[IC] Pines Holler [Not Accepting] (Page 4)

Location: Dallas & Mollie’s House → Funnel Cake Stand
Mentions: Dallas, Clive, Valentino

When Dallas told Mollie about her upcoming plans, the older King cousin couldn’t help but feel delighted for her own selfish reasons. Sure: she was genuinely happy that her younger cousin had a date. After the nightmare that was her relationship with Valentino, it was nice to see her moving on with her life. It also helped matters that Mol knew Clive Evermore was a good man, and that so far he’d proven to be nothing short of a gentleman when it came to Dal. But the reality was that Dal's absence provided Mollie with something she had been wanting for a few weeks now: the house all to herself.

When Kent had died, the house had felt like a void. The silence was deafening, and her husband’s absence from the places he had once occupied were a cruel reminder of the empty spaces he had left on the hearts of those who cared about him. Dallas moving in had been a godsend– a reminder that although things were looking bleak, she wasn’t ever truly as alone as she felt at times. But as grateful as she was for Dal’s constant presence in her home, Mollie still enjoyed the occasional time alone. A long bubble bath, an assortment of fair foods to pig out, a night spent in the cold AC with her favorite movies playing until she fell asleep… It sounded like the perfect plan for a night like this.

The Fourth Of July Fair was an event long beloved by the Pines Holler community for as long as Mol could remember. She and Kent had attended a few times, but it was never really their thing; they instead took the opportunity to hog one of the pool tables at Huskers while everyone else was at the fair. This year, the forecast was predicting unbearable heat: something Mollie had never been fond of even during her time in Vegas, and a perfect excuse to stay indoors. But if she wanted to indulge in those delectable fair foods that made her mouth water at the mere thought, the blonde would have to brave the heat.

Long after Dallas had left, Mollie had finally mustered up the will to abandon her cool oasis and make it to the stands at the fair. While a lot of the town had taken this opportunity to dress up (as much as one could living in a small town, anyway), Mol hadn’t bothered with it. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she wore nothing but black biker shorts, sandals and an oversized band tee. The large recyclable bag swung over her shoulder contained a few of her favorite foods already, and she contentedly sipped on a fresh, homemade large strawberry lemonade while she waited for her favorite food of all: a funnel cake. Once she'd collected the delicious treat, she would hurry back home to enjoy her food in the comfort of her home.

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  the wind plays a tune
through the pine trees

a high whistle that scratches
my throat dry

sap on my lips
syrup on my tongue

my burden are the snow tops
and i lay down

a hunched mountain
above the gaze

of your bedrock stare

Location: Home - Fairgrounds
Interactions: N/A
Mentions: His Daughter

______________________________________________________________________________________

Words, Silvester understood, did very little to soak up silence dipped in familial tension. The kind backed up by years of omission and good intention.

"Usually it's the parent revealing the evidence of misdeed to their child," Silvester said, scrubbing his hand over his face as he leaned back into the dining room chair, "Not the other way around."

"Fuck off—"

"Mija—"

"Don't make light of this, papa," Anya gripped the paper in her hand for just a moment.

"Anya, you shouldn't be worrying over this. I'm your father; I have this under control."

"You don't even have medical insurance anymore! You're behind on your loan payments!" She stabbed her finger into the warning on the paper, "I still live here. Why won't you let me help you?"

Silvester pushed himself to stand, squeezing his eyes shut, "We're going to talk about why you even know any of that eventually. But, I'm not going to trap you here and I'm not taking money that you earned and wasting it on a failing business."

"Why don't you just sell the place and leave this fucking hell hole, then?"

"And put abuela in a home? Plus, I can't just sell the store. It wouldn't even... I wouldn't even make enough to pay off the loans I put out for it."

"Then let me help you, papa," Anya stood to follow her father, the shadows of the dimming stove light twisting the expression on her face. Silvester glanced at her for but a moment before letting his eyes fall as he leaned himself against the kitchen countertop.

"You can help me by saving up enough money with me to get you into a decent school, Anya." he lowered his voice to a whisper, reaching out to grasp her hands, "I'd rather you worry about your own future. Mine is set in stone and I don't see any point in changing that."

For a moment, Anya bowed her head, eyes dipping below Silvester's gaze. He could feel her squeeze and rub the palm of his hand and in the shadows Silvester could see her chew at her bottom lip. "You could sell out to the suits trying to buy this town out y'know. I saw the offer in the trash the other day."

The thought passed Silvester's mind a good few times a day these past few months. The last three days without power made all of it more recurring—an incessant buzz in his head. When he'd received the latest letter, his mother gave him a look. One torn between sorrow and desperation, but she hadn't spoken a word. This was his business now and he'd deal with whatever suffering came of it. Or boon, should he take whatever money they threw to swindle him out of what he could only really consider a family heirloom now over a family business.

Silvester shook his head, voice thick and wavering, "I can't, sweetheart."

Anya looked up, "Why can't you?"

"I don't... I can't get into it right now, Anya. I have to get to bed," he let go of her hands to turn toward the hallway, "You're still helping me tomorrow morning? I need to get all of the food and ingredients to the fairgrounds tomorrow before any of the festivities start."

There sat a silence that kickstarted the thrumming behind his ribs as Silvester looked back at Anya leaning against the kitchen countertop. She popped open a can of beer left to warm beside the stove and he watched her take a long draft before setting the can down and nodding her head. "Yeah, yeah of course."

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Many folks would look at Silvester and think, Oh, he probably thrives in the summer heat and Silvester would probably laugh any comment off. He tanned better than most folks and the heat didn't look to bother him as much, but Silvester had always, always been more of a fan of winter and the end of fall especially. Something about November settled his bones. Like it felt an in between in the dipping excitement of October and the rising chaos of December's great family holidays.

The summer heat, especially the humidity in Appalachia, had Silvester in perpetual discomfort, exacerbated by the whole seventy-two hours of no AC he had to top it off by buying out a stall in the middle of the fairgrounds in order to cook hot food beneath a squeaky, barely hanging onto life fan for who knows how long. At least he had the people to look forward to, not that he often looked forward to making himself uncomfortable in social situations, but the awkward exchanges helped keep his mind off the grill radiating heat onto one side of his face the entire day and evening.

"Mm, fuck why don't you make this all the time?" Anya groaned, chewing down on the rest of the half of elote she'd just taken from her father's hand.

"Probably because all that crema isn't too healthy for you."

"At least it's not butter," Anya retorted before raising her hand and jogging away, "I'll be home late tonight! Don't forget there's Bengay in the medicine cabinet for your inevitable back problems, papa!"

Silvester rolled his eyes, turning back to manage the food on the grill and hot plates, "I'm glad the whole world knows I have back issues now. Maybe mention my knees too, huh?"

Every year he'd buy out a stall just like this and every year he'd cook the whole town some good old-fashioned Mexican street food. With every item sold, from elote to fruit cups to his mother's agua frescas, he'd give out his business card and a coupon for any small item or purchases totaling 20 or 50 dollars or more. Without fail he'd see maybe one more customer, usually an out of towner, and that was it. On a good holiday, he'd maybe see five the next day or days later when they were passing through, but nothing regular. No return customers a month from then maybe looking for a refurbished couch or a nice antique lamp.

Yet Silvester toiled still. He came out to these fairs, he'd set up a booth, maybe sell some of his antiques or make food for tourists and visitors and he'd hope. Maybe hoping was foolish, but Silvester realized that maybe he’d always been content with living life as a fool. Kind of sad to think about, staring into the charcoal burn of a grill on a too hot July day. In his age, it’s far too late to complain.

[IC] Pines Holler [Not Accepting] Page 4

Moon Child

Pumpkin Jackdaw a knock at the door; a 3 A.M. visitor