Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(71)
Am I a filmmaker? Me? Holly Banks? The thought of it gave Holly the chills.
“Okay, then.” She gave him another two thumbs up. “Let’s do this thing.”
26
After lunch
About thirty minutes after Caleb left her house, Holly wolfed down a ham and swiss and hopped in the Buick for a cruise through the Village of Primm, feeling bold, feeling invincible, feeling a bit—bad to the bone—like the motley crew of criminals about to pull a triple-casino heist in Soderbergh’s film Ocean’s Eleven. Most heist movies had a scene that depicted feelings of empowerment before the characters were put into peril, and that was exactly how Holly felt right now. She was thrilled the camera was catching her hands on the Buick’s steering wheel as she drove. Because the driver’s seat sat so low, the camera captured an angle of her hands, steering wheel, and view beyond the windshield that Holly knew would add artistic flair to her film—her film about . . . she wasn’t sure what.
She did know she wanted badass music in her opening scene, and she could hear it playing in her head as she walked into Primm’s Coffee Joe on her way to the PTA meeting at the Topiary Park. But when she pushed open the door to the coffee shop, a little bell on the handle rang, drawing everyone’s attention to Holly and, presumably, to her white lightweight twinset.
Holly nodded, and Gary-Gee nodded back at her, though he didn’t stop strumming from the Beatles playlist posted on a chalkboard beside him. At the moment, he was singing “We Can Work It Out,” which wasn’t exactly the badass song Holly had in mind, but nothing could shake the confidence Holly felt being wired with a camera that would expose the Pink Witch for who she was: a conniving, manipulating, passive-aggressive bully. And her husband! My Love! Holly wasn’t sure what My Love had done, but if My Love’s actions were hurting Jack, well then, that wasn’t okay. Holly sauntered across the coffeehouse, past gazing eyes, past moms with preschool-age children and babies in strollers, up to the counter, where she ordered herself a badass coffee—black.
From a table behind her came a familiar voice. “Holly?”
“Shanequa—from the Scrap and Swap Fund-Raiser. Hello.” Holly smiled, extending her hand. “So nice to see you again.”
“Likewise.” Shanequa shook Holly’s hand. “Oh, hey, how are you feeling? Last night was a rough night.”
“Yes, well, I . . .”
“After you left, I got with Katie at Primm Paper and gathered a fresh set of scrapbooking supplies,” Shanequa offered. “I saw you got sick in the one the volunteer gave you.”
A bit embarrassed. “Thank you.” Holly smiled. “That’s so nice of you.”
“But hey, sorry.” Shanequa winced. “It’s at home. But maybe you can come over, and we can scrap together.” Big, hopeful smile. She wrote her phone number on a piece of paper, then handed it to Holly.
A mom friend? To scrap with? Aw, heck yeah. “Thank you,” said Holly. “I’d love to.”
Holding a paper cup with a name written in permanent marker, “Molly?” said a man from behind the coffee counter.
“Seriously?” Holly rolled her eyes.
“Maybe he didn’t hear you,” Shanequa suggested.
“Story of my life,” said Holly. “Oh, well.” She shrugged. “Whatcha gonna do.”
Collecting her coffee, Holly said goodbye to Shanequa, promising to come over early next week to scrap together. She tucked a zip-a-dee-doo-dah-dollar in Gary-Gee’s cup, then headed to the Topiary Park.
27
Ten minutes later
Coffee in hand, camera in sweater, Holly passed through the wrought iron double-gated doors at the entrance of the park, purple wisteria hanging in a beguiling manner with pendant, bean-like seedpods signaling the end of summer. Carved into the limestone mantel above her, she saw the words Cnaeus Matius Calvinus, and this time, she knew what they meant because she had looked them up on Wikipedia. Tucking her chin to her chest to whisper into the mic, “Cee-nay-ay-e-us May-tie-us Calvinus”—or something like that—“introduced topiaries to Roman gardens during the time of Julius Caesar.” She waltzed on, realizing she could narrate all sorts of things into the mic. “And here we have a white-flower bush plant,” she announced, pointing the camera with a quick pivot of her torso. Reading from a metal plant stake, she added, “Otherwise known as ‘near-ee-um o-lee-an-der.’” Oleander? Isn’t that toxic? And so close to the wisteria Ella wanted to touch. Who’s the horticulturist making these decisions? And why such a poisonous entryway into something as beautiful as the Topiary Park? Like her first visit to the park with Ella, the day they bumped into Caleb (or rather, he bumped into them), it was a glorious day, the kind of day that could only be described with clichés: clear blue skies, fluffy white clouds.
Strolling along a topiary-lined sidewalk laid with clay brick in a herringbone pattern, Holly stopped short to avoid getting hit by a raucous plague of birds—common grackles, who appeared to be fighting in midflight. Holly tapped a few times on her mic, felt the contours of the pinhole camera, confirming everything was still in place, in working order, and, more important, on. She walked around a bend, and as she approached an opening in the sidewalk before a large courtyard, Holly stopped, stunned by a flurry of activity surrounding a peacock—the peacock—er, peahen. Plume! The peahen the town was so proud of, the peahen she and Ella didn’t get a chance to see during their visit earlier in the week. Plume—it was Plume. And wow, oh wow, oh wow, was she magnificent.