The last rays of autumn sun peeked through the canopy of trees as Harley’s truck climbed the winding road to Muscadine Farms. On more than thirty acres of rolling farmland and surrounded by the Smoky Mountain foothills, Muscadine Farms was a famous, yet hidden, gem.
Featured in numerous travel and food magazines, the resort was a private refuge for affluent guests who spent more than a thousand dollars per night fishing, hiking, and hunting in the Smokies while enjoying the best wine and cuisine in the Southeast. But there was nothing pretentious about the place. The owners, Laura and Max Abner, were locals who had become a successful businesswoman and chef, respectively.
As the Chevy climbed the hill and entered the clearing, Harley spotted the resort’s signature red barn and its two adjoining white farmhouses, serving as a dining hall and inn, respectively. A cornucopia of pumpkins, gourds, and hay stalks lined the buildings’ perimeters and the paths connecting them with the inn.
The parking lot, usually open to the public, had been cordoned off with a makeshift fence, and behind the fence stood an enormous bald man in leather chaps and a matching vest, gold rings hanging from each of his pierced ears.
His gaze moved from Rosie, the giant cupcake, to Matilda, the giant pig, then to the toilet, which compared to modern toilets, was also a giant. Harley stopped her truck beside him and rolled down the window. Even more displeased with her looks, it seemed, he crossed his arms at the chest and gave a smug look.
“What?” he said.
“Hello, sir. I’m here to see Mr. Arson.”
“No fangirls allowed.”
She held up the bottle of single barrel whiskey for him to see.
“Oh no, not this again. Listen, Olive Oyl. Girls have tried to bribe me with a whole lot more than that to see Beau. I’ve been tested more than Jesus in the desert.”
Harley tried again. “He came by my shop this morning and asked me to deliver it to him.” She showed him the note Beau had left and the one-hundred-dollar bills.
As the man stared at the note and money in disbelief, she added, “Look, I really have no interest in seeing him. I just want to drop this off. If you could just make sure he gets it, I’ll be on my way.”
He considered this for a moment, leering at her with skepticism, then grabbed his walkie-talkie. “Yeah, I’ve got some teenager out here, says Beau asked her to deliver a bottle of whiskey to him.”
He stopped speaking and examined Harley. “What do you mean what does she look like? Um, well, let’s see. She’s got these big Sally Jessy Raphael glasses from the ’90s, dark brown Pippi Longstocking braids, and a camouflage hat. Looks like she could’ve been on Heehaw. Yeah. But not one of the hot ones in the short dresses that hung out in the cornfield. No, more like, ‘I caught me a possum in the woods yonder, and after I skin it, I’m gonna fry it up for my supper.’”
There was laughter, then undecipherable talking on the other end of the line. “Yeah. … Yeah. … Okay.”
He rested the walkie-talkie at his side. “You’re expected inside.”
She tried to hand the whiskey bottle to him, hoping he would just take it and she could be on her way.
“Nope. I have orders that you’re to deliver it personally.”
“Okay.”
“But I ain’t parkin’ this freak show on wheels.” He eyed the antique toilet in the truck bed and made a face. “Love the porta-potty. Dang, how old’s that thing? At least the 1800s, I bet.”
When Harley did not respond, he said, “Well, I don’t care if Abe Lincoln dropped a deuce in that toilet, I still ain’t parkin’ this rattle trap.” Examining Matilda in the truck bed, he added, “And is that a pig you’ve got back there? Dang, that thing’s huge.”
At last, acknowledging he wouldn’t win this game with Harley Henrickson, he motioned behind him to the barn. “You’re a strange duck, aren’t you?” he said. “Okay. Park it back there behind the building where nobody can see it. And when you get inside, I don’t want you botherin’ Beau, you hear? Trust me, you ain’t his type.” Then, under his breath, he added, “I ain’t sure whose type you would be. Jeremiah Johnson’s?”
He chuckled to himself, then pulled back the fence and motioned for Harley to drive past. As she moved to do so, he placed his hand on the door. “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”
Harley kept her eyes fixed ahead and put her foot on the gas, forcing him to lift his hand.
In the rearview mirror, she could see him watching her progression toward the barn, a perplexed look on his face.
“My name’s Boonie,” he called after the truck. “Boonie Davenport.”