Free When Venus Fell by Deborah Smith Page A

I said dryly. “It wasn’t such a good path for that turkey.”
    I’d never openly admit that Mom had dreamed of this day coming to pass and later Pop, in his desperation, had guaranteed it.
    New Inverness, the sign proclaimed. Unincorporated. Est. 1895. Population 25. Speed Limit 35.
    We had arrived at the meeting point of two equally obscure little state roads, one of which we’d been following through the middle of nowhere for the past hour. New Inverness was the landmark Gib had mentioned in his printed directions. It wasn’t even a town. It was barely a wide spot in the road.
    I stopped the car. There was no traffic in any direction, so I could simply let the car idle in the middle of the intersection. I studied a bevy of sun-faded road signs, most of them pockmarked with bullet holes. Hightower 10 miles. Attenborough 18 miles. Knoxville 102 miles. Watch Out for Falling Rocks. Steep Grades Ahead.
    “Now I know what Nowhere looks like,” I said.
    Ella craned her head. “It’s just the way Gib described it in his driving directions.”
    “Small.” But on one corner of the crossroads sat a large, handsome stone house among vegetable gardens, roses, andoutbuildings that sheltered tractors, trucks, a school bus, and an ambulance. The opposite corner was home to a hodgepodge of buildings. On closer inspection they made up one single low structure with additions of various concoctions. Numerous doors and windows led to God alone knew where, but the main entrance was a double-screen door set under a big porch across the front, where farm equipment, animal traps, and decrepit lawn chairs argued for space. A fat black Labrador waddled a few yards toward our car, then lay down in the road and wagged its tail.
    I snorted. “Must be the welcoming committee.” I drove in and parked on a cracked concrete lot. In front of the main building was a parade of aged and dented gas, diesel, and kerosene pumps under a high tin awning. A huge, hook-necked, enormously ugly black bird perched menacingly on the awning’s peak. “I think that’s something prehistoric.”
    “It must be a buzzard,” Ella said incredulously.
    “I wonder what kind of meal it’s hoping for in this parking lot. When we get out of the car, keep moving. And don’t mention your feather collection.”
    We crossed the lot, giving the buzzard wary glances. The building before us bore a collection of fading gasoline signs and logos for companies that had been defunct for years, a weathered carved sign that said Sophia’s Restaurant and Gift Shop, a rusting metal sign that proclaimed one end of the conglomerate Hoss’s General Store, and beneath that sign a smaller one, very official in metallic green and white, that listed all of the New Inverness community services, including the post office, which were located inside.
    We stepped into a general store with creaking wooden floors, clutter, video rentals, hardware, groceries, a potbellied stove, an espresso machine, and every curio known to mountain men. “Look at that stuffed turtle,” Ella whispered, gesturing toward a wall covered in the musty heads and carcasses of wildlife, including rabbits, foxes, possums, and a
hamster
.
    “I’m not sure he’s stuffed,” I whispered back. “I think he might just be scared to move. What kind of people stuff hamsters?”
    A stocky older man with thick white hair and a face like a bulldog poked his head up from behind the cash register of a long counter crammed with displays and dusty knickknacks. “I loved that hamster,” he said. “My youngest daughter named him after me.”
    We jumped. Grinning, he tucked reading glasses in the pocket of a Hawaiian shirt and got up from a recliner. His eyes narrowed into twinkling curiosity as he studied my mop of braids tied back with a fringed black scarf.
    “Hold the fort,” he said. “Where’d you get that yellow crown of fancy hair?” And in the same breath, “What can I do for you fine girls?”
    I touched