Page 8 of Holding On

Chapter Three

Maya Hamilton

Monday morning, I need a ride into town. Devon’s red Toyota Corolla, the one she graciously said she’d share with me, suddenly isn’t working. When I can’t get the engine to turn over, I start panicking. My first day on the job and I’m going to be late. It’s a beautiful summer day. The bay twinkles in the morning light, pink fading against the cloudless horizon line as the sun rises. The sky is crystal blue. I’ve never seen so many shades of blue.

Luckily, Chloe has to go into Rockland early to find some particular type of mushrooms at some farmers’ market and to pick up some truffle oil and champagne vinegar.

Her car is a classic VW Volkswagen Squareback in powder blue. When I point out the missing back bumper, she assures me it was only because Bryce was replating the chrome. I never got to really know her that long summer—by then she had run away.

She’s quiet and beautiful, with clear tanned skin and curly, long brown hair. Though it makes me uncomfortable, she’s kind of mysterious. I know from Devon that Chloe recently returned to the family. Eight years is a long time to go missing, and she’s finding her way. Actually, I think she already found her way. I climb into the car, thanking her way too many times.

“You’re good,” she says and starts the engine. I’m so relieved when it starts, she laughs. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine. Audrey is so nice.”

“I know. She seemed great on the phone. It’s just the meet and greet today.”

Chloe turns the wheel and we head north up Rt. 131 toward Highway 1.

“Don’t fret, then. You look great. Black pencil skirt. Very Cosmo for these parts.” She adjusts the rearview mirror and then switches hands to crank her window down. It’s still cool enough to make me shiver.

“I can’t think of anybody else that’s more perfect for this job,” she says, and then she puts the window back up. She must think I’m cold.

“You don’t even know me. I might be nefarious.” I smile.

“I feel like I know you. Geo talks about you all the time.”

This shocks me. And I can’t quite get used to “Geo.” I know that’s what this family calls him, but not his own. At home, we refer to him as Uncle Darius—his middle name. Having George Darius Hamilton reduced to “Geo” is confusing.

“Tell me again how you guys all know Judge Pratchett?” My confusion leaks over into this unconnected question. “I don’t know. Like, is this nepotism? Aren’t you guys related to her?”

“It’s sort of a summer of nepotism,” Chloe says, and I know she’s referring to Travis’s internship with his sister. “No, it’s not. I mean, maybe.” She grins. “Nepotism once removed.”

She turns on the right directional signal to move north up Highway 1. We’re on a flat stretch with a large gravel processing plant to the right. It looks like something from a sci-fi novel. I look nervously at the DANGER: BLASTING AREA signs that we pass every tenth of a mile.

“You can relax. It’s fine. I never hear them blast, so we’re good. Also, no nepotism,” she says, getting back to the conversation. “Audrey and Andy are Cory’s biological grandparents, and they just found out last fall. Kenny, their son, was Laurel’s boyfriend in high school. He left after graduation for the military and died in a training accident. So, yeah.” Chloe spreads her fingers across the steering wheel. “Laurel kept it a secret for a long, long time. I mean, we didn’t even know. Then she met Mateus, and well . . . let’s just say a lot happened.”

I had caught snippets. A drug ring, a murder—certainly more I wasn’t privy to yet.

Chloe shrugs. “Mateus convinced my stubborn sister that she should go to Audrey and Andy and let them meet their grandson. The way Laurel tells it, Audrey took one look at Cory and knew.”

I’m nodding. “And that’s why she and Mateus live with them?”

She shakes her head. “No, they stay in a cottage behind the Pratchett’s.”

Something tweaks my memory. “Is that what burned?”

Now it’s Chloe who shivers. “Yes, and a part of The Inn. Last spring.”

We’re nearly into Rockland now, and she ducks down a side street to avoid Main Street’s traffic.

We’re nearly to the courthouse and my new job. My stomach flutters. My sister loves acting—loves the fact she gets butterflies in her stomach. I hate it.

“You’re going to be fine,” says Chloe again. “Look at you. You’re savvy, you’re intelligent, and you’re wearing that smokin’ pencil skirt. You’re coming from Loyola Law School. You’ve got more legal chops around here than most people.” She flashes a smile. “I have to warn you, it’s a little white up here.”

“Oh, I noticed,” I say and smile.

“But everyone wears BLM shirts to prove they’re not racists.”

This is funny, really funny, that she would notice something so current and so hometown at the same time.