CHAPTER 1
HAZEL
On a night like this,I know I made the right decision coming here.
When I moved to Bliss three years ago, I didn’t give consideration to the multitude of local events or the quaint downtown with brightly colored awnings and ever-changing seasonal displays in the storefront windows. I didn’t think about getting to know the people who lived here. Or that it might come to feel like home.
I didn’t expect the town to live up to its aspirational name, and that was okay. At the time, bliss was the last thing I ever expected to feel.
Three years ago, I was looking for an escape. And in this small town nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont, that’s what I found.
Quiet. Solitude. A place where I could spend hours meandering along wooded trails, trying desperately to forget.
Did I?
No. Three years on, the memories are just as fresh. And the guilt still hangs heavy; a constant weight I fear I may never shed.
But.
Something I discovered about living in a small town is that it’s almost impossible to hide. Not when you’re one of only two thousand residents—well, two thousand and one, now that Emily and Hank Gentry’s new baby arrived—and no matter where you go, there’s someone who knows your name.
And after three years, I’ve found I like it. I enjoy knowing all the cashiers at the grocery store by name, and I don’t mind that they all know mine. And I like coming into town and inevitably running into at least three people I know, spending a few minutes chatting with each of them.
In hindsight, taking a job at the local microbrewery, Blissful Brews, probably wasn’t the best option if I wanted to fade into the background. But they were hiring, and the quirky photos posted on the website appealed to me. There was a huge mural on one wall of people lounging on clouds while sipping from mugs of beer topped with foamy heads. In one picture, the littleBlissful Retreatarea was featured—acozy corner of the bar set with squashy chairs and couches and shelves stocked with secondhand books and games.
As I sat in my Boston apartment, scrolling through the Blissful Brews photo gallery, I felt this strange sort of tug. Like there was a magnet drawing me to this little business that just happened to have one of the only job openings in town.
And I had experience, so that helped; two years of hostessing in high school and four years waiting tables through college. Though it had been nearly ten years, I found that it really was like riding a bike, as the gruff but kindly owner, Frank, assured me during my interview. Within a few days, everything came rushing back—how to balance a tray of drinks without dumping them all over, the shorthand I use when taking orders, and even the cheerful lilt of my voice when I’m greeting a customer.
Did I ever expect to be waiting tables again? No. Not even close.
But after three years, I’ve found I really enjoy it.
I like the buzz of activity; the chatter of happy voices superimposed over the clink of dishes in the kitchen and whatever music’s playing on the vintage jukebox.
I enjoy talking to the regulars, hearing about their days, celebrating their victories and consoling them when the opposite happens.
I like staying busy, and working at Blissful Brews does just that.
The therapist I used to see would tell me keeping busy is a crutch. A tool I rely on to avoid dealing with those nasty memories I can’t seem to forget. But really, is keeping busy that bad? Isn’t it better than sitting home alone, torturing myself with all the ways I could have changed the outcome of that night three years ago?
“Hazel, can you grab three cups of the cheddar ale soup?”
Frank’s repeated question cuts into my meandering thoughts, and I spin around to face him, feeling my cheeks flush guiltily at my lack of attention. “Sorry.” I grab a ladle and three disposable cups—made out of mushroom-based packaging,notstyrofoam, because something else I’ve discovered about living in Vermont is people really value the environment here—and scoop the steaming soup out of one of the crock pots sitting on the serving table.
As I hand the soup over to him, I repeat, “Sorry about that. I don’t know what happened. My mind just wandered off on a tangent for a second.”
Frank passes off the soup to a waiting family of three before turning to me. He pats my arm and gives me a kind smile. “It’s fine. My mind has been known to take a side trip down the Long Trail a time or two.”
I busy myself wiping down the serving table and restocking the napkins and recycled cardboardspoons. Once I’m done, I cast my gaze around the town park, noting that the throngs of people from earlier have diminished to scattered clusters. “Looks like things are slowing down finally.”
Frank follows my gaze. “Sure does. But that’s how Stew Fest always is. Slammed between five and seven, and then it tapers off as parents take their kids home to put them to bed.”
I eye the large glass jar filled with tickets at the end of the table. It’s stuffed nearly to overflowing, and I angle my chin at it as I say, “I think we sold even more this year than last.”
Frank nods. “The nice weather helped. Last year we had some rain, if I recall.”
“I think so,” I agree. It’s my third year helping with Stew Fest, an annual event organized by the town. All the local restaurants hand out sample-sized servings of stew and soup in exchange for tickets—three for five dollars—and all the proceeds go to charity. “I’m glad the rain held off. Although it’s getting a little cold.”
