Page 14 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
“Mmm, yeah. I guess. They’re so far away, though. I always imagined our kids would grow up together. You know, in and out of each other’s houses, the way some cousins are more like siblings.” She falls silent.
I don’t know, actually. I don’t have any cousins. I have one much older brother. Our nine-year age gap is one of the myriad reasons we’re not close. I smother a snort. That’s the understatement of a lifetime. We’re estranged. I haven’t spoken to him in over a decade. As far as I know, neither has my mom. We never mention him. Emily doesn’t even know he exists. But this topic is guaranteed to ratchet up my anxiety, so I don’t go there.
Instead, I ask in a hopeful tone, “Our kids? Does this mean you’re ready?”
It’s no secret I want kids. Emily insists she does, too. Just not yet. But our fifth anniversary is coming up this summer, and I’ve wondered if the milestone might prompt her. To be honest, I’ve always suspected she’s waiting for Cassie’s killer to be caught before she brings a child into the world. Does a change of heart mean she’s given up on that? It’s times like this when I wish we could talk about the murder. But we’re too far down this path now.
“I don’t know,” she muses. “Maybe.”
I flash her a grin. Before I can say anything corny, she points at the road.
“After that big tree trunk up ahead, you’re supposed to make a very sharp left.”
I slow the car from a crawl to an even more deliberate pace. At this speed, we’re barely making forward progress up the incline. But Alex’s directions don’t overstate the sharpness of the turn. Even at a plodding ten miles per hour, I hold my breath as we curve close to the mountain’s edge. The GPS app gives up and falls silent.
“Jeez.” Em lets out a long, shaky breath.
I nod and remove my left hand from the steering wheel to wipe the sweat from my palm on the thigh of my jeans. Then I replace that hand and repeat the motion with my right.
“We should be almost there.”
She peers at the directions. “The good news is there are no more turns. We just follow this heart-stopping road straight uphill for another two miles.”
“Is there bad news?”
“Nope.” She beams at me. “I mean, not aside from the fact that your wife’s going to miss you like hell for the next week.”
“That cuts both ways, believe me. But finishing this book is important to you,” I remind her. What I think but don’t say is, And getting you out of town for a while is important to me.
Her smile widens. “And if I finish the book, we’ll definitely spend the night in Charlottesville to celebrate.”
I smile back at the lively note in her voice. This trip could be exactly what we both need.
Nine
Emily
* * *
The winding uphill climb ends at a wide gravel driveway. A rustic wooden sign staked into the grass welcomes us to “The Farm at the End of the World.” I raise my eyebrow at the name, but it’s apt.
The driveway continues for about the equivalent of a city block before it forks. To the left, it leads to a large white farmhouse with blue gabled roofs and a gracefully curved wraparound porch. A barn behind the house matches the structure. A dirty black pickup truck is parked beside the farmhouse. Tristan takes the right branch, which meanders downhill and ends at a tiny, adorable cottage-style cabin. It’s a squat box of stacked white stone covered with a faded red slate roof. A tall, skinny chimney protrudes from the roof. Flower boxes hang from the shuttered windows. The online photo gallery on the rental website could never capture the charm this place oozes.
“It looks like something out of a fairytale!” I exclaim, delighted.
Tristan parks the car and gives me an indulgent smile. “So long as it’s not a fairytale tower.”
My grin falters. Fairytales do have a way of transforming enchanting enclaves into dark dangers.
After a beat, I shake off the whisper of foreboding. “It’s perfect.”
I hurry out of the car and approach the little structure with a mixture of joy and disbelief. It’s too freaking cute. I almost expect it to dissolve right there in front of me, revealing that this whole thing has been an elaborate hoax, an illusion, or maybe a dream. If this setting doesn’t shake my story loose, I’m a broken writer.
Tristan joins me on the porch, my laptop bag slung over his chest and my weekend duffle bag in his right hand.
“I could’ve carried that,” I protest.
“Your toiletries and the groceries are still in the trunk,” he tells me.
