As Seen on TV Page 3

  According to Google, it was a twelve-minute drive to Pleasant Hollow, and I spent the entire time gawking out the window like I’d never been outside of the city. This was dopey, considering I’d been born in a town with an even smaller population. And although my maternal grandparents no longer lived in Indiana, having retired to Boca Raton, Florida, their community wasn’t exactly urban.

  But there was something different about upstate New York. I could smell it in the air—the fragrance was minty like a forest in the winter. At first, there wasn’t much to see aside from other cars on the road, but once we passed the black-and-white sign welcoming us to Pleasant Hollow, homes and businesses lined the streets.

  As we zipped down Main Street, I fidgeted in my seat with my nose practically touching the smudged glass window. My skin tingled in anticipation of entering all the shops. I wasn’t sure what I’d need at Mel’s Hardware Store, but who couldn’t use a new wrench or pliers? And lactose intolerance wouldn’t stop me from indulging in a serving of dairy-free ice cream or sorbet at Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe.

  The driver pulled up to the curb in front of a big white colonial-style house. “Pleasant Hollow Bed and Breakfast,” he said, announcing our arrival. These were the first words he’d said to me, despite my attempt to engage him in conversation when I first stepped inside the car. Very un-small-town-like, but maybe he wasn’t a local.

  After I thanked him for the ride and added his 20 percent tip on the app (in case I forgot later in all of my excitement), I snapped a photo of the building’s exterior and wheeled my suitcase to the entrance.

  This was it.

  I opened the shiny black door to the B&B, stepped inside, and marveled at my surroundings. Beyond the small foyer was a common room with rhubarb-red walls and an Oriental rug partially covering a gleaming brown wood floor. Set in a circle around a cherry oak table were a dark-red velvet couch and matching recliner, a floral-printed armchair, and a wooden rocking chair. I took a moment to visualize guests drinking hot cocoa or wine by the fireplace in the evenings as the sun set. The open-space concept allowed me to see into a white-tile kitchen with matching cabinets and an island with four round stools set side by side.

  I turned in a circle and called out, “Hello? Anyone here?” Without a front desk to check in or another human in sight, it was the only way to make myself known.

  “Can I help you?”

  My head swung up toward a white-painted staircase, where a sixtysomething woman with bleached blond hair wearing a pink-and-purple argyle sweater and mom jeans (the nineties-era version) eyed me suspiciously.

  I waved awkwardly. “I have a reservation under Adina Gellar.”

  “Check-in isn’t until four.”

  I glanced at my phone. It was only 2:30. Temporarily ignoring the text from my mom asking if I’d arrived safely, I gave the woman my full attention. “My bus got in early, and I had the car take me straight here. I’m so excited to be in Pleasant Hollow.” I smiled. I’d forgive her gruff tone. I must have caught her off guard, but surely she’d warm up.

  Crickets. We stood in uncomfortable silence. I shifted my feet. “I guess I can explore. Can I…um…leave my stuff here?”

  She pursed her pink-painted lips. “Fine.” Following her one-word assent with a huff, she descended the stairs and pointed at a grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “Your bag will be safe there. What did you say your name was?”

  “Adina Gellar. I’m booked for a week, but I might need to extend my stay, assuming there’s availability.” Read: You will probably make more money off me than most of your other guests. Be nice! Not that the level of hospitality bestowed upon a guest should be measured by the length of their stay.

  She nodded curtly. “Your room will be ready at four. You can wait with your bags until then if you’d like.”

  “Thanks?” I cursed the question mark in my tone. I hadn’t expected the innkeeper to engulf me in a hug, dangle a fresh-out-of-the-oven sugar cookie in my face, and pry into my life story and relationship status—okay, maybe a little bit—but this was bizarre. While I was still contemplating the complete lack of cordiality, she marched back upstairs, leaving me alone. I muttered, “Why, thank you. I hope I enjoy my stay as well.” I raised and dropped my arms to my sides. “Let it go, Adina. She’s probably having a bad day.”

  “No. She’s pretty much always like this.”

  I jolted and took a step back, belatedly noticing another human being in the common room. Sitting at the far end was a guy around my age. A cute guy. A very cute guy who’d witnessed me talking to myself. Great.

  He stood. “Welcome to Pleasant Hollow.”

  Very cute indeed. His wavy, mid-length (for a guy) dark locks were brushed back in a casual windswept fashion, but I suspected they’d been worked with pomade to appear that way, and he had a short boxed beard. He was tall with a chest and shoulders I could tell were broad and capable, even through the black Henley he wore paired with well-fitted jeans. And he wasn’t wearing a ring. Maybe he was the token single guy in town—the son or nephew of Ms. Grouchy.

  “Thanks. I’m Adina.” In case he hadn’t heard me the first two times I said it.

  “Finn Adams. First time in Pleasant Hollow?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I joked.

  He grinned, exposing straight white teeth. “Business or pleasure?”

  “Business first, pleasure second,” I said, relieved at his interest in my visit. I’d need more people like him and fewer like the unfriendly Uber driver and innkeeper if I was going to get my story. “I’m starving. Any recommendations for where I can get something to eat around here while I wait for my room?” I didn’t plan to go full throttle on work until the morning, but if I happened to meet a chatty waiter, I’d run with it.

  “There aren’t too many choices, but your best bet is probably Pinkie’s Diner.” He pointed out a window covered with multicolored plaid drapes. “It’s two blocks down on your right.”

  My heart warmed at the name as I pictured a fifties-style diner like Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe from Riverdale. “It sounds amazing! I hope they have homemade cherry pie!” My feet left the ground in a slight hop.

  “Do you always get so excited about diners and…” He coughed. “Pie?”

  At the amusement reflected in his face, I felt like an ass. “Of course not. It’s just…” I shrugged. “I’m living the whole city-girl-in-a-small-town fantasy.”

  “What kind of fantasy are we talking?” He quirked a dark eyebrow in a sexy, panty-melting way.

  “Not that kind of fantasy. Obviously.” The Hallmark movies Kate and I watched wouldn’t even qualify for a PG rating with their closed-mouth kisses and separate rooms until marriage.

  “Obviously.” He smiled.

  A moment passed. My thighs clenched with R-rated desire. Check yourself. I cleared my throat. “Right. I’d better get going. Pie awaits.”

  “Well, I hope Pinkie’s lives up to your ‘not that kind of fantasy’ fantasy,” he teased, using air quotes.

  “I’m here on a story for an online pop-culture magazine,” I blurted. “Life in Pleasant Hollow is intriguing to me after living in Manhattan for more than twenty years.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “What are you writing a story about?”

  “The development plans for the new condominium complex in town.” I purposely left out the Hallmark movie angle. He was hot, and I’d already embarrassed myself enough. “Can I get a rain check on this conversation, actually? I’m hoping to interview some locals to get their thoughts.” A potential source wasn’t required to ooze sex appeal, but as the journalist, I wouldn’t complain.

  Finn’s lips formed an O. “Locals?”

  I nodded. “Very little has been shared about the town’s reaction to the new development.”

  He scrutinized me for a moment as if debating. Finally, he said, “I’d be happy to talk to you later.”

  I beamed at him. “Fantastic!”

  One side of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “Who do you work for, Adina?”

  “Myself.” I winked. “For now.” With a wave goodbye, I was on my way.

  Chapter Five

  My phone rang on the way to the diner—Kate. Wait until I told my best friend about my meet-cute in the lobby. She’d die.

  After I’d brought her up-to-date, she squealed. “Dead. I’m dead! This is so exciting. You’re totally channeling a Hallmark heroine!”

  I winced, turned the phone off speaker, and whispered “I’m sorry” to the passing pedestrian on Main Street.

  The middle-aged man glared, then continued walking. How rude. Was this Pleasant Hollow or New York City? I swallowed down the urge to shout, “I said I was sorry!” and focused on Kate. “If you mean ‘woman leaves big city for small town in search of career-making story and a permanent journalist gig,’ then yes.”

  I paused my walk to sit on a wooden bench in front of Miller’s General Store. I’d already gotten off on the wrong foot with one local by having a private conversation in public. Best not to risk doing it again, especially since the townspeople were critical to my story.

  “And falls in love with small-town man,” Kate added.

  I laughed. “Stop it. I’m not here to meet someone.” But Kate knew me too well. Friends for twenty years, we took our first no-adults subway ride together at eleven, sat through our mothers’ embarrassing co-sex-talk at twelve, and snuck into our first bar in tandem at sixteen. These and other joint milestones bonded us for life. She was the Lane to my Rory.

  “So does Finn look anything like Andrew Walker or Wes Brown?”

  “He’s hot, but no.” Finn favored neither of our two favorite Hallmark movie actors, but he was more than worthy leading-man material. “I’m pretty
sure Andrew and Wes are busy on a movie set in Canada or something.” Most Hallmark movies were filmed near Vancouver. “Anyway, you’re being silly.”

  “I’m jealous, but I can’t really complain. At least Diego doesn’t resemble the movie version of the workaholic boring city boyfriend.” She chuckled.

  “You mean the one with bad hair the heroine trades in for the hot, flannel-wearing, Christmas-loving dude? Not at all. Diego is a workaholic city boyfriend, but he’s not boring, he doesn’t have bad hair, and most importantly, you love him.” Kate had met her boyfriend a year earlier when they kept bumping into each other at the Starbucks by their offices in the morning before work. Coincidentally, their law firms were located in the same building in Midtown. It was a real-life meet-cute. Kate and Diego were the rare success story. When you heard the urban legend about “the friend of a friend” who actually met someone great in Manhattan, fell in love, and lived happily ever after—or at least for now—it was probably Kate.

  “All I’m saying is Pleasant Hollow would be the perfect place to meet the anti-Leo.”

  My stomach roiled at the mention of my most recent boyfriend—except he never really was. There’d been no forward momentum in the eleven months we were together. I was always passing along his excuses for not meeting my friends and family, convincing myself it was normal we’d never spent an entire weekend or holiday together.

  When I finally asked why he didn’t want to spend New Year’s Eve with his girlfriend, he ogled me like I was balmy before saying, “Girlfriend? I thought we were just hanging out.” And that was that—no more Leo.

  It was par for the course. Since my first date at fifteen, I’d been ghosted, benched, breadcrumbed, love-bombed, kitten-fished, and roached. I’d seen it all. One could place the blame on me—I sought out unavailable men—except the only thing they had in common was a residence within the five boroughs of New York City.

  “You might be right, but if we’re staying true to form, the one unattached straight guy in Pleasant Hollow will be a single father. I’m too young to be a stepmom,” I joked. I did want kids, but not for many years—first I’d need to move out of my mom’s house. My throat constricted at the reminder that a move might happen sooner than I’d planned if we couldn’t afford to pay the rent.

  “Not even a precocious little plot moppet whose birth mom died tragically?”

  I could tell she regretted her words by her sharp intake of breath. After a brief moment of silence to honor the early demise of my own father, I said, “It happens sometimes. My mom could have totally starred in a real-life-inspired second-chance romance if we’d stayed in Indiana. But she moved here and had one lousy boyfriend after another.” Everything she’d done had been for me—to give me a better life.

  “I bet you could find a man for Valerie in Pleasant Hollow too,” she whispered, as if testing the waters. “Maybe he’ll look like Gregory Harrison. He’s a hottie.”

  “He’s too old for my mother by two decades. Maybe Cameron Mathison.”

  Kate laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

  I told her about my less-than-warm welcome at the B&B.

  “Maybe she was unfriendly on purpose,” Kate said. “You know, like waitstaff at restaurants who are snarky as part of an act to entertain diners.”

  “I’d have preferred a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows, but anything is possible.” I stared off into the distance, hoping to spy a farmer’s market or craft fair. It was a Sunday afternoon. There had to be a community gathering of some sort, right?

  “Either way, who cares about the innkeeper? Focus on the hottie from the lobby.”

  I continued to insist that advancing my career was my only purpose for the trip, but we both knew I was full of it. It was only September, so my dream of lighting the Christmas tree wouldn’t come true, but maybe they’d have some sort of fall festival activities like apple picking or pumpkin carving. And maybe I’d meet a decent guy who wouldn’t stand me up. Perhaps Finn Adams, who hopefully didn’t have children yet. It was probably a silly fantasy, but this trip could change everything.

  I promised to keep Kate constantly posted, and we ended the call. As I walked the half a block to Pinkie’s, I daydreamed about my future encounters in Pleasant Hollow. Except when I pictured the townspeople, every male under the age of thirty-five was chiseled and fit but lacked a sexy edge (aside from Finn Adams, who was perfectly edgy), every man older than sixty resembled Santa Claus, and every young woman reminded me of an actress from a favorite childhood television program. Naturally, I blamed Kate’s insistence that I was about to live out a Hallmark romcom.

  Chapter Six

  From the outside, Pinkie’s Diner looked like any other stock restaurant in a suburban town. I had psyched myself up for a classic railcar exterior or at least a retro stainless-steel façade. But no.

  Not to be deterred, I snapped a few pictures and stepped inside. News of a stranger in a small town tended to spread like wildfire in books and movies. I expected that a customer no one had ever seen before would cause a stir. I figured the other diners would glance my way and wonder out loud who I was. Then they’d usher me inside. “Come in. Come in. Have a seat,” they would say, before collectively pouncing on me to quench their thirst for answers. Best-case scenario, I’d be greeted at the door and offered a slice of pie—a new recipe—on the house.

  None of this happened. The patrons of the half-filled diner sipped their Sprites and Diet Cokes and ate their sandwiches while conversing with their tablemates or typing on their phones, entirely unmoved by my presence.

  Unsure whether I should wait to be seated, I read the advertisements tacked to a corkboard on the wall. Maybe I’d get lucky and find something about a town meeting to discuss the development plans. A handyman had left his business card. Someone was selling his guitar. Another person was plugging piano lessons. A babysitter was searching for…bzzzz.

  I slapped the insect on my palm. “Get off!” Silence filled the room, and all eyes turned to me. Oh, now they noticed me. “Pesky mosquito! I came here to eat, not be eaten.” Recognizing the unintentional sexual innuendo, my chuckle got stuck in my throat. Not the first impression I was going for. “I didn’t mean…”

  All heads returned to their own plates before I finished my sentence. I shrugged. Chances were the double meaning had sailed right over the heads of these wholesome townspeople anyway. Deciding this was definitely a seat-yourself establishment, I made my way to the counter. It was more conducive to making friends than getting a table, which might suggest I wanted to be left alone or, worse, was stuck up.

  Disappointingly, the person behind the counter wasn’t dressed in fifties gear, nor did she resemble a cute, white-haired grandmother type like in the small-screen movies or a grumpy hottie à la Luke Danes on Gilmore Girls. Doreen—she wore a charm name necklace—was a nondescript white woman of indiscernible, not-old-but-not-young age with large brown eyes and dark brown, wavy hair that fell just above her shoulders. She handed me a menu and placed a glass of water in front of me. “What can I get for you?”

  “What do you recommend?” I sniffed the air, hoping for the aroma of something sweet baking in the oven, but got french fries instead.

  Doreen removed the pencil from behind her ear. “It depends on what you’re in the mood for. We serve breakfast all day, as well as burgers, grilled cheese, club sandwiches. The usual diner fare.”

  I leaned forward. “How’s your pie? Is it homemade?” There were pastries in a glass display on the counter, but they looked stale and unappetizing.

  Doreen pursed her lips. “Sorry. We don’t have a bakery on the premises. We order it from the Stop & Shop over in Newburgh. I think there might be a slice of cheesecake left if you’re interested.”

  My mouth opened and closed. No bakery on the premises? Pie from a chain grocery store? What kind of cozy town was this?

  “The burgers are pretty good. We have beef, turkey, and veggie. The onion rings are decent too.”

  “An order of onion rings would be great. And a coffee, please. Thanks.” I was still reeling from the “no bakery on premises” comment. Mentioning Pinkie’s “famous” homemade pie with an accompanying picture would have made for a cute detail for the story, but it wasn’t a big deal. I opened my notebook and wrote: Doreen: friendly local waitress, held pencil behind her ear and made dining suggestions.