After Lila Mae and Frank say goodbye, heading back to Charleston, we put on a movie for Heathcliff and return to the screened porch. I settle back on one of the painted white wicker cushioned sofas; Henry sits beside me. Bonnie lies in a deep sleep at our feet, wiped after chasing Heathcliff all evening. The sky sprawls pink beyond the backyard’s pine trees.Autumn coolness is already starting in the Midwest, but summer’s warmth continues, stubborn and thick, here in the South. I’ve lived here for almost twenty years, and I always welcome this late-summer heat like a warm blanket.
“Are you ready to go back to all the work drama?” Henry asks.
“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You probably think I’m crazy for staying at Willoughby.”
“Maybe a little. Why not just write?”
I think of Kayla, all the bright students in and out of my office every day. I think of Patrick and how we’ve become such good friends over the years. I think of how happy I am when I teach literature. It all outweighs the Brad McGregors and Bill Rhodes and budget cuts.
“I just really love teaching.”
Evening cicadas hum beyond the screens. Bonnie stretches with a giant yawn.
I lean into him, his shoulder warm against my cheek.
“Henry, why do you think people act the way they do? My colleagues? Mirabel keeping a secret all those years?”
He sighs, stretches his arm out behind me, and strokes my hair.
“I don’t need to tell you, Lizzie, that people just aren’t rational. My clients dig themselves into the biggest shitholes out of greed, fear, and shame. And it’s the most put-together ones who live in upscale properties with pretentious names likeThe Azalea Dreamwho are the darn nuttiest. But that’s just my two cents.”
“You may be onto something. I think I’ve learned a thing or two about that in my field as well. As you’ve pointed out, no one acts sane in the books I teach.”
He grins. “Speaking of books, are you going to watchBlood Oathwhen it comes out?”
I groan. “Please don’t tell me you’re into the series.”
“I’ve already preorderedBlood Offspring—you know, where supposedly he falls for a widow and finds out he has the kid from his brief time with Penny.”
“Ha. Wait. No, really. Have you?”
“I sure have. This Hemmings guy came to your house drunk, ready to beg for you back. The guy’ll base a character off you.”
“Funny. He did say he’ll have a widow character in his next book and Inspector Hall would be snogging her by the third chapter.”
“Well, there you go.”
I laugh. “I’m a bit worried about what that would look like—peculiar youngish widow who carries her husband’s ashes in a bird urn. He’ll probably make me a serial killer.”
33
That weekend, Chloe’s wife, Abby, has a regional pottery conference in Greenville, and Chloe invites me to go hiking with her in nearby Jones Gap State Park. Henry keeps Heathcliff for the day, promising him a fun, jam-packed schedule, including IHOP pancakes and the zoo. With the day to myself, I take my time driving north. I sip a large iced coffee as I meander along winding back highways, admiring the hillier terrain and the mountains rising in the distance.
Philip and I used to love this area.
With Asher strapped to her chest in a baby carrier, Chloe and I follow a rocky trail past several waterfalls. Sunlight breaks through the treetops, falling in rainbow streaks across the rushing Saluda River. We’re on the cusp of autumn, only weeks away from when the surrounding hemlocks, sweet gums, and maples burst out in warm foliage. When that time comes, hopefully I’ll be back up here with Henry and Heathcliff. We’llpick apples and buy heirloom pumpkins and cider from roadside stands.
As we hike, I tell Chloe every detail about London: about taking the gummy before the Jack the Ripper tour and attending a séance where Philip was a no-show. I tell her about what happened with August, how it hurt and confused me, and how I took the side trip to Haworth to sort it all out. It all spills out—not just what happened, but the layers of fear driving my journey.
“I tried to walk the labyrinth, to follow the path without agenda. I thought it would be more pleasant, like walking around in your garden labyrinth on the church grounds. But it was dark and awful at times. More like a maze.”
She looks sideways at me as she helps me over a log, her expression full of sympathy.
“I was terrified I’d forget I loved Philip.”
“I should have warned you that the path isn’t always peaceful.”
After about another mile, Asher starts crying, so we stop for a snack break on a shady rocky ledge. While I unpeel my banana, Chloe takes Asher out of the carrier to feed him a bottle.
