Under the Wishing Tree (Oakwood Hollow #1)

1. Past

1

Past

Graham

I have no idea what compelled me to get on the wrong train that misty autumn morning. All I knew was that I had no control of my legs and could not force them to get onto the train I was supposed to take, the one that would take me to the airport and, I guess, the rest of my life.

When I turned and saw the red train pulling into the other side of the platform, I made a snap decision. I crossed the space and, as soon as the train hissed to a stop, hopped on.

It wasn’t until I was seated that the reality of what I’d done hit me. I stared at the ticket in my hand, my heart hammering in my chest, my body jerking as the train started to move once more.

I’m not running. I’m just taking a detour.

I forced myself to lean back and take deep breaths. I had plenty of time before I had to be in California. I could get off at the next train station, buy some coffee and maybe food, and then hop back onto the correct train. It would take one hour, two tops.

But it wasn’t until the train started heading into the mountains, winding through a vivid, rolling landscape of red, orange and yellow trees, that I realized I had no idea where it was headed.

I leaned back in my seat, shaking my head. I’d done some pretty impulsive things in my twenty-four years, but this might turn out to be the stupidest.

The train didn’t stop for over an hour, but eventually it slowed and came to a stop in front of the smallest train station I’d ever seen, just a small yellow rectangle of a building with a green roof and a scalloped-frame overhang. The windows were all leaded glass and framed in green, and there was a single wood and iron bench sitting against the wall. Jutting off the side of the building was an antique clock that looked as if it might have stopped working years ago and, hanging underneath, a black and white sign that read Oakwood Hollow.

I stepped off the train onto the narrow platform and realized I was the only soul there. No other passengers got off and a quick glance inside the building showed that nobody was inside either. It was like I’d stepped onto the set of an old-timey television show. I halfway expected a train conductor with a black hat, vest, and corncob pipe to come out.

I pulled out my phone to find my location on a map. No cell service.

Figures.

With a resigned sigh, I hitched my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and started off towards Oakwood Hollow.

The way to town was a two-lane road lined with trees in various shades of auburn. As I crested the hill, the view of the entire valley opened up in front of me. On this crisp, cloudy day, the town appeared shrouded by trees and fog and, from this distance, looked as if it had yet to wake. Behind it was an orchard that swept up almost to the foot of the mountains, the scent of the apples so strong in the air, I could almost taste them. A short distance from the town was an open field with a small lake, its waters still and undisturbed like glass. Beside it stood a massive oak tree, with a thick trunk and leaves that had turned colors with the season, the ground beneath it blanketed in yellow leaves.

I passed a wooden sign, its surface painted green with white raised lettering: Welcome to Oakwood Hollow. And underneath it read The Home of the Wishing Tree .

As I neared the town, I heard a vehicle approaching from behind. Looking over my shoulder, I moved off onto the grass, watching as an old blue pickup truck passed by, its bed filled with pumpkins and cornstalks. From the passenger window, a yellow lab stuck its head out and barked out a greeting.

With a bewildered laugh, I followed the truck into a residential street, where pastel-hued houses and sidewalks gradually emerged from the fog.

I walked by white picket fences, punctuated at intervals with tiny orange pumpkins, until I eventually found myself at the heart of the town. Small businesses lined the perimeter, brick row buildings with painted bottom halves. In the middle of it all was the town square, a grassy area dotted with trees surrounding a gleaming white gazebo.

The town was awake with activity, people coming in and out of stores, greeting each other as they passed. But the square was the busiest as people set up for what appeared to be a festival of some sort. I spotted the blue pickup truck parked at the curb, its owner bringing pumpkins over to the gazebo, with his dog trotting proudly ahead of him as if making way.

“Help you with something?”

I snapped out of my haze and faced a bearded man in cargo pants and a flannel shirt, his blonde hair crushed under a baseball cap. In his hands was a large wooden sign with raised lettering, announcing something called The Wishing Tree Festival.

“I was looking for a place to get some coffee,” I said.

He jerked his head over his shoulder. “Someday.”

His comment took me aback. “Today would be ideal.”

“Over there,” the man said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s called Someday . Green building to your left.”

“Ah,” I said with a chuckle. “Thanks.”

I walked over and found the green building with vinyl lettering on the window that said Someday Cafe . Out front were dozens of orange pumpkins, so many they were falling all over each other. And standing among them were two featureless mannequins, both wearing knitted sweaters with intricate patterns.

As soon as I stepped inside the cafe, I was instantly greeted with the warm, comforting scent of coffee. The place exuded a welcoming, homey ambiance, with mismatched chairs and tables, the walls painted a paler shade of the color outside and adorned with local art and photographs. And, just as out of place as the mannequins outside, in one corner of the room stood a rolling clothes rack with sweaters on wooden hangers.

The place was busy at this time of the morning, all the tables taken up by people drinking coffee or having breakfast. I took up a seat at the counter and tried to catch the attention of the dark-haired woman rushing around the room.

A moment later, she appeared before me. She set her hands on the counter and blew out a quick breath. “What can I get you?” she asked and fixed me with her dark brown eyes. She had a warm beige complexion with freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and full lips that were currently pulled into a firm line.

Damn, she was beautiful.

I leaned to the side and read the painted menu board behind her. “Black coffee and a number one.”

She wrote on her little pad. “Scrambled?”

“Over easy.”

“White toast okay?”

“Please.”

She gave a nod and turned around, setting the paper on the order window and tapping the little service bell. Then she whirled back, set a large brown mug in front of me, and filled it with coffee. “Pumpkin spice creamer?” she asked.

“Do I strike you as a pumpkin spice kind of guy?” I asked with a teasing smile.

“It’s what tourists usually ask for.”

“Black’s fine, thanks.” I lifted the mug to my lips, taking a deep breath of the freshly brewed scent before taking a sip. A sigh flowed out of me and, for the first time that day, the knots in my shoulders loosened. “That’s some damn good coffee.”

“Thanks,” she said simply and started off. “Your food will be out in a bit.”

I turned my head and watched her from the corner of my eye as she attended to the other customers. She wore jeans and a pale orange sweater tucked at the front, her feet in maroon lace-up boots. Her black hair was piled up on top of her head in a messy bun, with tendrils framing her face.

Of all the things I’d seen in this town, she was the most curious of all. It was almost like a trick of the light that she seemed more vibrant while the rest of the town receded in the background.

The little ring of the bell at the server window drew her attention and she moved back behind the counter. She placed the plate in front of me, along with utensils wrapped in a napkin. “Need anything else? Hot sauce?”

“I’m good, thanks.” I took a bite of eggs and almost groaned out loud as the flavors hit my tongue. You’d think this was my last meal, the way I was acting.

She tilted her head to the side, studying me. “First time having eggs?”

I laughed. “I’m just really hungry.”

“So, where are you from, Over Easy?”

I nearly choked on my food out. “I do not approve that nickname.” A brief smile took over her face then, dimples appearing in both cheeks, but it was gone the next moment. I couldn’t look away from her if I tried. “I came from Washington D.C., so maybe you can call me that.”

One dark eyebrow quirked up. “You came a long way.”

I frowned, looking around. “Where am I, exactly? My phone won’t work here and I can’t get coordinates.”

“Oakwood Hollow,” she said. “Where the coffee’s good and the townsfolk are… offbeat.”

I took a sip of coffee, casting a quick look out the window. “I’ve never heard of this place.”

“You’re approximately an hour and a half northwest from home.”

“Ah.” I wanted to tell her that D.C. was no longer my home, that I was essentially homeless for the next year or so, but something held me back. Maybe I just didn’t want to have to explain why I wasn’t on that train heading to the airport.

Her eyes drifted from my face down to my chest, fixing on something peeking out from under my jacket. “You’re military?”

“Yeah. Army,” I said, grabbing my dog tags and tucking them back under my collar.

She studied me quietly for a long, uncomfortable moment, I almost wondered if she was reading my thoughts.

“What’s your name?” I asked to fill the silence.

“Eden,” she replied, then added, “Mendoza.“

“I’m Graham. Moore.” I waited for her to offer another piece of information, but when she didn’t, I asked, “Are you Filipino?”

She gave a curt nod.

“Are there many Filipinos in Oakwood Hollow?”

“I’m the only one left.” She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “So you didn’t come here for the festival?”

“What festival? And what is this so-called Wishing Tree?”

She let out a long-suffering sigh and then, as if from a script, recited, “Welcome to Oakwood Hollow where, every year, we gather to celebrate the majestic oak tree that is said to grant the deepest wishes of those with the purest of hearts. Visitors and locals alike come together to enjoy lively games, taste delicious food, and partake in the local merrymaking. Whether you’re a first-time visitor or a longtime resident, The Wishing Tree Festival is an unforgettable experience—a time to embrace the magic of possibilities, make new connections, and maybe even see a wish or two come true.”

“You sound like a brochure,” I said, pointing my fork at her.

She reached for something behind her then slapped a literal brochure down on the counter.

I chuckled as I unfolded the paper, reading the spiel inside. “Wow, word for word.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to recite that over the years. Sometimes I hear it in my dreams.”

“You’re not a fan, I take it?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, the muscles in her jaw clenching. “Let’s see… tourists descend on the town with their entitled attitudes, parking where they’re not supposed to, leaving trash all over the place. All because everyone in this town is convinced that a tree can grant wishes.”

“Okay, hold on,” I said, setting down the fork. “A tree that grants wishes?”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not called the Wishing Tree for nothing.”

“But has it actually granted wishes?”

The elderly woman next to me, who had obviously been eavesdropping the whole time, leaned over. “Ollie Whittaker’s wish was granted when he was a teenager,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Eden shook her head, biting back a smile. “Graham, meet Mabel.”

Mabel shook my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for her age. She wore a long floral dress, a string of pearls, and bright yellow rubber foots on her feet. “Pleasure,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said.

“Don’t you dare call me ma’am,” she said, smacking my arm. “I’m a sprightly sixty-two. Nothing ma’am about me.”

I held up my palms with a chuckle. “My apologies.”

“But, like I said,” Mabel continued. “When Ollie was a teenager, his wish was granted. He went to the tree and asked for a car. That’s the trick: you have to wish it with an earnest heart. You have to really want it.”

Eden let out a soft snicker.

“And did he get his car?” I asked.

“Yes. His grand uncle died and left him his car. Granted, the old tin can was barely running, but with a little work, Ollie’s wish came true. And then he grew up and became a mechanic.”

I caught Eden’s eyes again and smiled. “Where can one find this tree?”

“Why, you want to make a wish?” Eden asked.

I held her gaze, my throat unexpectedly tight. “I do, actually.”

“I can show you,” Mabel said brightly. She kicked out a leg, barely missing my shin. “Me and my boots are ready.”

I cleared my throat. “I appreciate the offer, but I was hoping Eden here could take me.”

Surprise registered on Eden’s face. “My shift doesn’t end for another thirty minutes.”

I checked my watch. I’d been here almost forty-five minutes. What was another thirty? “I can wait,” I said with eyebrows raised in question.

“You really should show him the tree,” Mabel urged.

Eden blew a wisp of hair away from her face. “Fine.”