1. Ashley

1

ASHLEY

“Siri, what is harem my dog?” I mumbled as my mouth watered while I stood leaning on my farmhouse kitchen sink, breathing through my nose, trying my best not to be sick.

I’d heard that phrase so many times, but I wasn’t sure what it was, only that it was supposed to cure a hangover. I’d never been a big drinker in college. Or really a drinker at all, so I had no clue what to do about the fact that my head was pounding, and I felt like death warmed over.

“I’m not sure I understand,” the robotic voice responded.

“What is harem my dog?” I enunciated.

Mr. Purrfect’s ears flattened at the D word. Dogs were my tabby’s mortal enemy. If it weren’t for his aversion to man’s best four-legged friend, I’d have at least one rescue dog, if not a dozen. But it was Mr. Purrfect’s world, and I was just living in it.

“Do you mean hair of the dog?”

“Yes.” It was a running joke with anyone who knew me that I always got phrases and sayings wrong. I typically got one or two of the words correct, but I was always one or two words off.

Case in point: until I was in high school, I said, take a leg. It wasn’t until my junior year, when my best friend Jenny and I were in drama club, that she realized what I was saying and corrected me, explaining that it came from the theater world, and it was basically an ironic way to wish someone good luck. I thought ‘take a leg’ was the opposite of take a bow; you told someone to take a leg before they went on stage and take a bow after. Sort of like my track coach would tell us to take a lap.

There was also a ‘blessing in these eyes’ instead of a ‘blessing in disguise.’ I thought it meant that you were a blessing in someone’s eyes. ‘Call it hay’ instead of ‘call it a day.’ I assumed it was a saying that farmers used to wrap up a workday.

I didn’t really have an excuse for why I thought it was ‘harem dog.’ But in my defense, I wasn’t quite sure why ‘hair of the dog’ made any more sense.

“Hair of the dog is an informal expression that refers to easing the effects of a hangover,” Siri responded. “The phrase is short for the hair of the dog that bit you. It originated from a method of treating a rabid dog bite. Hair from the dog was placed in the wound?—”

“Okay, okay.” I grabbed my phone and silenced it as the visual of what had just been described made my stomach go even queasier than it was. I didn’t need to hear any more about wounds or drinks. There was no way I was going to put another drink in my body. I was barely keeping down the ones I’d had last night.

All I wanted to do was crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and sleep for the next week, but I couldn’t do that. I had a job interview in thirty minutes. The job wasn’t exactly in my field, but the dean of my university had contacted the head of the art department, and he personally recommended me. One of the benefactors and the owner of a fashion brand, Wolfe Clothing, was hiring. I’d never given much thought to fashion; I’d always been more interested in art, but I did enjoy fashion, and since I had $16.32 in my checking account, I was in a beggars-can’t-be-choosers situation. Which I used to think was beggars can’t be chewers because they didn’t have enough money to eat.

Working part-time jobs was a great way to get through school. I was currently holding down two. I taught art to kids and seniors at the community center and worked a few nights a week at Southern Comfort, the bar owned by my sister Skylar’s new hubby, Hank Comfort, and his siblings Billy, Jimmy, and Cheyenne.

As much as I loved both jobs, they weren’t going to cut it in the finance department.

I’d just graduated with a degree in fine arts from Savannah College of Art and Design. I’d simultaneously pursued a bachelor’s degree in psychology at Georgia Tech. My dream had always been to start a program that helped kids with emotional, behavioral, or academic issues through art. Or even kids just navigating typical adolescence.

My own childhood hadn’t been the easiest. Both my parents were killed in a car accident when I was nine years old. Thankfully, my sister, who was eighteen at the time, stepped up to care for me so I didn’t have to go into foster care, but it was still a lot to process. Even before that, our home life wasn’t exactly the Seavers from Growing Pains . It wasn’t even The Bundys from Married… with Children .

Art saved me. It was my outlet. It was my escape. It was my safe place. Anytime I got sad, scared, anxious, or even happy, I could express that with a pencil or a paintbrush.

Dual enrollment into two separate collegiate institutions had seemed like a good idea, but now that the student loans needed to be paid, I was starting to wonder if it was the right move. Along with the credit card debt that I’d accumulated over the past six years thanks to my aforementioned love of fashion, working part-time jobs was not going to cut the mustard. It was clear I needed to get a real job. A grown-up job.

My stomach rolled more times than Jack and Jill down the hill as I took deep breaths through my nose and exhaled out through my mouth while I poured the water of my coffee maker. Leaning down, I rested my cheek on the cold surface of my faux-marble quartz kitchen countertop as I waited for the coffee pot to fill. Even though a cup of java didn’t sound like the most appealing thing in the world to consume, I needed the caffeine.

A loud sound disrupted my momentary peace as my phone vibrated on the stone surface. I picked it up secretly hoping that it was a message from my potential new employer pushing the interview back until later this afternoon. To my great disappointment, it was not. It was a text from my bestie Nadia containing photo evidence of why I felt the way I did, aka pics we’d taken at the bar the night before.

Last night, I’d gone out with my three closest friends, and we’d had about half a dozen too many tequila shots. The night out had a two-fold purpose—one of our friends had just gotten engaged, and another had gotten some not-so-great news.

Daphne, a TV producer from Southern California and the newest recruit in our friend group, came to Firefly Island six months ago for the weekend, but after fate or the universe conspired to keep her in town, she fell in love with the hot cowboy next door, and he fell so hard he put a ring on it, so she was now a Firefly Island resident.

Zoe, a selfless single mom of an incredible preteen young man, just found out a biopic was going to be made about her late husband. She got pregnant and married at sixteen. By the age of eighteen, she was a widow and raising a son alone. Her late husband was a war hero, and the rights to his life story had been optioned by a production company, and she was not happy about it.

Our night had flip-flopped between commiseration and celebration. One shot of tequila had turned into six, which was more than I’d ever drunk in my twenty-four years.

I scrolled through the photos. The first in the photo line-up was a classic Charlie’s Angels pose. Nadia and Daphne were the blonde bookend beauties in the iconic profile handgun position. Zoe and I were in the center; my long red hair stood out against Zoe’s rich chestnut locks. I’d always hated having red hair growing up, being called Carrot Top, Bloody Mary, Little Orphan Annie (which hit a little close to home since I was an orphan), and other not-so-original redhead nicknames, but now I didn’t mind it as much. At five foot seven, I was a few inches taller than anyone else in the group, so I bent my knees to be in the frame.

Photo number two was a YMCA pose. Nadia was the Y. Zoe was the M. I was the C. And Daphne was the A. The next photo was of all of us doing Taylor-Swift-heart-hands. The third pose was a combo of hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil and giving a thumbs up. Zoe covered her eyes. I covered my mouth. Daphne covered her ears, and then Nadia was at the end doing two thumbs up. And then, of course, there was the obligatory generic funny face.

I might feel like death warmed over, but seeing the pictures, I couldn’t help but smile. Even though I had a sister, she was nine years older than me and had been more like a mom than a sibling. I considered Nadia a second sister to me. And Zoe was one of the best friends I’d ever had. Daphne might be the newest member of our clique, but she’d slotted right in. These girls were my found family.

The coffee pot dinged, and I winced at the noise. After pouring the hot liquid into a to-go mug, I grabbed my keys and purse. On my way out of the kitchen, I kissed Mr. Purrfect on the head. “Be a good boy.”

His only acknowledgment that I even existed was a tiny tail flick.

My limbs felt heavy as I stepped outside in the crisp morning air and locked the door behind me. When I turned and walked down the steps of the porch and was no longer shielded by its covering, I squinted at the brightness as I hissed. The second the bright rays of sunlight hit me, I felt like I was a vampire in True Blood .

How was it possible that sunlight was so painful?

I rummaged through my purse and found my sunglasses. As soon as I slipped them onto my face, I exhaled a tiny sigh of relief. When I got into my car, I promised myself I would never drink again. I’d no sooner started my car than my phone began to ring. Again, a seed of hope sprang up that it was Mrs. Wolfe postponing the interview. I grabbed the device from my purse, and once again, that hope was dashed.

It was Garrett. My ex. The man who I thought I was going to spend forever with. The man who I thought I was going to marry. The man who I thought was going to father my children, who I thought I was going to grow old with. The man who I’d spent half of my twenty-four years with.

He was also the man who pulled the rug out from under me. The man who waited until our twelve-year anniversary to tell me that he didn’t think he ever wanted to get married or have kids and that I was ‘too serious’ for him.

Don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

I dropped the phone and sat on my hands. Literally. My hands were beneath my thighs. I had to actively take measures not to pick up his call. I knew that if I heard his voice again, it would be so easy to fall back into old patterns. All he’d have to do was say he was sorry, that he missed me, and ask if we could just be friends. It would be a slope more slippery than a Slip ’N Slide coated with vegetable oil.

We started ‘going out’ in fourth grade. We were ten years old. We’d been together until we were twenty-two. He was my first kiss. My first love. My first break-up. My first everything. We were together through middle school, high school, and college. He moved from Seattle to San Francisco for me. It almost destroyed me when he broke up with me. I felt like I lost a part of myself. I wasn’t sure who I was without him. We were Ashley and Garrett. Garrett and Ashley.

I had to stay strong. It had taken me two years to put myself back together.

The call went to voicemail, and I held my breath, waiting to see if he’d leave a message. He’d called about a week ago and hadn’t left a message. I wondered if this time he would. When the voicemail notification lit up, my heart jumped in my throat. I quickly pulled my hands out from beneath my legs and picked up my phone. I played the message on speaker.

“Hey Ash, it’s me. I just…I, um, I hope you’re doing good. I, um, I was wondering if we could talk. So, yeah, give me a call when you can. Thanks. It’s me. Bye.”

At the sound of Garrett’s voice, my heart rate spiked, my palms dampened, and my breaths came in short pants as adrenaline coursed through me. Hearing him speak after all this time was a shot to my system that was stronger than a cocaine-laced espresso. It sounded so familiar, yet like a stranger at the same time.

When tears began to pool in my bottom lids, I sniffed them back. This was not the time to take a stroll down heartbreak memory lane. I had enough physical servings of pain on my interview plate to try and get through this interview without adding any emotional dishes to it.

I needed to mentally file this away in a deal-with-later folder. Luckily, I was very good at compartmentalizing. I turned my phone to silent mode, drove down the dirt path to the main road, took a deep breath, pushed all thoughts of the G-word to the recesses of my mind, and focused on the here and now. As I drove to my destination, I grounded myself by taking in my surroundings. It was still a little bit surreal to me that this place existed.

Firefly Island was a picturesque southern small town. Lush wisteria trees lined a web of canals and bike paths. A breathtaking coastline surrounded a charming trolley system that served as island transportation. I sometimes felt like this was a Disney movie that came to life, complete with a haunted house. Regularly, lists of the Top Ten Most Haunted Places in the U.S. featured Abernathy Manor. Firefly Pier boasted the tallest Ferris wheel on the East Coast; there was a drive-in movie theater, and that only scratched the surface of the character and charm of the idyllic coastal community.

The real charm and character, in my opinion, were the people who lived there. They were a quirky, colorful, tight-knit group that looked after one another but, in my experience, welcomed outsiders and made them feel like they belonged.

As I left the town proper, I realized I was venturing to the easternmost end of the island. In the eighteen months I’d lived here, I thought I’d explored the entire island. I was wrong. I hadn’t even known that there was anything other than fields and hills out this far.

After about five minutes of driving between two large fields of green pastures, the navigation instructed, “Turn right at the end of the road.”

When I made the turn, the drive up to the house was about half a mile and was lined with mature cypress trees on either side. The first thing I noticed as I came to the clearing was that there was a runway in the center of the field that looked like a landing strip for a private plane. The other clue that made me draw that conclusion was the hanger at the end of it. I guess it could be a barn, but it looked exactly like the one at my childhood BFF Jenny’s house. Her dad was a billionaire venture capitalist who owned a helicopter and a plane.

The second thing that I noticed was a stable with two horses in it. They looked exactly like the ones in the Budweiser commercials. I loved horses. I wondered, if I got the job, would I be allowed to go out and visit them, or maybe even ride them?

The third thing that caught my eye was that the house I pulled up to was an exact replica of the house in The Notebook . It was as if someone had taken it directly from the movie and put it here. Or maybe this is where they filmed the movie. It was uncanny.

I walked up the steps and took a slow, deep breath in through my nose. The property backed right up to the ocean, and the salty smell of seawater filled the air. After exhaling through my mouth, I knocked on the door. When it opened, a woman short in stature with white curly hair, round rosy cheeks, a red cardigan, tan trousers, and white Keds stood in front of me. She looked like Mrs. Claus went undercover to work at Target.

“Hi, I’m Ashley. I’m here for an interview.”

“Is Mrs. Wolfe expecting you?”

“I think so. She reached out to my dean, who contacted me.”

The woman opened the door, and I walked inside. The interior of the house was even more impressive than the exterior. The wooden railing of the staircase had intricate designs carved into it. To the left of the entryway, a vintage pier mirror stood at least eight feet tall, a sight that Alison Victoria from Windy City Rehab would sell an organ for.

“Mrs. Wolfe is in the sunroom.” She motioned toward the right side of the house. “Last door on the left.”

“Thank you, it was nice to meet you…”

“Dorothy.”

“Nice to meet you, Dorothy.”

I headed down the long hallway and immediately recognized the Jackson Pollock on display. A few feet down, across from the Jackson Pollock, hung a Jean-Michel Basquiat. As I passed a room that had a grand piano in the corner of it, I peeked inside and nearly fainted when I saw the Degas and Monet pieces. By the time I made it to the sunroom, I had nerves popping in my stomach like kernels of corn in grease. Whoever this woman was—whatever the job was—I just wanted to be near her. I loved art, and clearly, she did as well.

When I entered the room, a slim-figured woman in black slacks and a royal blue silk button-down shirt sat in a floral armchair next to a brick fireplace. Her silver-gray hair was cut in a sharp bob. Thin, black-rimmed glasses combined with a deep mauve lipstick and a hint of blush accented her delicate facial features. She commanded the room without saying a word or moving a muscle. She held herself with an air of class, elegance, and grace. Her style and demeanor struck me as a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Meryl Streep’s character from The Devil Wears Prada .

“Hello, Mrs. Wolfe, I’m Ashley Thompson.”

“It’s Stella; nice to meet you. Please, sit down.”

I suddenly felt very underdressed as I lowered down into the chair beside her. I’d worn a blue jean skirt, a white t-shirt, black blazer, and brown suede bootie boots. I was going for effortlessly casual, but now I just felt schlumpy.

“So, Ashley, your dean said that you have done some work in the eco-friendly space.”

“Oh, um, yes.” I was not expecting the conversation to take that left turn. I assumed she’d want to speak about fashion or art.

“Tell me a little bit about that.”

“Oh, okay. I spearheaded an artist collective to promote less water usage, cad-free pigment paints, recycled canvases, and more responsible disposal of waste, such as evaporating solvent by putting it in the sun instead of down the drain.”

“What caused you to be interested in that?”

“Um, my niece, actually. She is six now, but when she was four, she saw something on YouTube about climate change and the planet being sick, and it really upset her. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought before that. I was sort of na?ve about it. But she couldn’t sleep, and it sort of traumatized her, so I pinky promised her I would do my part to make this world a better place for her.”

“Wonderful.” She nodded. “Can you start on Monday?”

I waited for a beat, sure I must have heard her wrong. When she didn’t continue, I said, “I’m sorry?”

“Are you available to start on Monday?”

“Oh, um…” I didn’t even know what the job was, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to say that. This woman intimidated me, and I didn’t want to come off sounding like an idiot. When the dean emailed me with the interview information, it just had the address, name, and interview time. That was it.

“Mrs. Wolfe, the man is here with the dog,” Dorothy relayed as she entered the room.

“Oh, lovely. Take him out to the back and tell him I’ll be right with him.”

When she looked back at me, I could see the expectation in her expression. “Will I see you Monday?”

“Um, yes.”

“Wonderful. Brenda from HR will email you with the details.”

I stood and wasn’t sure if I should shake her hand or curtsy. Instead, I just sort of waved awkwardly.

“See you Monday.”

As I walked out of the sunroom toward the door, I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. I’d just gotten a job. I didn’t know what the job was, but I knew I wanted it, and I’d gotten it…I guess I’d find out the rest on Monday.