I could own my naivete in thinking all small towns were like the fictional Evergreen and Angel Falls. But the story I’d been contracted to write had been pitched as a Hallmark movie come to life. At this point, I’d have to use significant literary license or flat-out lie to make it work. I couldn’t…wouldn’t…do either. To add spoiled cream to my stale coffee, not a single person had expressed concern about The Hollows, which meant I was currently zero for two with both aspects of my story. What could I write about? A new condo complex going up in a not-so-special town equaled a whole lot of nothing.

Still scrolling my photos, my finger froze on a picture of the statue of Natalie Schull, the ballerina. According to Natalie’s Wikipedia page, she was born here in 1961 and joined the New York City Ballet at seventeen before making the leap to Broadway and winning a Tony for her role in a revival of Sweet Charity. After she retired from performing at the turn of the century, she moved across the pond to teach at the Royal Ballet School, where she still resided with her British choreographer husband. Connecting with her would be difficult given the geography, and even if I reached her parents, assuming they were still alive and hadn’t left Pleasant Hollow, then what?

Derek hadn’t commissioned me to write about a retired ballerina/Broadway star/dance instructor who fled Pleasant Hollow at the first opportunity. Especially since, unlike her Hallmark alter ego, she didn’t move back for a second chance at love with her high school sweetheart. There was nothing Hallmark about it. It was too depressing to expend more thought on, so I closed my laptop and placed it on the floor next to my bed. Then I slipped under the covers for a nap.

I jolted at the sound of my phone ringing—Derek. My scalp prickled with unease at the unexpected contact over a week before my deadline, but I had to answer. There was no way I could sleep wondering what he wanted. “Hi, Derek. How are you?” I pushed the sheet off my chest and yawned with my free hand covering my mouth.

“The movie about the mom-and-pop cookie factory in danger of being shut down by the corporate agent.”

It was the longest sentence he’d ever uttered to me.

“Seen it?” he asked.

“Of course!” I winced. Take it down a notch. “I mean, yes, I have.”

“We’re watching it now. Not exactly like your story. But close.”

I assumed by “we,” he meant himself and his wife, and I wished the reason for his call was as easily deciphered.

“Yes. It’s similar, but not identical,” I said, repeating his sentiment, just with different words.

“How’s small-town life? Spill it here.” He laughed.

“It’s going great,” I lied.