Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(16)

Holly shielded her eyes to look up at the sky. Above them, wispy, pillowy clouds appeared sleepy, like they were taking naps across a sky the color of Crayola’s parakeet blue.

Next to a large kiosk map of the Topiary Park sat a girl who looked to be about sixteen, clearly bored with her job watching tourists ogle and point at high-maintenance bushes. When she rose from her chair beneath a cluster of spiral-cut trees to take Holly’s money, Holly pointed to a poster of what appeared to be a ginormous peacock made entirely of plants. “Is that the famous peacock?” Holly asked. “And can you tell me where to find him?”

“He’s a she,” the girl said, snapping her gum, handing Holly her receipt. “Her name’s Plume.”

“Oh, yes. Quite right. But then, Plume isn’t a peacock.” Holly squeezed Ella’s hand to make sure she was paying attention. “If Plume’s a girl, then Plume’s a peahen. Peacocks are boys.”

The girl opened a folded map to point to a drawing of the grounds just as Holly was spotting a few itty-bitty words at the bottom of her receipt: The Village of Primm Topiary Park, a limited liability company incorporated in the British Virgin Islands.

“The British Virgin Islands?” Holly jerked her head back. “That’s nowhere near Primm. That’s not even in the United States.”

The girl shrugged. “Don’t ask me. Ask Hopscotch.”

“Hopscotch?”

“Are you a tourist? You’re joking, right?” At first, the girl laughed, but when she realized Holly wasn’t kidding, she stopped and dropped her jaw. “You don’t know who Merchant Hopscotch is? Merchant Meek Hopscotch the Third? You must live under a rock. Are you from Southern Lakes?”

“No.” Holly shot a glance at Ella. “We’re from Boulder City.”

“Ha!” The girl snorted. “Funny. Everyone knows who Merchant Hopscotch is. He goes by his middle name, Meek. He’s old money. Owns everything. Lives on The Hill . . .” She folded her fingers into air quotes. “‘The Hill’ overlooking ‘The Lawn,’ two locations so important to the Village of Primm the word the is always capitalized.” She pointed in the direction of Hopscotch Hill, an enclave of prominent historical homes positioned high on a hill above the village. Holly knew this neighborhood. If you googled Village of Primm, the homes that appeared on the Chamber of Commerce website were all Hopscotch homes. Holly knew because she’d stalked the website before moving here. It linked to another website Holly stalked, the Feathered Nest Realty site, where pictures of Holly’s home when Collette owned it were marked with a blue ribbon for “award-winning interiors.” Penelope lived on Hopscotch Hill. So did her cousin, Mary-Margaret St. James.

“If you do see Plume,” the girl added, “don’t worry about what’s happening to her. She’s insured.”

“Something wrong?” Holly asked. Ella looked concerned.

“You’ll see,” she said.

Ella and Holly took their leave, wandering through maze after maze of carefully manicured boxwoods with tiny green leaves that swooped up, then down, curved left, curved right, forming endless rows of green. Some formed tightly shaped squares as large as six feet across, while others formed small spheres the size of soccer balls. Their path zigzagged, then opened into an endless labyrinth with holes in the hedges they stepped through to discover courtyards adorned with koi ponds, birdcages, and water fountains. They saw glass houses, a bird sanctuary—huge bird sanctuary—live musicians, and a woman drawing caricatures using a peacock feather as a quill.

“We need to bring Dad here, Ella. He’d love this.”

“He’s at work.” Ella pulled a tight, tiny green leaf from a nearby boxwood.

“Maybe he’d like to come when he’s not at work,” Holly offered.

“He’s always at work.” Ella flicked the leaf.

Holly pulled out her iPhone, sending a swift text to Jack.

HOLLY: You sure you can’t get off work to join us? It’s Ella’s last day of summer.

HOLLY: We’re at the Topiary Park—the famed tourist attraction Penelope told us about. Remember? Tourism is the heartbeat of Primm, blah, blah, blah . . . Stimulates the local economy? Tax revenues? Hold on a sec. I’ll drop a pin.


Holly dropped a pin. Sent it to Jack. Swoooosh.

She watched Ella for a moment, glints of sunlight in Ella’s auburn hair. Kindergarten. Such a big girl. It hurt—like, physically hurt. The sadness Holly felt every time she remembered Ella wouldn’t be home with her during the day: she’d be in kindergarten. The emotional pain was manifesting into something she felt on a physical level: a swelling in her heart, an aching in her bones. Holly had been thinking about her mom a lot this week. Holly was Ella’s age when her parents split up. What Holly remembered from her first week of kindergarten was much different from what most people remembered. Holly didn’t remember bright colors and happy songs. Holly remembered her mom crying at the kitchen sink.

“According to the map”—Holly spread it out in front of Ella—“at the entrance to the petting zoo stands Plume.” Holly read the description. “‘Plume’s tail is a majestic array of Liberty Classic white snapdragons, white begonias, purple pigeonberry, sky-flower and golden dewdrop, blue lisianthus, fragrant verbena, English ivy, and others, including sweet viburnum.’” She kept reading. “‘See list at bottom left for additional flowers.’”