I follow her across the wide expanse of snowy yard that stretches to a line of trees inside the surrounding wall.
Elsa darts back and drops the ball at my feet, then looks from me to it and back again. Another throw and off she goes. I stroll along the side of the house and look up at its beautiful, towering, gray stone wall. In other hands, this place could be imposing, but it’s warm and welcoming in Maggie’s.
Elsa gets half-a-dozen more throws to stretch her legs and tire her enough to be well-behaved.
“Okay.” I tell her as I pick up the ball again. “Last one. Then we’ll go inside, and you can see the nice lady again.”
While she chases, I round the rear corner of the house.
Wow.
A wide patio runs across the back, with steps down to a formal garden that resembles something from a magazine. If it looks this pretty now, in the dead of winter with nothing flowering, I can’t even imagine how spectacular it must be in full bloom.
Beyond that, the vast lawn sweeps away and slopes toward a lake.
A lake.
They have a lake in their backyard.
Is it a backyard? What do you call something this big? An estate, maybe?
The whole estate is bordered by trees that look like they’ve been here a hundred years. And on the other side of the lake, there’s enough of them to form a small wood.
At the far end of the patio, Owen and two other men huddle together with their backs to me as they examine an enormous and extremely fancy grill like they’re doctors assessing a patient. It must be a pretty special piece of equipment if they’ve ventured out to admire it in this extremely non-barbecue-y weather. The snow’s falling a little heavier now.
Elsa jabs her nose into my side. Apparently, I hadn’t noticed the ball at my feet.
“Time to go inside.” Her shoulders almost sink with disappointment when I pick it up.
But ever hopeful I might rethink my decision to end the game, she trots alongside me, staring at the ball in my hand, as we make our way alongside the wall of windows toward Owen.
I glance inside, where Maggie leans on the counter of a huge open-plan kitchen and dining area that runs the full width of the house. At the far end, there’s a fireplace and a sofa. Maggie seems like the sort of person who could create a cozy spot anywhere. She’s watching the guys at the barbecue, but as soon as she catches me out of the corner of her eye, she smiles, waves, and points at the French doors a little way along from where I’m standing. She straightens and beckons me in.
I try the handle, but it won’t budge. Pulling doesn’t work. Pushing doesn’t work.
Jiggle it. Nothing.
Tug it back and forth. Nothing. Just rattles the glass.
It’s as stuck as if it had been nailed shut.
Maggie sees my struggle, and I just about make out her muffled shout of, “It sticks a bit.”
She totters toward me as I make one more effort to get it to shift, and ram the door with my shoulder.
But as she’s almost within grasping distance of the handle, one of her heels slides along the tiles. If her dress weren’t long enough and slim enough to stop her, she’d be doing the splits right now.
Skidding like Bambi on ice, arms windmilling, she manages to right herself and lunges for the door at the exact moment it finally budges under the force of almost my entire body weight.
It flies open with me right behind it.
There’s nothing I can do to stop the momentum.
I don’t know if that screaming noise is coming out of my mouth or is only inside my head. But I do know with horrifying inevitability what’s about to happen. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion and being powerless to prevent it.
As Maggie lurches forward and grabs the handle to steady herself, the door, with me still firmly attached to it, slams into her face.
She flies backward and lands hard on her backside, her mouth open, eyes wide and glazed.
