That hangs in the air for a moment. Vanessa is well aware of how bitter I am with my uncle for keeping this information from me, and from his sister. Even through all the excuses other people have made for him —sick people deserve to share what they want,he just didn’t want to hurt you, ormaybe he wanted to live to the fullest in the time he had left— I still feel a hot, sticky,simmering rage in the pit of my stomach any time I think of all the lies he must have told us.
And about the fact that he didn’t eventrychemotherapy or seek out experimental treatments. If my mother and I had thrown our all into helping him, I’m sure we could have figured something out.
“So, you’re finally going to check it out,” Vanessa says after the moment passes. “I think it’s a good idea. You can get some time away, connect with him.”
“Heleftit to me,” I correct, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. “So, I’m driving up to see what to do with it.”
“What do you mean,what to do with it? Are you going to sell it?”
I clear my throat as I go around a particularly hair-raising bend, in which there’s nothing between me and the side of the mountain but a single metal railing. “I was actually thinking of making it into a rental.”
“… a rental.”
The thing about Vanessa is that she can communicate a lot through that flat tone of hers. Things likewhat are you sayinganddo you really think Jasper would want you to make it into a rental?
“Look,” I say in response to the unspoken questions. “It’s not like I can come out here as often as he did. But I also… I can’t stomach the thought of selling it. So, I figured, why not make it into a rental? Let other people get some use out of it, keep the pipes running or whatever people say about houses, then I can come up as often as I want. Win-win.”
“Ri-ight,” Vanessa says, but what she really means isJasper probably wouldn’t like this,andyou’re never actually going to go to the cabin again, are you?
This time, I don’t get a chance to answer her unspoken questions, because the signal drops when I go around another bend, and when I glance at the screen, I see the little cancel sign in the corner that tells me even if I call back, it won’t go through.
A second later, the maps disappear, a single white question mark replacing the spot they once occupied.
“Oh, great,” I mutter when I pass by a tiny sign announcing the town of False Summit, which looks to have a population of one mountain goat. “Just perfect.”
I also pass the town of Summit, which does have a real house, but it looks sketchy enough that I decide not to turn in. The drive continues, winding along, and I try to think back to his letter, his instructions about where to go.
When I see a tall, twisting pine tree that reminds me a little of the trees in Dr. Seuss books, I hit the brakes and turn onto the road, remembering that detail from Jasper’s letter.
And, halfway up the road, when I see a tall, scruffy man carrying something out near the road, I remember another detail from his letter:Ask the neighbor if you need any help. He’s very friendly.
Smiling as broadly as I can at him, I hit the brakes and start to roll my window down.
CHAPTER 4
MAX
Inearly drop the wood I’m holding when the woman pulls over to the side of the road, rolls down the window, and, hanging nearly halfway out, shouts over to me, “Hi! You must be Max!”
She looks familiar.Veryfamiliar.
And, despite the fact that she’s gorgeous — with long, thick copper hair and a face dusted with freckles — and looks familiar to me, I don’t want anything to do with her.
In fact, if she looks familiar, it’s probably a good idea for me to turn around and go back to my cabin until she leaves. I don’t know many people around Low Pines — none, actually, unless you count simply seeing someone’s face now and again — which means any familiarity would come from my art school history, which I have no interest in revisiting.
“Are you Max?” she asks, sounding a little less certain, and I realize her car is still rolling forward, her eyes turned toward me. My stomach flips.
“Put your car in park!” I call out, finally putting down the wood and stalking over to her. I grab my T-shirt from where I tossed it earlier and quickly pull it down over my head before approaching her car. It might be stained and coated in sweat, but it’s better than talking to her half-naked. When I reach the window, I say, “Pull over more, and put on your hazards. How are your brakes? Maybe you should throw on the parking?—”
“Well, hi,” she says, laughing, “didn’t realize there would be traffic police up here. There probably aren’t even other cars on this road, are there?”
Who are you? I think, and also,it’s never a bad idea to practice safety when it comes to driving.
“I’m Lacey,” she says, sticking her hand out to me, and I stare at it, probably fitting theman-in-the-mountains-for-too-longstereotype, like I’ve forgotten all about how to be a person and have a conversation.
But, if I’m being honest, ithasbeen a long time since I’ve been this close to a woman. And the smell of roses is drifting out through her car window. Her perfume? The only person I’ve seen for the past month is Warren, and that is nothing like this. If I had a hat, I’d be taking it off. If I were sitting, I’d be standing up, like her presence is something unexpected and precious.
I do my very best to shake the feeling away.
