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Sugar Creek goes hard for holidays. Our reputation for Fourth of July bonfires, over the top winter festivals, and sugar-laden Valentine’s Days make Sugar Creek one of the top of the tourist destinations in Maine.
So, when I say that Halloween is a blow-out of epic proportions, I mean it. The bakery goes apple pie and pumpkin spice crazy. Store fronts are covered in cobwebs, skeletons, and massive spiders. Pumpkin arches span Main Street, and a weeklong fall festival up in the hills brings people from all over the state for apple and pear picking.
And all of it culminates in a bacchanalian costume party at the Wychwood Mansion on Halloween eve. The ball started out as polite cocktails and a silent auction, but it’s come a long way in the last 20 years.
Tossing aside the puritanical values the town was founded on, the Wychwood is the one night of the year Sugar Creek citizens cut loose. Last year, the sheriff issued over 50 warnings for lewd behavior, a town record. Of course, that was before someone caught Sheriff Connor and his wife, Willow, necking in the park, their Woody and Bo Peep costumes decidedly disheveled.
I pull into the parking lot and skip up the steps of the mansion. The house was once the home of the founding family, but the historical society converted it into a town museum a couple of decades ago.
I weave through the house, looking for Sutton. I can hear her muttering somewhere.
“Marco!” I call out. There’s a long pause before I hear her answering call from the back office.
“Polo!”
We call and repeat until I open a storeroom door to an explosion of black tulle and cinnamon brooms. I cough, holding my nose and crane my neck, trying to make out my friend in the disaster.
“Sutton? Are you alive in here? Or was someone experimenting with fall-themed biological weapons?”
She pops up, a witch’s hat sitting on top of her red curls.
“That’s a good look for you, but you’re missing the wart.”
“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” she says with a scowl.
“Play nice,” I warn. “If you want me to help, you have to laugh at my jokes.”
“I guess you’re worth it,” she sighs.
A second woman pops up from behind another box. Muriel, the museum’s mouthiest volunteer and one-woman rumor mill, tosses me a stuffed cat.
“Kenna! How are you, Sugar?”
“Oh, you know, hanging in there.”
“How’s Jonas doing?”
I shrug and inspect the cat in my hands. “Same as always.”
“So… fine as hell?” Muriel laughs, digging through another box. “The ass on that man could turn a nun’s panties into a slip ’n slide.”
I laugh and throw the cat back at her. She’s not wrong. It just sounds so wrong to hear my grandmother’s bingo buddy say things like that.
“Did you see him in that suit last week?” Muriel asks, fanning herself.
“You need to get your eyes checked,” I scoff, squinting at her. “Or lay off the booze. I’ve known that man since I was a toddler, and Jonas Flynn has never worn a suit in his life.”
“Watch your attitude, missy. The tits may have succumbed to gravity, but these peepers are still sharper than a hawk’s. I know what I saw. He was scootin’ out of town wearing a full-on suit. Tie and all.”
“A tie?” I laugh. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
We spend the evening digging through the boxes. Between the tangled string lights, mismatched vases, and odds and ends, there’s enough to put together a pretty spectacular party. It’s going to require a little effort and a lot of paint. It’s dark by the time I cram my projects into my trunk and say goodbye to Sutton.
My car yells at me as I’m driving down Main Street. It’s running on fumes and threatening to give up the ghost. I pull over at the little downtown station and fill up. An engine rumbles in the distance as the gas pump thunks off. I hop in the car just in time to see Jonas’ truck pass by. My brain just about breaks when I see that he is, in fact, wearing a suit.
“The fuck…?” I whisper as I start my car. I hesitate for a heartbeat, but curiosity takes over. Instead of turning right and heading for home, I go left and follow him all the way to the edge of town.
He heads south, and I trail behind him, keeping my distance until he hits the highway. Then I sneak a little closer. Too close. I’m right behind him when I catch a glimpse of his eyes in his rearview mirror.
Shit. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard I can almost hear it. Can he see me? Probably not, but I pull back, letting a couple cars get between us.
We head towards Portland. My heart rate is just leveling out when a semi-truck swerves into my lane at an on-ramp, and I have to slam on the brakes to avoid the asshole.
“Shit-shit-shit,” I mutter, scanning the road for Jonas’ truck, but I’m stuck behind an ancient Toyota pacing the semi for over a mile. When I finally get around them, Jonas’ blue truck is nowhere to be seen. Did he speed up? Exit? Vanish into thin air? Hell, if I know.