Page 50 of Welcome to Murder Week

“You look skeptical. Everything okay?”

“Nope, all good.” That’s a lie. I’m wary of the matchbox car and disconcerted by the extremely good dream I had about Dev last night. I remember only that we were naked and wrapped in a dark green velour blanket. It was so embarrassingly lovey-dovey, it almost made me want to cancel our hike, but when I floated the idea at breakfast, Wyatt wouldn’t hear of it.

“He’s smoking hot and obviously likes you,” Wyatt had said. “Go forth and frolic.”

I can frolic. No biggie, I tell myself. Chill out. I’ll have a lovely day with Dev walking theJane Eyretrail, climbing up to Stanage Edge, and seeing actual moors, which I’ve only read about in books. I hope they’re wind-swept and boggy and depressing in a kind of mesmerizing way.

Once we’re out of the village, Dev turns onto a two-lane highwayand speeds up, going too fast for someone driving on the wrong side of the road. I crack the window for fresh air and pray I don’t get carsick. When we come to a fork in the road, Dev bears right, toward Hathersage.

“Tell me something about Stanage Edge,” I say. “Is it famous for anything other than being beautiful?”

“Robin Hood hid from the Sheriff of Nottingham there, in a place called Robin Hood’s Cave.”

“Funny coincidence, Robin Hood finding a cave named after himself.”

“Isn’t it though?”

I love the way Dev smiles at me.

“There’s a churchyard in Hathersage with an unusually long grave that’s said to contain the remains of Robin Hood’s gargantuan henchman, Little John.”

“He was real?”

“Probably not. But do you want to visit his grave anyway?”

I can’t wait to tell Amity about this.

Hathersage has many of the obligatory features of a charming English village: an old stone church with a tall steeple, an inn that looks like it probably has mutton on the menu, adorable shops, and inviting pubs. There are also three large outdoor stores, which Dev tells me cater to the hikers, rock climbers, and hang gliders drawn to Stanage Edge.

“It’s got a thousand different climbing routes,” he says.

We park outside of a tearoom and walk down to a narrow lane that brings us to a stile. We pass through and follow the footpath across a meadow. Sheep watch us with their dull eyes as we climb the gentle slope. I pick a golden buttercup and hold it under my chin as we walk, remembering how my mother used to do that to me. She said if my chin glowed yellow, which it always did, it meantthat I loved butter. It was true, I adored butter. How did the flower know? My mother said it was magic, and I believed her. I drop the buttercup.

The path flattens out and Dev says, “This may seem bizarre, but you wouldn’t want to run a little, would you?”

It’s an odd request, but I’m wearing sneakers and running might be just what I need to dispel some of my nervous energy.

“Actually, I would.”

I start at a quick pace, which I think surprises Dev, because it takes him a few seconds to catch up. As the path climbs, we both go faster, hopping over stones and tree roots. I haven’t run in a while, and it feels good to move like this, to get my heart working. Dev passes me, letting out a little whoop when he jumps over a log in the path, which makes me laugh. Moving like this, not for exercise but just for fun, makes me feel free.

“Race you to that tree,” I say, and speed up.

My thighs are burning as I pull even with Dev. The path is too narrow for both of us. Dev takes the lead again, and I strain to catch up. I get close, and I imagine grabbing his torso and tackling him, rolling down the hill together. But he pulls away and is several lengths ahead of me. I push hard, but my legs lag with heaviness and I’m gasping for air. Dev reaches the tree first. He bends over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. When I reach him, I collapse onto the grass on the side of the path.

“That was glorious, until it wasn’t,” I say.

“Agreed.”

“I’m not ready to get up,” I say.

“I’ll join you, then.”

We’re both on our backs on the grass, looking up at the enormous oak tree.

“I didn’t expect you’d want to run, let alone race,” he says.

“I’m feeling exceptionally free. I am off duty. And this”—I lift an arm up, toward the oak tree and its branches stretching out, the leaves and the blue beyond—“this is an excellent place to be on vacation. Do you know I haven’t had a real vacation in more than four years? The last one was with my grandmother. We drove to Maine for a week. We swam every day in frigid water, picked blueberries, and ate an obscene amount of chowder and clam strips.”

---