Coming Home to Ashford Hollow
The town looked exactly the way I remembered it, exactly as it had always been and would likely always be…and exactly the way I didn’t want to remember it. Main Street was dusted with a thin layer of snow, salted and slushy from the morning’s traffic, piles of dirty brown snow on every corner, the streetlights glowing against the haze of early afternoon. The diner’s neon sign flickered like a stubborn beacon: “Bruiser’s Diner – Since 1967.” Never mind that Bruiser himself had died when I was just a kid, the Diner was and always will be his. Even if it was always Miss Mary’s baking that brought the customer’s back. A lot had stayed the same. Too much. Every building seemed to lean into memory, reshaping itself to fit the memories of a lifetime ago, every corner whispered old secrets I had tried to forget, to leave as a story that was never told. I swallowed, gripping the wheel, my knuckles still tight from the hours of driving.
My mother’s house was halfway down the hill from the diner, just past Junior’s Quick Stop, an aging brick row home with faded green shutters and a porch that creaked in the wind. I could see smoke curling from the chimney, the faint, comforting smell of fresh wood fire already perfuming the winter’s air. That alone calmed something in my chest. Reminded me of simple times.
Mom. She was fine, mostly. She had always been tougher than I gave her credit for, than anyone had really, but she’d fallen twice this month, four times this year that I knew of and I didn’t want to take the risk of waiting for another call from her cell, trying to explain how she’d landed face-first on the tile. I exhaled, pressing the brake lightly as I turned onto the narrow street that led to her house. The snow was crunching under the tires, the air cold and sharp.
I had been dreading this drive for a few weeks. Not the distance, not the highway, not the turns through the hills. I had driven these roads hundreds of times, they were almost second nature to me, my body could navigate them in my sleep. It was everything else: the return to Ashford Hollow, the ghosts I hadn’t faced in years, the reminders of everything I’d lost. Regan. Just the thought of her tightened that knot in my stomach. I tried to push it away, imagining her somewhere, maybe cooking at the diner, maybe yelling at a customer. I tried not to picture that smile I remembered, that false, crooked thing that could make a man believe, for a second too long, that everything would be okay.
The pharmacy was right on the corner by Junior’s Quickstop, the same one where I’d spent my first paycheck on adult beverages and a pack of smokes when I was seventeen. I pulled in slowly, deliberately, my heart hammering as I imagined the aisles crowded with familiar faces. Of course, it was empty. Small-town pharmacies always pulled that magic trick of being empty when you expected everyone to be there and vice versa. I parked, cutting the engine, and just sat there for a few moments, listening to the cold hum of the heater in the cab, the muted rattle of tires on salted roads before I forced myself out of the car and back into the maw that was Ashford Hollow.
I pushed the door open and was immediately greeted by that dry, antiseptic smell that everyone says they hate but we all secretly love, the one that had been the same since I was a kid. Shelves lined with bottles and boxes, the faint hum of a cooler in the corner. The pharmacy tech smiled at me like she’d seen me in some long ago past life, waved a hand. “Evening, David.” She didn’t pry, didn’t comment. Perfect. I could do this. I could come in, get Mom’s prescriptions, and leave. No distraction, no confrontation, no issues…
And then I saw her.
Carol Swanker.
She was crouched down near the cough syrup aisle, straightening a shelf, a pile of prescription bags at her feet. She looked up, and our eyes met. There was a flash of recognition, mine immediate, hers slower, like she was trying to place the ghost of a guy she hadn’t seen in years. Carol had always carried herself with a quiet authority, the kind that made you feel safe and a little exposed all at once. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, her eyes bright but weary, and the curve of her mouth hinted at a smile I didn’t expect. I had forgotten how much her smile could effect a person.
And then there was Jade, leaning against Carol’s leg, her small fingers gripping her mother’s coat like she was tethered to it for safety. The girl’s gaze was cautious, guarded, but intelligent. She studied me in a way that made me feel simultaneously scrutinized and accepted. I could see pieces of Carol in her: the set of the jaw, the careful way she observed, the quiet insistence that the world would not overwhelm her.
“David Jones?” Carol’s voice startled me, it was not harsh, not accusatory, just measured. Curious. Careful. Probing without intrusion.
I nodded. “Yeah. Still David.”
Her eyes softened while the corners of her mouth lifted just a little. “I didn’t expect…well, it’s been a long time.”
“A long time,” I said, shifting my weight. The words felt clumsy. It felt like a participation trophy after a lifetime of work. Six years of silence and avoidance compressed into a simple acknowledgment. I wanted to say more, so much more, be it about Regan, about the surgery, about how afraid I was for Mom..but none of it seemed appropriate. Not here. Not now. Not yet anyway.
Jade shuffled a little closer, peeking out from behind Carol’s leg. “Hi,” she said, in a small voice that reminded me instantly of my niece, Quinn, who I hadn’t seen in ages.
“Hi, there Jade,” I said, forcing a smile. It was awkward, but she didn’t retreat. Good sign. I hoped.
Carol straightened, brushing the hair out of her eyes. “She’s a little shy at first, but she warms up.”
I nodded, letting my gaze sweep over the shelves, pretending to be looking for something I didn’t need. My chest was tight. Seeing Carol, Regan’s best friend, someone I’d considered family by proximity and history..it made my stomach twist with something I couldn’t name. Relief? Tension? Hope? None seemed to describe the experience properly. Maybe it was all of that and then some all at once.
We exchanged a few more words. I kept it light. Polite. I told her I was home for Mom. She nodded, a hint of understanding in her expression. “It’s been a tough year for her,” she said softly. “But she’s lucky to have. I’m glad you are here.”
I wanted to believe that. I wanted it to be true. I wanted to think that my return wasn’t about facing the old ghosts, but simply taking care of my Mom. Yet even as I left the pharmacy, prescriptions bagged and tucked beside me, I felt a swirl of emotions: anticipation, anxiety, fear and something completely unexpected, a faint warmth in my chest at having seen Carol again. I chastised myself silently. She was just Regan’s friend. Nothing more.
The drive back to my mother’s house was quick and quiet. Snow had begun to fall in earnest now, a slow flurry that coated the roads and the bare branches overhead. That Coal Region Winter kind of snow, the kind you do not get anywhere else in the country. I leaned on the wheel, staring through the windshield, thinking about Regan yet again. How could someone betray you when you were at your weakest? When you literally could not be any more in need of support? When I was laid up, recovering from the surgery that had left me immobile for months, she had…well, the details weren’t that hard to recall. The texts, all the half-truths, the smiles that weren’t for me, or from me. I had trusted her, wanted to believe that love was enough to carry us through pain, through distance, through any obstacle. And then the revelation, the full extent of her betrayal, it had been a sucker punch, a slow, grinding realization that she had replaced me, in essence, while I was trying to heal, trying to keep our lives together. Our love might have been enough, but mine alone, it was not enough and I knew it, hell it took some time to realize it, but eventually I knew.
It was a betrayal that had stung far beyond the physical act itself. It was the timing. It was the deception. It was the damn way I had been left powerless while she sought out something she apparently couldn’t resist any longer. I’d gone into my surgery weak, exhausted, vulnerable, and she had used that weakness to exploit. And yet…even now, six years later, a tiny, bitter part of me missed her. Not enough to want her back, but enough to feel the shadow of what we had once meant. What we once were.
Miss Mary’s diner came into view as I crested the hill. Its windows glowed amber against the falling snow, the warm light spilling onto the sidewalk where a few bundled patrons hurried inside. Trying to escape the grasp of the cold night. The aroma of baked goods: cinnamon, vanilla, cherries, sugar, it drifted faintly, carried on the wind. I imagined her shoefly pie, still warm, the struesel flaky and soft, the pie itself tart and sweet, the whipped cream melting over it in a delicate cloud. If there was anything that could temporarily suspend the anxiety in my chest, it was that pie. A single slice. Maybe two if I didn’t get caught. With a nice hot tea to wash it down.
I slowed as I turned onto my mother’s street, noting the familiar bends, the stoops, the bare trees bending under the snow. The town was quiet in a way that felt almost fragile: a fragile pause, holding its breath for the holidays. Perfect for avoiding gossip, for sliding back into the rhythm of the place mostly unnoticed. But I knew that wasn’t likely. Ashford Hollow had a memory longer than all the roads that led to it, and Regan somewhere in the haze of small-town lights, she would be part of that memory.
I parked outside Mom’s house and killed the engine, letting the silence and the snow wrap around me. My hands were still tight on the wheel. The knuckles still white with tension. My stomach was a knot of dread and anticipation, my heart a little heavier than it needed to be. Three hours from Pittsburgh, three hours from the city and the life I had built for myself, I had arrived in Ashford Hollow, and I already knew that nothing here was simple. Not the roads, not the memories, not the people, and certainly not Regan.
I took a deep breath, shoved the prescription bag into the passenger seat, and stepped out into the snow. The cold bit at my face, and for a moment I let myself imagine that everything could be ordinary, lied to myself that I could walk into the house, check on Mom, maybe grab that slice of that pie, and leave all the ghosts behind. But the truth was, the ghosts were waiting. They always were waiting.
You can read the prologue to this story here:
https://outsiderpublishingcompany.com/coal-drop-christmas-the-prologue/
