Chapter 4 - Lottie

Chapter 4 - Lottie

The directions Luna drew out for me on the paper map didn't look like they led anywhere. The thick red line cut through what appeared to be undeveloped green space. The road to the town and the town itself don't exist on the map or Google Earth. I would never have found it if she hadn't given me turn-by-turn directions.

But I did.

The road was narrow but well-maintained. Once I turned off from the highway, it was hard not to find Snowberry. There is only one road in and out. Only one place you could end up if you dared turn down the empty road that looked like it led to a woodland cannibal's domain.

Luna had arranged for me to meet Ginger at the gas station at the town's entrance. I spotted her immediately in her bright blue Mini Cooper. She waved me down, and before I could step out to greet her, she ran up to the car, telling me not to bother getting out yet as we were going to go straight to the cabin, only a few minutes' drive away.

On the way to the cabin, I didn't see much of the center of town, but what I did see looked perfectly picturesque and adorable. I can't wait to stroll down main street, pop into the coffee shop, and sit at a curbside table, enjoying the quiet anonymity—assuming they have a coffee shop.

Shit. What if they don't have a coffee shop? Where will I feed my caffeine addiction? It's highly unlikely there's a Starbucks or Dutch Bro's here, but there has to be a locally owned café or something. At least, I hope to God there is. I have no idea how to make a latte.

Hell, I don't know how to make much of anything. I haven't had to cook for myself since I was a teenager. Looks like I'll be living off frozen dinners and whatever local restaurants they have. I hope the TV at the cabin gets the Food Network so I can learn how to cook while I'm here.

I follow Ginger down a residential street, her music drifting on the wind behind her. Thankfully, it's not mine. That would be awkward. The houses we pass are spread out and have vast green yards. A few people are out sitting on porches or walking down the street, but overall, it's pretty quiet. It is so different from the nonstop noise and hustle of Los Angeles.

Ginger's convertible turns down a neat gravel road, and I follow her closely. The road is lined with towering pine trees and splits at one point, and we take the lane to the left. We drive maybe half a mile more before the road dead ends at a small clearing where the most perfect cabin sits, sheltered by the imposing forest and colorful flowering bushes. It looks like a Bob Ross painting brought to life right in front of me.

I park and step out, stretching my cramped legs, never taking my eyes off the cabin. Celestial rays of sunlight shine down through the gaps in the treetop, lighting up the moss-covered roof.

Pure and exquisite silence greets me as I stand in awe at my new—temporary—home. There are no honking horns, sirens, airplanes overhead, snapping cameras with yelling paparazzi, and best of all no security team.

The heavy weight I've been carrying in my heart for years lifts, and my guilt for running away dissolves.

This was the right choice. This is what I need. It's what my soul needs.

"So? What do you think? It's pretty perfect, isn't it?" Ginger asks, stepping up to my side. I realize how tall she is.

I look up to her. I'm five feet eight inches and she's a few inches taller than me. She has to be close to or even six feet tall. I figure starting our relationship by gawking at her height isn't the best thing to do. So, I decide to wait to ask her exactly how tall she is until we get to know each other better. Instead, I answer her question.

"Yes, it is. Absolutely. Freaking. Perfect."

"Okay," she claps her hands and rubs them together like a cartoon villain. "Let's get your stuff inside, and I'll give you a tour."

We circle around to the back of my new-to-me silver Nissan. I bought the car at a used dealership on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Thanks to my many years of distrust and forced financial dependency, I had taken steps to establish a secret bank account. Taking money out of the account where my monthly allowance was deposited—that my mother had access to—and moved it to my secret account, as well as stockpiling cash in a hidden safe.

As of last week, when I left Las Vegas and separated myself from everything I've known for the past decade, I am physically and financially free to do as I please. There's no one watching over my purchases and transactions, telling me I should be shopping more, or asking why I withdrew so much cash and what I did with it. There's only me. And with how much I've squirreled away in a town like Snowberry, I'll be set for years. If I so choose.

Ginger effortlessly pulls my large suitcase from the trunk, followed by the smaller one, and looks at the minimal luggage and lack of…well, anything else. I didn't even stop to get groceries.

"Is this it?" She looks from my luggage to me questioningly. "I thought you were staying for three months?"

"Oh, I am. I just packed light. And I wasn't able to bring much, as you know."

Luna and I had to come up with a story to tell Ginger. Without giving too much detail and leaving it extremely vague, we simply said I am trying to escape an emotionally abusive relationship and require complete social separation and secrecy to start over.

None of it was a lie; my mother has emotionally abused me over the years in her obsessive need to control my life and profit from my hard work. I just didn't specify what type of abusive relationship I was escaping. Or who I really am.

"Of course, I understand. If you need anything, let me know. Anything you can't find in town can be shipped in. It may not look like it, but we do get mail here," she jokes, giving me a wink and elbow bump, lightening the mood. "Not Amazon Prime, but snail mail? We've got you covered."

My chest lightens and I laugh, "I will definitely let you know. But I'm really looking forward to a bit of simplicity and quiet. My old life was very . . . loud, and busy, and complicated. I had a lot of material possessions, and very few of them made me happy. Don't let anyone ever convince you that money buys happiness. I'm proof it doesn't."

I didn't mean to turn our first conversation into a sharing moment, but I feel I have to start off right this time. I don't want anyone to think I'm vain and materialistic. If I can, I'd even like to make a few friends to experience what it's like to make a connection with another person without the underlying fear that they're only my friends because of my fame and money. I've had enough of those people in my life; I don't need any more.

With Ginger easily carrying my two suitcases, I can pull out the Polaroid camera I bought to take a quick picture of my new home. I saw it in the old Radio Shack-type store I stopped in to buy a prepaid cell phone and just had to have it. I wanted to be able to take photos of my journey that were just for me. No one can hack in to access them; they won't be posted on social media sites or edited and photoshopped to perfection. Because they are already perfect in their one hundred percent authenticity.

Holding the camera up to my face, I peer through the viewfinder and snap the photo just as Ginger enters the frame, her back to me, long auburn hair swaying behind her. You can't see her face in the photo, and somehow, that makes it even more special.

I tenderly slip the photo into the notebook I've been using as a scrapbook and journal before shoving it and the camera in my bag. Slinging it and my purse over my shoulder.

Before I forget, I take out my new cell phone, which has only one number programmed into it, and pull up my messages. I type out a quick but unspecific message to Luna.

Lottie: Made it. Everything looks great.

Luna: Good.

I didn't expect a long response. Before I left, we discussed the less we said in texts, the better. That kind of thing can be discovered if someone really wants to. Phone calls can be more elaborate, but even those we keep to a minimum. Contact is only made when absolutely necessary.

By now, my mother has no doubt made the connection that Luna helped me. I'm sure she's watching her every move and action. It wouldn't surprise me if she hired someone to hack into her phone and try to track her calls and texts.

I slip the phone back into my purse. Ignoring it for the most part. It's nice not to check social media and news sites every hour of the day. They stress me out sometimes. All the constant pressure to keep up with trends and post the right thing at the right time. Not to mention the trolls. I hate those fuckers.

I catch up to Ginger, who's already opened the front door and is stepping inside.

I only have a moment to take in the large front porch before entering the cabin. There are two rocking chairs to one side that look well used, and the front door is painted a tranquil shade of soft blue. Everything else is bare wood. Looking as if the planks were pulled directly from the forest surrounding us.

Inside, the cabin is far nicer than I would have expected for a cabin in the woods. It's modern but rustic; still a cabin, but with updated appliances and amenities. A small but clean kitchen lines the right side of the space, with a petite dining table and four chairs. To the left is a cozy living room with a plush couch and stone fireplace. As I take in the space, the wooden floorboards creak quietly under my footsteps.

I don't immediately spot a television until I realize the framed photo above the mantle is a flatscreen in disguise.

"The TV has most of the streaming services loaded on it. No need to log in; it's all ready for use. There's also a collection of movies on the digital drive."

Ginger continues her tour, not waiting for me to catch up. Speaking over her shoulder as she moves through the living room and down the short hallway.

"There's only one bedroom and one bathroom, which I'm sure Luna told you," she calls from the opposite side of one of the few doors in the cabin.

When I step through the door, she's lifting my largest suitcase onto the bed. This bedroom is smaller than my closet back in Los Angeles, but there is still plenty of space. A small dresser and nightstand match the sturdy wood-framed bed, which is draped in a thick, colorful quilt. The large window opens up to the forest beyond, a perfect view first thing in the morning that I look forward to experiencing.

I'm going to sleep like the dead in this room, I just know it.

I set my bag down on the dresser and spin to find Ginger at the door, already on her way out. She's moving like a whirlwind from room to room.

"Here's the bathroom. There are towels in the hall closet, extra toilet paper under the sink along with a few standard toiletries. The water takes a minute to heat up, so don't jump into a shower right away, or you might freeze your tits off."

She laughs, and I peek through the bathroom door to see her opening and shutting the cabinet under the sink, flashing neatly stacked rolls of toilet paper. Other than the clawfoot tub, the bathroom is nothing extravagant. I can't wait to take a candle-lit bath in it with a nice large glass of wine.

Ginger scoots past me and back out into the living room, continuing her fast-paced tour. I wonder if she has somewhere to be, and that's why she's going so fast?

"There's plenty of chopped wood for the fireplace out back in the covered awning. I'll have one of my brothers chop more for you if you need more. Hunter is a volunteer fireman, so he knows his way around an ax."

"Oh, that's cool."

I barely enter the living room as she's already crossing to the kitchen, talking about the dishwasher and stove.

"Okay, so that's about it for the cabin. Pretty standard stuff. Are you ready to head into town to continue the tour? I thought I could give you the lay of the land and introduce you to some people in town. That way, you'll feel comfortable and right at home here in Snowberry. Plus, it'll help us get ahead of the town gossip."

I freeze, and my face falls. Gossip? A celebrity's worst nightmare. Rumors, lies, and stories could ruin a person's life in a matter of seconds.

"Gossip?" I ask on a thick swallow.

"Don't worry, it's just small-town nonsense. Who's the new girl? Why is she here? Where is she staying? Where did she come from? Is she single? You know, the normal nosey neighbor nonsense. Don't worry, Luna told me you want to stay offline and low-key."

She steps close and puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder, easing my tension. There's just something about her that makes you instantly like her. Hopefully, I can call her friend one day.

"It's all water cooler gossip. They're just bored people with nothing better to do. If we get you out there and answer all the questions before they even ask them, they won't have time to concoct crazy stories about you."

With a wide smile and a squeeze of my shoulder, she turns us towards the front door, which remained open throughout our two-minute walkthrough. Before Ginger is able to run me out of the cabin, I hurry back to the bedroom, grab my Polaroid camera, and sling it over my shoulder. I might find a few cute things to photograph on my first stroll through town.

Ginger hands me a keychain with one key on it and a small wood carving of a feather dangling from the metal ring. It's smooth under my fingers and looks hand-carved. None of the mass-produced machine-made crap from China.

"This is beautiful. Where did you get it?" I ask, still admiring the attention to detail in the lines and creases of the feather. I would swear I was holding a real feather if it weren't made of wood.

"My brother Hunter carved it. It's kind of a hobby of his."

"This Hunter guy sounds like a catch. Volunteer fireman, great at chopping wood and hand carving extremely detailed realistic feathers. What else can he do?"

Ginger snickers and gives me an if-you-only-knew look.

"Well, he also schedules his entire life, including when he does his laundry down to the minute. He never stays up past nine on weekdays and hates pie."

"Who hates pie?"

"Exactly. He's not nearly as appealing as he seems. When you meet him, don't let his baby blues fool you."

I've been surrounded by people who have been on covers of magazines and named in lists of The Most Attractive People; I doubt one wood-whittling mountain man with blue eyes will sway me. But I don't mention any of that to Ginger. Just nod along in agreement.

At her insistence, we ride into town in Ginger's car, leaving my Nissan at the cabin. The cool breeze flutters my short hair around my face as she whips around corners like a Nascar driver, parking in a small lot in what appears to be the center of town.

There's a small green space behind the lot with a gazebo at its center, like every small-town hallmark movie ever made. I snap a quick picture before Ginger can pull her disappearing act and lead me away.

"Okay, well, first things first. We're going to go to the most important place in town. Dottie's," Ginger announces with her hands on her hips.

Gesturing with a jerk of her chin to the lot next to us, I look over to see a retro neon sign that reads Dottie's Drive-In Diner . A few cars are lined up in the parking spaces where servers on rollerskates perch window-mounted trays full of food on car doors. Food that I can smell from here.

My stomach growls in protest. I haven't had lunch yet, and the scent of fried heaven reminds me of that.

"Sounds like maybe we need to grab some food before I introduce you to Dottie," Ginger chuckles, leading me toward the heavenly scents.

Dottie's reminds me of Flo's from Disney's Cars, but in a great way. Everything is polished and shiny, with rounded corners in pastel pinks and mint greens. Pink neon lights line the angular sign and the entire border of the roof of the building. There's a small interior space with glittery pink vinyl booths, but most guests and activity are outside, either around umbrella tables or in parked cars. It's obvious the theme of Dottie's is retro drive-up, where you sit in your car and eat instead of going inside. I bet this place is hoppin' on a Saturday night.

I smile at the thought. I didn't even know places like this still existed outside movie screens.

Ginger and I enter the small interior and are immediately greeted by a petite, smiling redhead girl on roller skates wearing a retro-style uniform dress with "Dottie's" written on her left breast pocket in mint green and white. A small pocketed white apron tied around her waist.

"Hey there, Ginger. I wasn't expecting you today, only your brother, who I'm surprised I haven't seen yet."

"He had an unexpected issue to attend to. He was really bummed to miss out on his lunch. You know how he likes to stick to his schedule."

The server giggles and rolls her eyes good-naturedly, her high ponytail swishing behind her. The red strands curled at the end, bouncing lightly at the slight movement. "Oh, I know."

That's when she finally spots me, and her attention perks. Ginger said there would be a lot of interest in the new girl in town, and she wasn't wrong.

"And who's your friend? I don't believe I've ever seen you in town before."

"Becca, this is Lottie. She's renting our cabin for a few months."

"Really?" She turns surprised eyes on Ginger that seem to sparkle with mischief.

Wait, are they actually sparkling? Upon second inspection, it does look like twinkling glimmers in the bright green of her irises. That can't be right; it must just be the light hitting her right because there also appears to be a glimmer surrounding her.

"Lottie?"

"What?" I shake off the odd sensation of seeing something that isn't there and realize they are talking to me. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I asked where you're from originally."

"Oh, um, Southern California," I answer vaguely.

The closer to the truth I can stay, the easier it will be to remember the lies. Lots of people are from southern California, telling them that much won't break my cover.

"Oh, how fun. This must be a big change for you."

"You have no idea," I chuckle at my own inside joke with myself, and the two women smile acquiescently.

"I've always wanted to see the city of angels. It sounds so exciting. All the celebrities and actors. I hear you can run into one just walking down the street. Is that true, Lottie?"

Becca beams with good-natured glee, unknowingly hitting a sensitive topic for me. I try to hide my wince and initial panic, shrugging it off.

"I wouldn't know. I don't live in the city."

I don't say anything else but take the opportunity to look around the space, hoping she will take the hint to change the subject. Thankfully, Ginger comes to my rescue.

"We were hoping to order some lunch and to speak with Dottie if she's around."

I internally thank Ginger for her well-timed diversion. She doesn't know it, but she just saved me from a very public panic attack. I'm not the best liar; I'm a singer, not an actress.

Becca's peppy attitude doesn't seem at all deterred by Ginger's redirect. Her smile is still stretched across her face, and that weird sparkle is in her eyes.

"Sure, go ahead and take a seat wherever you like, and I'll go get her."

Ginger thanks Becca, and she rolls away on her perfectly spotless white roller skates. We pick a pink booth against the window looking out to the street beyond, a handful of cars parked in the lot.

I slide in and put my purse and Polaroid on the seat beside me. The vinyl squeaks a little under my denim-clad legs as I settle in, feeling more and more like a normal girl the longer I'm away from LA.

Plastic laminated menus are on the table, and I pick one up and review the options.

"So, what's good here?"

"Everything. Dottie's son Jared is the chef here, and he's amazing. Learned from a world-famous chef in New York. They only use locally sourced ingredients and fresh produce. We very much like the farm-to-fork movement here. There are a few farms just outside town; one raises pigs, cows, and chickens, which get sold at the butcher shop. If you're a meat eater, they have some amazing steaks and bacon there."

"I am. I can't cook them for shit, but I do love to eat them."

Laughing at my inability to grill meat, Ginger doesn't even look at the menu, probably having memorized everything already. I read over my options and decide on a classic BLT with a side of tater tots and cherry Italian cream soda. If the bacon is fresh butchered, it'll be delicious.

I'm also happily surprised to see an entire Italian section with spaghetti, pizza, lasagna, garlic knots, and various salads—not just garden or Caesar. Unfortunately, there is no sushi. I suppose beef and pork are easier to come by in Montana than fresh tuna.

We only wait for a few minutes before a woman comes bursting out of the double kitchen swinging doors, and she looks just like…

"Oh my God, you look just like Twiggy," I blurt out before the woman even reaches our table to greet us.

"Why thank you," she says in a sweetly appreciative voice, sashaying to stand at our table's side. "She is my idol," she preens while patting her short blonde pixie hair.

She's wearing large cotton candy pink and mint green acrylic daisy earrings that perfectly match her pink mod A-line dress and checkered mint green tights. Blending in perfectly with the décor of the diner.

I wasn't expecting someone so bright and colorful, but it makes sense now that I think about it. Dottie looks to be in her late thirties but has skin as smooth as a woman a decade younger. I'll have to make sure to ask Ginger later if she can tell me Dottie's skincare secret for keeping so young. There's barely a wrinkle on her face beyond the ones that appear at the corner of her eyes as a result of her wide smile.

"I'm Dottie, and you must be Lottie. Ha-ha, that rhymed. I'll definitely not be forgetting your name."

"Can I take your picture?" I ask, completely unable to stop myself. Holding up my Polaroid to show her what I mean.

Most people take selfies on their phones, but I don't want that. I want one of her to put in my book. Or maybe on the wall in the cabin. I could start a little collage of my time here.

"Why, of course, you can, honey. Here, get my good side."

She turns and poses in a very Twiggy-esque pose, with big, bold lashes, doe eyes, and a soft, relaxed mouth. I snap the photo, cementing the memory within four white borders.

Dottie slides into the booth next to Ginger across from me, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin in her hands. She stares at me excitedly.

Desperately, I hope this fashionable woman doesn't recognize me.

"I hear you're stayin' at Hunter's cabin for a while. Does that mean I'll be seeing you around town then?"

"Yes. I plan on being here for a few months."

Concealing my nervousness, I fiddle with the strap of my Polaroid camera under the table, more concerned about meeting people in town now. I had hoped to remain unknown for a time. Blending into the forest and being ignored by most of the townspeople. Apparently, that's not going to happen, which puts me at risk of being recognized far sooner.

I really hope Dottie listens to disco music to go along with her nineteen-seventies attire. Maybe she won't know my music or name.

"Well, that sounds wonderful. It's a great time of year to be visiting."

"Why's that?" I ask, curious now if I've unintentionally found myself in a destination spot only known by word of mouth.

"Because of the season change. The temperatures are starting to drop, and the leaves will change color soon. Hopefully, you stay long enough to see the first snowfall. It's breathtaking."

I let out a breath of relief. A season change I can handle. Not some hidden, well-kept secret music festival. That would be the worst.

"I hope so, too. Living in SoCal, we don't get much snow, like, ever."

We all laugh because the thought of snow in southern California is ridiculous. I've seen it over the grapevine that runs through the mountains north of LA, but nothing farther south.

Becca rolls up to our table to take our orders. Ginger orders a triple grilled cheese sandwich that I make a mental note to try at some point. Over the next couple of months, I'll no doubt eat everything on this menu at least once.

It all sounds mouthwatering, especially since I've been on a strictly regimented diet for years. But I can't overload myself with fried food and grease, or I'll make myself sick. My favorite food is sushi, but it's about as likely I'll find sushi in Snowberry as a yeti walking through the front door.

Perhaps that's something I can teach myself to make. I mean, it's only fish and rice wrapped in seaweed, maybe with some cucumber or avocado. I won't be able to make the fancy rolls my personal chef would make with all the sauces and things I couldn't identify, but surely I could manage a basic California roll. Ironic since I ran away from California.

We sit and talk with Dottie as we eat our food, which is, as predicted, amazing. I don't get to meet the chef, her son, but Dottie promises she'll introduce me properly the next time I come in. I can't imagine her having a son old enough to be a professional chef.

I devour the perfectly crispy bacon and toasted BLT. I never knew tater tots could be on my list of favorite foods, but they are now. Especially covered in freshly shredded cheese and bacon bits with ranch. Ginger also informs me that I can buy them frozen from the grocery store and just pop them in the oven whenever I want them.

Add to mental shopping list.

Although, I'll probably accidentally burn down the cabin trying to use the oven . Additional mental note; watch a YouTube video on how to use the oven.

I learn that I really like Dottie. She's loud, colorful, and has all the tea on the entire town. She talks nonstop about this person or that rumor. Most are harmless, and I like this type of gossip about who was recently dumped and which recipe her baking rival will be using for their annual Christmas cookie bake-off. Christmas is still many months away, but I guess it's a big deal around here.

After an hour spent at Dottie's eating and chatting, Ginger walks me up and down the streets, pointing out the shops, what's sold inside, and which are her favorites. There are various types of stores and one or two empty storefronts. Thankfully, they have a coffee shop and a bakery. So, I don't have to worry about learning how to make the fancy coffees I've grown fond of.

I take a few Polaroids. One of Dottie's from the outside looking in through the window to the now empty booth we were just occupying. Then another of the bookstores, Tall Tail, with its jam-packed shelves, sat on the sidewalk outside the store. There's also a very inviting secondhand store called Another Man's Junk . It sounds a little pervy at first glance, but the meaning hits me after only a few moments of pondering. It's a secondhand store filled with antiques and the like.

Sadly, we don't go inside any today. Ginger seems to be a little antsy as we walk, always looking around as if trying to find someone that she never spots.

We make our way around the circle that makes up the central area of town before heading back to her blue Mini. I make a mental plan to return to the grocery store across the street from the parking lot to stock up my pantry and fridge in my car.