The bed and breakfast was less than a five minute walk to the stretch of road they call downtown. It’s just a couple of blocks once you cross under the big metal archway that says “Welcome to Downtown Smoky Heights.”
It shouldn’t be as endearing and welcoming as it is, with the variety of places I’ve seen, but somehow it’s getting its claws deeper in me the longer I look around.
Adorable one and two-story brick buildings line both sides of the street, most under construction, several with banners hanging that say “Now Open.” Wrought iron lampposts stand tall with colorful flower baskets hanging from them every so many feet along the walkways.
The sidewalks are also brick and look to have been there since the eighteen hundreds, if I had to guess. Not the sixteenhundreds of St. Augustine, or the seventeen hundreds of Baltimore, Boston, and the rest New England. I might not be a history buff, but I’ve seen enough of this country to get by on a pop quiz. When you’re on the run for eight years, you end up seeing a lot. But I haven’t been somewhere quite like this.
Planted on either side of Main Street are trees that cushion the sidewalk from the newly paved road. Different types of young trees appear to have been rehomed along the length of the street, and every third or fourth one is flowering a white delicate bud that almost reminds me of a cherry blossom. A grassy median separates the single lane of traffic designated for each direction, with more trees planted in the middle. Metal benches, merchandise displays, or bistro tables with chairs can be found outside of most open storefronts—those that aren’t under construction—inviting the townsfolk to stop and stay a while.
I moseyed by and took my time inspecting several of the storefronts earlier this morning, perusing the local offerings and being besieged with well-wishes from strangers.
A salon, a hardware store, and a pharmacy all seemed to be bustling, while many more locations had plywood in the windows or scaffolding outside the perimeter as they’re brought back to life.
Outside the hardware store at the edge of the downtown strip, a group of mostly middle-aged and older men sat on the benches, chatting. They stopped as I got close, all eyes falling on me. It should’ve made me uncomfortable, feeling like the center of attention, so much male gaze my way. But there was nothing creepy present, no weird vibes from any of them, something I’ve been highly attuned to for way too long now.
“Well, howdy there, miss,” called the oldest of the group. “Been expecting you downtown. Welcome to Smoky Heights!”
I startled, stopping still and facing the small congregation, all watching me.
“Me?”
“You’re the one who got stuck on the side of the road, aren’t you?” another older man spoke up, gesturing with his arm toward the main road off in the distance.
Nodding, I grabbed my arm with the other and shifted my stance. “That’s me. The unlucky one.”
The man who spoke up next was the youngest of them all, handsome, probably not much older than me, with a dark mustache, and a navy blue t-shirt with the initials SHVFPD on it in white, above a fireman’s cross. “Or maybe it was your lucky break to wind up on a detour here in the Heights.” He winked, but it wasn’t salacious, I think this guy is just the kind of optimist half of me could never live up to.
“You’re in good hands with the Gradys,” another man with a hook nose said from the far right of the bench.
“You trained him well, Gonzo,” the second one told him.
When it hit me that the man with the nose was called Gonzo, I choked on my air rather than let the laugh come out and seem rude.
“Not just Wyatt, Ernie,” the man called Gonzo replied. “The younger Grady is a good fellow too. And of course we all love Rory.” He gestured up the street, like she was there.
Murmurs of agreement sounded from the entire group, and a bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of my mouth at the closeness evident between the residents in the town. I thought last night was a fluke, but I might have stepped into a vortex when I got out to wave Weston down. It looks like I’ve ended up somewhere people know their neighbors, and choose to interact with them rather than stay in their own bubbles, watching TV alone, or on their phones.
I’m still not entirely convinced I didn’t walk into some version ofThe Truman Show.
“Are you boys giving this young lady a hard time?” A middle-aged Black woman asked, kind eyes crinkled in a knowing smile. She came up right beside me and crossed her arms, staring the men down.
“Ms. Snow,” the youngest one with the mustache said as he stood up taller.
“I’m not your teacher anymore, Charlie, you can call me Wanda.”
The man’s cheeks heated, and he looked down at the ground, scuffing a boot. “Yes, ma’am.”
She chuckled, turning to face me. “Do you need an excuse to get away from these old codgers and coots?”
“We were just welcoming her to town! And telling her the Grady boys will take care of her,” another of the older men defended.
“Mmm,” Wanda murmured. “Well, you welcomed her. Now it’s my turn.”
She linked her arm through mine and steered me up the street, away from the men, most of whom were protesting at our retreating forms.
When we were a storefront or two away, she unhooked our arms and spoke up again. “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want you to get stuck there all day. Ernie would’ve kept you there until the bar opened, and too much excitement isn’t good for Gonzo’s heart. Most of them, like Samuel and Charlie, are harmless, but I thought I’d do you the favor.”
A warm smile brushed my cheeks, and I didn’t bother hiding it from her. “People here are, um, friendly.”
