodnight returned to town,” I hear a soft, feminine voice say from behind the counter. My head pops up and I look at a petite slender woman of about my age. She has strawberry-blond hair worn in a chin-length bob and beautiful porcelain skin made more beautiful by freckles. She’s giving me a genuine smile and I absorb it deeply, so bad had been my experience at the Pit Stop.
I assume the woman recognizes me from the movies I’ve done, so I put on my most gracious smile. “Those cupcakes are calling out to me.”
She nods knowingly, her eyes sparkling. “What’s your poison?”
“Chocolate first and foremost,” I tell her as my eyes go back to the case. Rows upon rows of cupcakes with different colored icing and sprinkles. “But honestly, anything sweet is good by me. My sweet tooth has always been a problem.”