“A swimming hole? Explain please,” I said, not understanding. Sure, I’d watched old TV shows where people were swimming in, well, swimming holes, but that couldn’t be what she actually meant. Wait, right?
“A swimming hole. You’ve never gone to a swimming hole?”
“I once went swimming at a YMCA in the Bronx, does that count?” I asked.
“Oh honey, you’re so pretty,” she said, shaking her head at me.
“I know,” I answered promptly. “Continue.”
“Well, it’s like a pond but it’s spring-fed, and it’s always moving, not stagnant.”
“Can you see the bottom?”
“Mostly.”
“It’s not squishy and muddy?”
“A little bit, but it’s mostly just rocky.”
“That’d freak me out. Who knows what the hell might be lurking in there.” I shuddered.
“You swim in the ocean,” she said.
“Sure, but it’s the ocean. It’s not a hole in the ground.”
“You come back next summer, and I’ll take you to a swimming hole.”
“I feel like I should say thank you.”
She gave me the side-eye. “You’re the one that wanted to come up here and learn all about Bailey Falls.”
I nodded my head. “Sorry, was my Manhattan showing?”
“No, but your city snob attitude was.” She pretended to glare at me.
“Oh good, I was afraid I was losing my edge,” I replied, then dodged her smack.
“I’ll smack you properly when we get out of the car. But now, while we drive down Main Street, it’ll cause too much gossip.”
“Main Street?”
“Here we are.” She grinned and turned down a new street, heading right into town.
It truly was like a picture out of a magazine—one printed in 1935. It was darling.
The light was beginning to march west, but it was still golden. Main Street was lined with tall and full maple trees, flashing crimson and poppy. A breeze ruffled through, sending a few leaves to the ground, where they joined thousands of their cousins. Scuttling through the thousands of leaves were children, many children, all in a line holding hands with a few teachers herding at the front and back, all of them laughing and kicking through the crunch. More of that country air blew through, sending a few leaves into the street, where we rolled through them pleasantly.
Lining the sides of Main Street, in between the leaves and the adorable kids, were rows of shops. In front of most, shopkeepers had mounded pumpkins, funky little gourds, hay bales, stalks of corn, and one rakish-looking scarecrow with a straw hat to guard them all. People walked along the street, darting in and out of shops with bundles and bags full of what they needed to have this beautiful fall day. And above it all, an impossibly blue sky soared. Not at all hazy or smudged, just gorgeous blue for miles and miles, dotted with white puffy clouds.
“Oh my,” I breathed out, practically hanging out of the window like an old hound dog. Snap snap snap went my camera, capturing everything I could for later inspiration.
While I would go to my grave saying there is nothing prettier than a fall sunset in New York City, Bailey Falls might be a close second.
And right smack-dab in the middle of Main Street was Callahan’s. The diner had been in Roxie’s family for years, and was the reason she’d moved back home. Running the diner for the summer while her mother competed on The Amazing Race had been the last thing she wanted to do, but it ended up being the very best thing she could have done. Now she had a burgeoning business, a hot guy, and this darling town in her life every single day.
I admired the large picture window, the tidy brick steps, the green-and-white-striped awning. It looked old but well-kept, with exactly the kind of nostalgia that weekenders ate up in droves. A peek of the good old life, the way things used to be—a life that was likely not nearly as interesting while actually in it, but that in hindsight was just peachy perfect. This diner had that in spades. And I hadn’t even made it inside yet.
“You’re meeting Chad for breakfast tomorrow morning, right?”
“Nine o’clock, bright and early,” I answered.
“Perfect. I’ve got to come into town for supplies, so I’ll drop you off.” She turned off the main street and into the town square. “Thought I’d give you the driving tour before we head back to my place.”
“Oh I’d love it!” I exclaimed as she turned onto the first corner. Drugstore, candy shop, one-screen movie theater, even the Laundromat was cute. Turning the corner, we drove by a few antique shops, a butcher, and oh, there we go, the cheese shop. Another corner, and even more adorableness. Kids’ clothing store, a coffee shop (no competition for the diner, thank you very much), a gourmet food shop next door to a good old-fashioned dive bar. And on the last street we turned onto, what looked to be city hall.
Four streets, four corners, with a sweet little park in the center with a duck pond, a summery-looking gazebo, and some early Halloween ghosts flying through the fall oak trees. And here and there, on the edge of town, a peek of the Hudson.
“Honestly, could this town be any cuter?” I marveled, already beginning to frame out shots for the photo shoot I’d be doing to capture the essence of this charming village.
I could see instantly the magazine ads, the copy I’d write, the perfection of making this place a must-see for weekend tourists. I’d bring New Yorkers here in droves.
“You think it’s cute now, but wait until wintertime.”
“Oh, God, I bet it’s darling at Christmas!”
“Sure, sure. And when there’s snowdrifts packed higher than my head and it’s below zero for days on end, then it’s positively idyllic.”
Though her tone was teasing, she was clearly enamored with her hometown in a way I hadn’t seen her in years.
“I’m glad you moved home. It’s nice having you back east,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “I need to get you away from all this Norman Rockwell shit, its making you schmaltzy,” she said.
“Okay, so take me back to your farmhouse and cook me some of your allegedly fantastic food.”
“Driving tour over,” she announced, and we left the town square behind.
“I’ll see the rest of the town tomorrow; I’ll get Chad to show me around,” I teased.