Chapter 1
When Sebastian explains one morning that he needs to go away for a few days and asks if I’ll mind staying here alone, I tell him not to worry, that I’ll be fine.
But that’s a lie.
Alone still scares me, even after all this time. The dark does, too, especially the kind of utter darkness we have here in the countryside, where at night the only outdoor light comes from the moon and the wide, filmy swath of the Milky Way. But I tell myself that maybe Icanmanage by myself, that I have to at least try. I hate being such a baby at this point in my life.
“Bree, what if you come, too?” Sebastian says a little later in the day. “I know you’ve got a deadline, but there’s a desk in the basement I could bring up to the guest room.”
That would solve the problem, of course, and it’s only a thirty-minute flight to Buenos Aires from the Carrasco airport in Uruguay, but I insist it’s best for him to go on his own. His father’s blood pressure has skyrocketed, and his mother desperately wants Sebastian to have a face-to-face talk with his dad and convince him to finally cede full control of his leather goods company to the youngest son, Roberto. My presence would be a distraction, I’m sure.
Besides, even with a desk in our room, I’d never get any work done. I like his parents and appreciate their warmth toward me, especially knowing they weren’t fans of Sebastian’s ex-wife, but their large, lovelyhome can be chaotic. In addition to the two of them, there’s a live-in housekeeper; two dogs; a cat; and now his older brother, Manuel, who moved back “temporarily” after his divorce. To say nothing of the endless stream of pastry-bearing friends and relatives, all speaking a language I’m only now getting a handle on.
Being caught in so much commotion can sometimes leave me slightly frantic, like I’m having one of those travel nightmares in which I can’t find the right gate or I’ve shown up at the wrong airport altogether.
“Thank you, Bas,” I say, using a nickname only I have for him, because his family prefersSeba, “but why don’t I go next time instead. This way you can really focus on your father.”
And it’s not like I’ll be totally alone. Our housekeeper and caretaker, Maitena and Jorge, will be here every day. Their cottage is on the same property, less than a quarter of a mile from our house.
I’ve also got Poco, the forty-pound brown-haired rescue mutt Bas adopted several years ago. He barks at the sight of a gecko shooting up a tree trunk, meaning he’s not going to let anyone get close.
The first day goes surprisingly well. After Sebastian departs for his midmorning flight, I bring my laptop outside to the table on thegalería, a type of veranda that runs across the back of the single-level, white stucco house topped with terra-cotta roof tiles. From here I can look out onto endless rolling green fields dotted with shrubs and copses of eucalyptus trees, and finally blue-gray hills against an enormous sky. The only buildings in sight are one other chacra—the word forcountry house—over a mile in the distance, and some concrete sheds on a neighboring sheep farm.
The view has captivated me from the moment I visited the property two years ago. It’s tranquil but at the same time expansive, and I find myself alternately soothed and stirred by the sight of it, whether I’m eating meals out here with Bas or working on my own.
I’m a freelance book editor, and though I find much of what I do rewarding, the novel I’m currently handling has been particularly gratifying. The author’s writing is powerful and her story compelling,but the book has needed both strong line editing and cutting to help the themes emerge more clearly.
For most of the day, I lose myself in my work. It’s April, the first full month of autumn in Uruguay, but the temperature is in the seventies, and I love the feeling of warmth on my skin as I work. Poco has spent much of the day lying sweetly at my feet as if he’s sensed my nervousness.
Sebastian calls at five to say hi. I see him instantly in my mind’s eye, sitting in his family’s wood-paneled den. Though he’s not movie-star gorgeous like some of the young Argentinian men I’ve passed on the streets of Buenos Aires, he’s an attractive, well-built fifty-one-year-old—two years younger than I am—with a slightly craggy face, dark-brown eyes, light stubble, and an intriguing bump on his nose.
“Poco taking good care of you,cariño?” he asks.
“Oh yeah, the guy hasn’t left my side since you’ve been gone.”
“You’re not going to let him sleep on my pillow, are you?” he asks, and I hear the smile in his voice.
“Not a chance, sweetheart. Unless he gargles with a quart of hydrogen peroxide first.”
Bas chuckles, and I feel a silly rush of pleasure at the sound. As we’ve settled into life at the chacra, I’ve found my sense of humor creeping back after all these years. I can’t imagine ever being trulyfunnyagain, the way my friends claimed I could be at times, but it’s nice to be appreciated for the mildly amusing asides I toss out now and then.
“You haven’t had the big talk yet, have you?” I ask.
“No, my mother wants to do it when my dad gets home from work tomorrow. I would have liked to have gotten the conversation over with, but she thinks it’s best if things seem to flow organically. Then he won’t feel ambushed.”
“That makes sense. And are you still planning to meet with your team tomorrow?”
Bas runs a small Spanish-language book packaging company, and since he can work remotely, he travels to BA for business just once a month, and only for the day, unless I’m making the trip with him.
“Yes, we’re going to look at some proofs, brainstorm, and then go out to lunch at Las Lilas. Speaking of work, how’s the book going?”
“I’m finally done, just reviewing my edits now. It’s five thousand words shorter than when I started, but I swear I heard the book sigh in gratitude.”
We chat for another few minutes, mostly with Bas sharing funny updates about Manuel’s feeble attempts at online dating. This is the first time in eighteen months that we’ve been apart for longer than a day, and as we sign off, I realize I miss him even more than I imagined I would. Just two more days, I think, and so far, Iamdoing fine.
But not long afterward, I feel the first real prick of unease. The sun has sunk in the sky, and though I occasionally catch sounds of Maitena moving around the kitchen, it feels unnaturally still.
I gather up my work and head inside, with Poco trailing right behind. Maitena’s in the great room setting the table. She’s a lovely woman in her mid-fifties, easygoing like almost everyone I’ve met in this country, and always gracious to me, even though I seemed to materialize out of nowhere.
