Famous in a Small Town

“How’s that neighbor of yours?” Cézanne was a Black woman who owned a local winery. She had natural hair, a gorgeous smile, and excellent taste in cheese. Because cheese is life.

“I have no idea,” I said, nursing my cider. “Still hiding behind his walls. Various contractors have come and gone, but he remains concealed.”

“It should be illegal to come to town and refuse to take part in our tomfoolery.” Maria was a schoolteacher and the brains of our operation. Her knowledge of trivia was immense. And her olive skin was tanned to perfection, thanks to recently holidaying in Hawaii with her girlfriend. “We should storm the fortress.”

That’s what the locals had taken to calling the rock star’s abode. The fortress. Fair enough, given the fence and other security measures he’d installed. But still his identity remained unknown.

It had been almost a week since his one and only appearance at the general store. Vehicles often came and went, but the owner of the house remained unseen. Not that I spied on him or anything. God forbid. And while I felt guilty about withholding information from my friends, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell them. Like I’d be betraying him or something.

I smiled. “You’re going to force him to socialize?”

“We’ll make him host a potluck at his place,” said Cézanne.

“That would strike fear into the heart of any man.” I popped another garlic fry in my mouth. Because it was important to eat your vegetables.

“That’s a great idea,” enthused Claude from the next table. “I could make my chili.”

Maria frowned. “Claude. No. Your sourdough is the best I’ve ever tasted. Chili is just not your calling.”

“I’ve been working on it. Your mother’s helping me. She’s teaching me the family recipe.”

“For fuck’s sake, Mama,” muttered Maria, shaking her head.

Cézanne grinned. “I think it’s great that Claude and your mom are dating.”

“Whatever makes them happy,” said Maria with a pained sigh.

Her father passed away eight years ago from a heart attack. Claude had been asking her mother out to dinner repeatedly for the past few years. But up until recently, the answer was always, “Not yet. Ask me again next month.” Moving on from over thirty years of marriage had to be hard. Change in general wasn’t always easy to embrace.

Take the rock star. His wife, Grace, had been gone for two years before he took off his wedding ring. And then hid himself away in our town. The man made no sense. Not that I was going to think about him, because thinking about him was a waste of time. I couldn’t even have naked thoughts about him in private anymore. It was just too weird. They always say never meet your heroes in real life. And they are right.

Uncanny how a song by his deceased wife came on the jukebox just then. She purred and growled about what a bitch love could be. Such an amazing voice. And of course she’d been stunning. I pitied the person who tried to displace her in his heart.

“I’ll never forget the time I saw her in concert,” said Maria.

Cézanne pouted. “You’re damn lucky. I always wanted to see Grace perform, but I kept putting it off and now it’s too late.”

“She was wild. It was at a festival and The Dead Heart were playing too,” continued Maria. “They did a song together, and man . . . those two had chemistry like you wouldn’t believe.”

Heather banged her gavel. “The Matriarchy Monsters have won. Again.”

We jumped to our feet to celebrate, while our competitors booed. It was mostly good-natured. Mostly.

“Lucky you knew about the Whipple Tickle.” Maria tapped her bottle of beer against my cider before turning to Cézanne with a smile. “And you, with your unexpected yet delightful knowledge of sperm whales. Excellent work.”

“It was a team effort, as always,” said Cézanne.

“And they call it trivia.” I shrugged. “How do other people even sleep at night without knowing this random shit? Do they know what they’re missing?”

“The Matriarchy Monsters suck!” yelled someone by the bar.

I gave them my queenly wave. The one I learned from watching a royal wedding with Mom as a child. “Maria, it’s your turn to take home the winner’s growler. Enjoy it in good health. I’m out of here, ladies.”

“Me too,” said Maria. “I promised Danielle I’d be home at a decent hour.”

We exchanged hugs, then I headed out to my vehicle. My beloved old Chevy truck that I’d owned since high school. Puddles filled the parking lot and gray clouds hung low overhead. Given better weather, I could have walked home. Not that I tended to wander around after dark, because that made me nervous as heck. But the actual town of Wildwood was not that big. Just a grid consisting of Main Street, Church Street, and School Street. Crossed with River Street, Hill Street, and Oak Lane. Inventive street names were not our forte. But at least it made it hard to get lost.