Bad Things(132)

Dad grinned. “That’s my girl.”

He usually wasn’t such a goofball when we were back home in Marietta. But something happened to him that first day we packed up the car and headed out of town. I guess you could say the mountains were my dad’s muse—the place where he penned the crime novels he was famous for.

Motioning his head towards the bound manuscript on my lap, he asked “So what are you thinking of the new one?”

Even though I was only coming off of my second year of college, Dad trusted me as one of the first people to read his novels before he sent them to his agent and editor. Somehow in middle school I graduated from Harry Potter and dove head first into the gritty world of Dad’s famous Southern detective, Harrison Baylor.

Discarding my phone, I flipped through the pages of his latest masterpiece, bobbing my head enthusiastically. “I think it’s another New York Times solid gold.”

“Really?” Dad questioned, his voice uncertain.

“Of course. And I really like where you’re going with Harrison’s darker side.”

“You don’t think he’s too…oh what’s that word you teenagers use for depression?”

“Emo?”

“That’s it.”

A snort escaped my lips at how utterly clueless Dad was to think his 6’3, 250-pound detective was anything close to teenage angst. “No, I think it’s great. It’s showing the growth of his character since the earlier books.”

“Good. That’s exactly what I was shooting for.”

We zipped along Interstate 515 with the wind rippling our hair and clothes. Digging in my purse for my brush, I readjusted my long, dark hair back into a loose bun. Although the air was cooler the farther we got out of the city and into the mountains, it was still a typical stifling June day. I shifted between my mammoth purse and dance bag, trying to get my legs out of the direct sunlight. With my ultra pale skin, I didn’t want to be stinging with a sunburn later.

When my stomach started rumbling, I turned my head to survey where we were. As if on cue, a giant sign boasted, “Maudie’s Mountain Brewery and Orchard. One Mile Ahead”.

I leaned forward in my seat. “We’re still stopping at Maudie’s, aren’t we?”

Dad smiled. “Of course. If we even tried sneaking on to the lodge, we’d never hear the end of it!”

I laughed. “You’re right.”

“I told your mother to stop off there as well.”

Not only were the mountains Dad’s muse, but they were also the home of Maudie Sinclair—his one-time foster mother. He was only five when moved in with her and her husband, John, for three years until he was adopted. But he always kept in close contact with Maudie, and she’s always been like a second grandmother to me.

We turned into the store’s packed parking lot. Dad eased into a spot between two cars with out-of-state license plates. Twenty years ago, Maudie had started making jams and jellies as a hobby and to make some extra cash. That progressed to opening a store in a log cabin right off the interstate. But the real breakthrough came after mixing peach and apple juice together, along with some other concoctions, to make the frothy, tart Maudie’s Mountain Brew. It came in both alcoholic and non-alcoholic versions. Her business kept on growing, and now included stores all through North Georgia. The main store was still in a log cabin situated just below her house and about a half a mile from ours. One of the best parts of my summer in the sticks was working for Maudie.

Dad didn’t even get a chance to knock on her office door before she bounded out to meet us with Mom close on her heels. “Well hello! I’m so glad y’all finally made it!”

From summer to summer, Maudie never changed. Always outfitted in some kind of gauzy flowing skirt along with a peasant blouse, she had a hippie grandmother look. Her long silver hair was swept into its usual loose knot, and a large turquoise Dream Catcher necklace hung from her neck.

I lunged forward to wrap my arms around her. Closing my eyes, I rested my head against her shoulder, inhaling of her comforting fragrance of strawberry. “I’ve missed you!”

“I’ve missed you too, Laney-Poo,” she replied, clutching me tightly to her. When we finally pulled away, she wagged a finger at my dad. “Stephen, you better start coming during the winter more. I get mighty lonesome for y’all!”

Dad held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yes, ma’am. I sure will try. ”