By the time I close the freezer lid I’m damp under my armpits. I stand in front of it, panting, and wonder if I should say something to mark the moment, though I’m not sure what, when the engine sound stops abruptly. Someone has killed the engine somewhere very close to my unit. My heart sinks. Perhaps I am cursed today. But I’m not going to get caught. Not now.
Please don’t make me have to kill again. Because it will break me.
Emily walks a distance behind Jayne, slow and reluctant because her strong instinct is that they should have tried to follow the track back down toward the farmhouse, however long it took, however tough the going was, because there was definitely some cell reception there, but Jayne refused, arguing that it was too far to go, that their best bet by far was to head uphill where they’re bound to find reception more quickly.
Jayne’s brisk authority was hard to contradict.
The path is steep, the terrain underfoot uneven, muddy, and littered with half-buried stones that bruise Emily’s soles if she doesn’t tread carefully. Rain spatters her phone’s screen whenever she checks it, which is often.
She’s afraid to step off the path. The turf beside it looks spongy. If she puts a foot wrong, she might get stuck.
I’m doing this for Paul, she repeats in her head as a mantra. Doing it to make sure he’s okay. Because I love him. And I hate this place.
A stream rages just below them, swollen with rain. On its far bank a dead animal, rabbit or hare, with limp and sodden tawnyfur, looks peaceful as if it didn’t fall there but was laid out. Emily looks away from it.
I’m doing this for Paul, she repeats to herself.
She wore her red dress on the night she met him. She owned one red dress and one green and alternated them for work. Nude heels went well with both. They were in need of re-soling, but nobody knew that but Emily. Her hair was teased into a ponytail, her makeup immaculate, as elegant as online tutorials could teach her. She took time shaping her eyebrows.
“Have you made a booking?” she asked him. She loved her station at the entrance to the restaurant, where she greeted guests before showing them to their seats.
“No,” he said. “But I don’t need to.”
He was well dressed, but not ostentatiously so. Handsome, too, but there was nothing hasty or showy about him. His energy was confident, low key, and steady. Focused. She liked that. It intrigued her.
But he wasn’t going to get away with this.
“I’m sorry, sir, but everybody needs a reservation tonight. We’re full.”
“I know,” he said. He looked amused where she was expecting frustration or disappointment. She felt wrongfooted, but she wasn’t going to show him that.
“So,” she said and raised her eyebrows before assuming a polite expression of regret. He was nearly old enough to be her father but something inside her curled because he really was very attractive.
“So,” he batted the word back to her.
She broke eye contact first but rallied. “Can I find you a seat at the bar, sir? We’re famous for our cocktails. I can recommend a—” Words failed her. She was desperate to suggest a cocktail whose name wasn’t loaded with innuendo, but her mind drew a blank.
His polish slipped and he laughed. A loud, cheerful sound. “Sorry. I should tell you I’m not actually a guest.” He tugged at hiscollar as if embarrassed to have deceived her, though she suspected he was enjoying it.
“Oh,” she said.
“I’m Paul.”
He didn’t need to say more. It was on the top of every menu and above the door: “Paul’s.”
She noted that his hand was soft and dry and immediately loved his quiet confidence. He wasn’t what she expected.
“Oh,” she said again.
They married six months later, last spring. He changed her life. Saved her. And only he knows how much she needed saving from a life that had fallen apart dramatically because of a single but devastating lie. She would never forgive her father for it.
Maggie Elliott knocks back the bread dough and sinks her knuckles into it as if it were an adversary. A cloud of flour rises when she turns it and slaps it back down. Condensation beads the inside of her kitchen windows, but not so much that she can’t see into the yard.
Her mood turned as the dough rose. John should be home by now. He still hasn’t come back into the house since taking the women up to the barn.
His dog, Birdie, lies on her bed beside the Aga, but she’s not settled either. She glances toward the door as often as Maggie.
“Where is he, Birds?” Maggie asks. “Where the bloody hell is he?”
