But he doesn’t. He lets me go.
I push out the front door into the gray afternoon. I haul myself into the rental truck, tossing my bag into the passenger seat. Wellsy jumps in after me, shaking water all over the upholstery.
I don’t care.
I start the engine. I put the truck in reverse. I look at the house one last time. I can see Rhett standing in the window, watching me. He’s a silhouette against the warm light of the living room.
I back out of the driveway, turn onto the main road, and don’t look back.
The drive to Pearl’s feels like an out-of-body experience. The windshield wipers slap back and forth, a rhythmicthwack-thwackthat hypnotizes me. I drive on autopilot, my mind replaying the last hour in high definition.
The way Boone looked at me. The heat of his hand on my belt. The taste of him on my tongue. The absolute ruin of my composure when his fingers were inside me.
I press my foot harder on the gas.
When I finally pull into the driveway of Pearl’s small cottage, the rain has slowed to a mist. The house is a storybook cottage, painted a soft yellow with white trim. The windows glow with warm, golden light, spilling out onto the wet driveway.
It looks like a sanctuary.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. I take a breath. Then another. I try to compose myself. I try to wipe the wildness from my face.
I grab Wellsy and my bag and walk to the door.
Pearl opens it before I even knock. She’s wearing a kaftan covered in sequins and a turban wrapped around her hair. She looks like a glamorous fortune teller who has taken up residence in the country.
“Saramaria!” she exclaims, pulling me inside. “Dot said she saw headlights. Look at you, you’re soaked!”
Dot is sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She lowers her book, a pair of binoculars resting on the table beside her.
“Roads are getting bad,” Dot says by way of greeting. “But you made it.”
“I... I needed to get out,” I say. My voice cracks.
Pearl takes my bag and sets it down. She looks at me, her eyes narrowing. She takes in the mud, the mussed hair, the frantic energy radiating off me.
“Trouble at the ranch?” she asks gently.
“Something like that.”
“Well, you’re here now,” Pearl announces. She turns to Dot. “Dot, get her a towel. And pour her some wine. The red one.”
Dot stands up, moving with a fluid grace. She walks over to the sideboard and pours a glass of deep red liquid. She brings it to me, her hand brushing mine.
“Drink,” Dot says.
I reach for the glass and take a long swallow. The wine is rich and earthy, coating my throat.
Pearl bustles around the room, lighting more lamps, straightening pillows. “We’ll put you in the guest house. It’s detached, so you can have some privacy. And Wellsy can run around.”
“Thank you,” I say.
I watch them move around the room. It’s fascinating, really, the way they orbit each other.
Dot goes to the kitchen and comes back with a plate of cheese and crackers. She sets it down next to Pearl. Pearl looks up at her, and for a second, the mask of the eccentric hostess slips.
There’s a look of such adoration on Pearl’s face. A softness that transforms her. Dot reaches out, tucking a stray strand of Pearl’s hair back into her turban. Her hand lingers on Pearl’s cheek.
They don’t say anything. They don’t need to. The connection between them is palpable, a living, breathing thing that fills the room. It’s in the way Dot anticipates Pearl’s need for a coaster before the glass even hits the table. It’s in the way Pearl leans into Dot’s touch as she passes.
