by Leah Konen
Davis was my boyfriend for three years, but he’d been Ellie’s brother for her whole life.
It was a few years after we became friends that she told me her brother was moving to New York. I’d never met him, despite how close Ellie and I were—New York is strange like that. You can know everything about someone and never meet their family. Our apartments are too damn small. The first time Davis and I kissed, two months after his move, on the linen sofa in Ellie’s apartment, I thought, How lucky am I? I was in awe of this man, who’d grown up like that but treated me like this.
When I had no choice but to admit to myself that he’d become abusive, I half wanted to laugh. Such clichés, the two of us. He had become his father. And I, desperate to find a new family, had dived headfirst into a romance that was chock-full of red flags, even early on. It never failed to amaze me how he and Ellie had turned out so differently. She drowned the fire of her childhood, with yoga, talk therapy, wine. Davis, on the other hand . . .
Davis always had the embers going, ready to stoke with a little kindling—suspicion, jealousy, me.
* * *
• • •
I headed out before noon, stopping at the grocery store to stock up on things that were easy to cook for one, then followed a winding road past wooded stretches and an old church with stained-glass windows into downtown Woodstock.
I parked on a side street, in front of a run-down house and a trickling creek. The place was verdant, fertile. I followed the road to the main strip, and an open square filled with a circle of silver-haired ladies banging on drums. The smooth stone sidewalks were packed with people; I spotted Brooklynites up for the weekend, a roaming pack of high school kids and a sweet older couple strolling hand in hand. I walked on, past peace signs nodding to the town’s eponymous festival, clothing shops selling comfort shoes, and street vendors hawking moonstone rings. Mountains loomed behind brightly colored storefronts, and an artsy flag hung over a thrift shop. The place was idyllic. A dream.
I stopped in a pet shop to get some chew sticks for Dusty, then ducked into Schoolhouse, a restaurant down the block. I took a seat at the counter, and while I waited for a menu, I surveyed the spot. Reclaimed wood, antique lighting, craft beer—one of those places you always find in quaint small towns.
Behind the counter, a chalkboard menu listed the offerings, and a bulletin board held the usual fliers. Advertisements for guitar lessons, information on upcoming town halls, and a PSA on bright orange paper.
PRACTICE SAFE HIKING!
Always go with a buddy.
Pack plenty of food and water, flashlights, and extra batteries.
Remember to sign in and sign out EVERY TIME.
I half wanted to laugh. When Ellie, Davis, and I had gone hiking in the Poconos, we’d never signed in or out, and we definitely didn’t have a flashlight, let alone one with extra batteries—but I suppose there were plenty of things I had yet to adjust to in my new life.
A girl pushed a brunch menu at me, printed on brown craft paper and warped from overuse. She was young, must have been in college, but even at a glance, she was striking. Copper hair, smooth as corn silk, skin creamy and freckled, dark eyeliner rimming her eyes, and stud earrings crawling up her ears. She looked as if she’d stepped off a boat from early twentieth-century Ireland and immediately stopped at the mall for accessories. “We’re out of the kale bake,” she said, voice huskier than I’d expected. “And the vegan sausage. But we have chicken apple links instead. I know it’s not the same, but—” She shrugged. “You want something to drink?”
“Coffee, please.” I glanced over the menu. “And I can go ahead and order. I’ll take the eggs Benedict—and a side of sausage,” I added, suddenly hungry.
“Great.” She tore off a sheet of paper and walked to the kitchen, pinning it among the line of orders. She returned with a coffee and handed it to me, then leaned against the bar. “Food will be out in fifteen or so.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip of coffee. It was extra-hot and smooth, just like I liked it. I glanced around. She was the only waitress here, but almost all the tables were empty—she must not’ve been too busy. “Do you know, is there a gallery in town?”
“The JV Gallery?” she asked.
JV. John and Vera. I nodded.
“Sure, it’s just a few blocks down, across from the bank.” She crossed her arms, tilted her head slightly. “Not sure if it’s open, though. They cut their hours pretty drastically.”
“Oh yeah?”
She wiped down the counter with a dingy rag, then looked up at me, as if sussing out the situation. “Why do you ask?”
I ran my finger along the handle of the coffee cup. “I heard about it, thought about checking it out.”
The girl raised an eyebrow. “You must be up for the weekend, then?”
I hesitated, briefly considered lying, just in case. But if I liked this spot, I’d be back—there were only so many restaurants in town—and lying would only draw attention to me. Besides, this was my fresh start. There was no reason to think Davis would figure out I was here. None at all.
I shook my head. “No, actually, I just moved to town.”
“So how did you hear about the gallery?” she asked. “Only because most people who live here—they don’t really go to that place.”
I took a quick breath and the girl seemed to sense my hesitation. “I mean, it doesn’t really matter if you don’t want to say.”
I exhaled, feeling silly. She was just a kid, and here I was, being cagey. “My new neighbors mentioned they owned it, actually. Just wanted to see it in the flesh.”
“Really?” she asked. “John and Vera, huh?”
“You know them?”
She sighed. “If you actually live in town full-time, just about everybody knows everybody.” She wiped the counter again, then arched an eyebrow. “You should probably check it out. They need the business, especially now.”
“What do you mean?”
She smirked. “This town isn’t as artsy and progressive as it likes to think it is. They haven’t had great luck here. Locals won’t touch the place, honestly.”
“Oh,” I said, remembering how Vera and John had described Woodstock last night. “Why’s that?”
Her lips formed a thin line. “They just won’t. Anyway,” she said, changing the subject, “what do you do? Not too many jobs up here.”
Again, a spot of hesitation—I didn’t want to give too much away. “I freelance. I can work from anywhere, really.”
“Graphic design?” she asked.
“No, I—”
“Photography?”
“I’m a writer.” I practically blurted it out, then took another sip of coffee. This was getting ridiculous. How could it possibly hurt to tell her?
The girl’s face lit up. “No way,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to meet a writer. That’s what I want to do, too. I’m trying to decide between novels and screenwriting. Or maybe a memoir—I know I’m too young for that, but I think young people have more to say than people think.” She reached out her hand. “I’m Al, by the way.”
“Al,” I repeated, marveling at the progressiveness of the younger generations, with their gender-neutral nicknames. Not Alice or Allison, not even Allie. Just Al.
I took her hand in mine, realizing she was waiting for me to introduce myself, too. “Lucy.”
She pulled her hand back and tugged on the end of her hair. “Anyway, what do you write?”
“Magazine articles, mostly,” I said, keeping it vague. “Some personal essays.”
“That’s so cool,” she said, without a trace of irony. A bell dinged, and she floated over to the kitchen and returned with my plate. It smelled like oil and salt and roasted garlic, and in a flash, I was back at this restaurant I used to go to with my mom and dad in Seattle.
�
�Thanks,” I said, pushing the memory away and pulling my plate forward.
“So where do you write for?”
I hesitated, not wanting to divulge too much. “All kinds of places. Whoever wants to pay me.”
She grinned. “Maybe I’ll come across something of yours one day.”
I forced a smile. I knew she wouldn’t.
“So how’d you get into it?” she asked.
By the time I was done eating, we’d discussed all the safe things, things that could not be tied directly to me: my early obsession with Jane Austen; Al’s preference for the Brontë sisters, particularly Wuthering Heights; and the importance of reading The Elements of Style.
I tipped generously, despite my limited funds, remembering what it was like to be just starting out.
Outside, I breathed in the restorative mountain air, feeling better than I had in a long time. There was something about Al, the way she could look at her future with such hope and possibility—the world of writing her proverbial oyster—that gave me hope, too. Maybe she wouldn’t make the same mistakes I had; maybe at least one of us would wind up with a different sort of fate.
The sidewalks were still teeming with people, and as I walked down the block, toward the real estate office, where Jennifer Moon had told me to drop off my rent payment, I found myself trying to separate the locals from those just visiting.
Tattooed couple with a French bulldog and tattered jeans: definitely up for the weekend.
Older woman dressed almost exactly like my neighbor Maggie, in a nubby sweater that was oversize, cozy, and probably a little too warm. Likely a local.
Ms. Moon’s office was closed. I tucked the sealed envelope into the locked letterbox, per her instructions, then gazed at the fliers taped in the window. All the lives you wished you could live, like Sylvia Plath’s figs: a Frank Lloyd Wright–style ranch, nestled against a creek; an 1820s mansion, six bedrooms and desperate for a renovation; a one-bedroom cottage on Overlook Mountain. Once, I had dreamed of all this with Davis. We’d stalked Trulia, looking at places all over—in the Berkshires, the Catskills, the Shawangunks, the Poconos. “The mountains are calling, and we must go.” We never got up to Woodstock, though. Too hippie, too artsy, he’d argued. Too full of itself. I never told him that Ellie and I had been once, years before he moved to Brooklyn, that I’d secretly loved it. Would he figure it out?
I briefly imagined him reading my email, grabbing the coatrack, bashing it into the walls. Finally losing it on someone—something—other than me. Then I imagined the alternative, and I rubbed at the back of my neck, turned to keep going.
As I did, my body slammed into something. I caught my breath and looked up to see a man, hair long and silver. He reeked of cigarettes. “Sorry,” I said quickly, as his eyes bored into me. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Watch where you’re going,” he scoffed. And then, as he passed me, under his breath but loud enough for me to hear: “Fucking weekenders.”
My heart began to race at the prospect of confrontation. I took a deep breath, but already the man was around the corner, out of sight.
He doesn’t matter, I told myself as I walked on. Besides, I wasn’t a weekender. I lived here now. This was my fresh start.
A couple of blocks more, and the crowd of people had thinned. Across the street, I saw Platform, the bar John had mentioned. It was, indeed, as quaint as he’d promised, painted bright red with a green metal roof.
Another half a block, and there it was: the JV Gallery.
I didn’t care if no one went there, like Al said, or if locals hated it. It still felt like a beacon, reminding me of them, of what Vera had said—you’re safe here, with us.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass storefront, I gazed upon white walls, gleaming wooden floors, canvases, photographs, and sculptures. The sign read CLOSED.
I took a deep, calming breath. I was okay. It would all be okay. I had Vera and John, at least, and the next time I saw them, I’d have some story at the ready, explaining my bruise away. I would save face, and we’d have more wine, and everything would be fine.
I backed up. I should get home—I didn’t want my groceries to spoil.
But flecks of faded paint on the bottom of the windows captured my eye. I knelt to look closer. Most of the paint had been scratched off, but I could just barely make out the words.
My blood ran cold.
YOU FUCKING PERVERT
EIGHT
I was still reassuring myself as I turned onto my street.
The graffiti was probably nothing—just kids, rebellious teenagers, someone playing a prank.
This town was my new start. Vera and John were the first friends I’d made. And I wasn’t going to let anything cast a shadow over that.
But as I approached my house, my chest seized up and my foot slammed on the brakes, bringing everything to a halt.
A car idled in front of my cottage.
My heart raced.
Was it Davis? Could he really have found me already?
Part of me wanted to gun it, drive far away and forget about everything—screw the money I’d just dropped at the office. Run. Again. Only I couldn’t. My life was in there, things I needed.
More important, Dusty was in there, too. Helpless and on his own.
I forced myself to lift my foot, to let the car inch slowly forward.
As I crawled, I scanned the vehicle for a Zipcar sticker, a Hertz plate cover, anything that would give it away as a rental, because Davis didn’t own a car. There was nothing. It was just a navy-blue Subaru with normal plates.
Please don’t be Davis please don’t be Davis.
My foot hovered over the accelerator, ready to hit the gas if necessary, as I drove past the car . . .
I exhaled. Through the window, I saw a woman.
It wasn’t him. I hadn’t been found. Not yet.
Slowly, I pulled into my driveway and got out.
I squinted as I watched the woman emerge from the car, my headache from this morning still lingering, joined now by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“You’re home!” the woman said cheerfully, walking quickly toward me. “Don’t worry, I only just got here.” Her body was round and soft, and she was draped in one of those loose-fitting earth-toned dresses that obscured your curves, the kind you had to be at least forty to pull off; all the shops in town sold them. In the sunlight, a cluster of gray hairs stood at attention on the crown of her head, popping against the rest of her deep-auburn hair. Her eyes were pale blue and piercing—same color as the sky.
“Sorry, but do I know you?”
She laughed as she tugged at the neckline of her dress. “Of course you don’t. I’ve started this off all wrong.” She stuck out her hand. “I used to live here,” she said, taking mine in hers. “I’m Rachel.”
“Oh,” I managed, quickly pulling my hand back. In person, she was nothing like the woman I’d imagined. Older, for one thing, definitely mid-forties, but it was more than that. By the way John and Vera had talked about her, I’d pictured some sort of vixen, a femme fatale. This woman was attractive, sure, maybe once she’d even stopped whole rooms with her bottomless eyes and Titian hair, but not now. Now she’d blend right in with the rest of the Woodstock ladies of a certain age, clad in amethyst rings and Birkenstocks. I stole a quick look at her feet, confirming.
“I’m sorry to bother you, er . . .” She paused, an eyebrow raised.
I had no choice. “Lucy.”
“Lucy,” she repeated. “It’s just, I have a freelance client who sent one of my checks here. I had the mail forwarding turned on at the post office when I left at the end of July, but it only lasts a month. I put my new address huge on the top of my invoices, but this man apparently can’t be bothered to read that even when it’s printed in bright red ink. I could ask him to reissue it, but I’
ve already been waiting for over a month, and I kind of need the check. I didn’t want to bust into your mailbox while you weren’t here. That would be creepy,” she said.
“And a felony,” I added.
“Right,” she said, grinning. “I just thought, maybe you wouldn’t mind checking for me? It’s awfully rude to ask, but I’m a bit desperate. I was going to ask John or Vera to ask you, but it seemed easier to go straight to the source.”
Quickly, I shook myself out of my trance. “Of course,” I said. I walked over to the mailbox and opened it. Sure enough, there was loads of junk mail addressed to her, and a slim white envelope that looked decidedly like a check. I handed it over.
Her eyes lit up, sparkling, as we walked back to our cars. “Oh god, I’m so relieved. I was about to ask my ex-husband for a loan, which is just as horrible as it sounds.”
“No worries,” I said.
“I’m a photographer,” Rachel went on. “So it’s not like the money is coming from some endlessly running faucet. More like a drip drip drip, you know what I mean?”
I nodded as it dawned on me—that explained the photos.
“Glad you got your check,” I said as I popped open the trunk. “I should probably get my stuff inside. Groceries.”
“Oh,” she said. “You have lots of bags. Let me help you.”
I paused. I wasn’t sure if I should be inviting strangers into my home . . .
“Least I can do after you helped me,” she added.
“Sure,” I said, my curiosity quickly getting the better of me. It’s not like she was some sort of criminal or anything. “I mean, if you really want.”
