Outside the Brass Pony, a five-star restaurant where he’d nursed more than one whiskey at the bar, Tate Duncan stood beneath the canopy and watched the rain come down in sheets.
He’d picked a hell of a night to walk.
But, that’s the way the streets here were designed in Spright Wellness Community. With plenty of sidewalks and paths cutting through the woods, making a walk more convenient than a winding car ride to your destination. This was a wellness community, after all.
Tate and a dedicated team of contractors had developed the health and wellness community five years ago. Its location? Spright Island, an enviable utopia thirty-minutes by ferry from Seattle, Washington, and Tate’s twenty-fifth birthday gift from his adoptive parents. The island had been, and remained, a nature preserve and was the perfect spot to build a sustainable, peaceful, modern neighborhood that would attract curious city dwellers.
He’d imagined into existence the luxury wellness enclave, which had become a refuge of sorts for those who desired a strong sense of community, and wanted to be surrounded by lush greenery rather than concrete. As a result, Spright Wellness Community teemed with residents who glowed with wealth and stank of wellness. There was a big demand to live small and, even though it wasn’t all that small, SWC had that feel about it.
“Umbrella, Mr. Duncan?” The manager of the Brass Pony, Jared Tomalin, leaned out the door and offered a black umbrella by it’s U-shaped handle. His smile faded much as it had earlier when he’d attempted to make small talk and learned that “Mr. Duncan” wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight.
There had been a time, and it wasn’t that long ago, that Tate would have turned, given Jared a smile and accepted the offer, saying, “Thank you. I’ll bring it back by tomorrow.” Now, he gave the manager a withering glare and stalked off into the abysmal weather. A twenty-minute jaunt—soggy, chilling and wet—was a good metaphor for the downward spiral his life had taken recently.
Everything in Tate’s world had been on an upward track, steady and stable until...
Until.
He popped his collar and tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Chin down, eyes on the gathering puddles under his feet, he began to walk.
Surrounding neighborhoods were marked by a variety of shops; markets with fresh produce and organic goods, restaurants like the Pony with reputations that drew diners from the coast, plus plenty of service-based businesses like salons, art stores and yoga studios. With its high-end wellness fare, SWC was part luxury living, part hippie commune, but to Tate, simply home.
A rare flash of headlights caught his attention and he lifted his head. Summer’s Market stood on the opposite side of the street, the wooden shelves and brightly-colored stacks of produce visible from the windows. The safety lights spotlighted wheels of cheese and boxed crackers arranged near a selection of wine. It was hard to believe he’d once had nothing better to do than pop into Summer’s for a wine-tasting and cheese-pairing and have a chat with his neighbors.
Back when I knew who I was.
Tate
