by Roxy Sloane
At some point while taking the pictures, I realized that I’d come to terms with what had to be done; I’d officially made the decision to put the cabin up for sale. It was for the best. I told myself that over and over again as I walked Rob back outside, thanking him for his help. I’d call Nancy later and let her know.
As Rob drove off, waving out the open window of the truck, I yelled, “Don’t forget our fishing date with Maggie!” He flashed me a thumbs up and I smiled.
By dinnertime, I had reorganized the entire closet. I felt such a sense of accomplishment as I stepped back to admire my handiwork. The physical labor was also doing great things for my appetite. I made myself a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and dug into a bag of BBQ potato chips, promising myself I’d eat my green veggies the next day, and then took a long hot shower. Then I built a fire.
I love firelight. I love the warmth, the gentle crackling, the life in the flames. But that night when the logs caught, I was consumed with the memory of the fires I’d shared with Jackson. I recalled the blaze he’d built to warm me on the day of my ski accident, and the fire he’d ignited with his wet tongue as he licked my pussy. The way my body had responded when he filled me with his fingers, his cock. The emptiness I felt now was excruciating.
As my eyes scanned the room in distress, they fell on the cigar box I’d found under the bed earlier. I walked over and picked up the box. I was ready to look.
I brought it back to my cushion by the fireplace, opened the lid, and began, slowly, to unpack a treasure trove of images of my family. My father and mother building a snowman with me when I was four or five. The three of us posing with a gigantic pile of pancakes. My mom in a lime green bikini and wide-brimmed straw hat. My parents slow dancing, both of them barefoot.
Many of the photographs were of my father and me. My dad posing, wearing a fedora. Me on his shoulders in the woods. The two of us napping on a picnic blanket. Me holding a roasted marshmallow, still on the stick, smiling broadly, my front teeth missing. I realized that my mother had been the photographer, that this was probably her collection. And that these were memories she no longer carried.
One by one, I gently removed my mom’s photographs and examined them. I allowed them to tell me their stories. One by one, I placed the photographs around me until I was surrounded by them. They showed me how a life was built—moment by moment, day by day, with the people you loved. The people who loved you back.
I cleaned up the photos, wiped the tears off my cheeks, and then crawled into bed and fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep.
26
In the morning, I awoke with the sun. I ate a hot breakfast. I put on my work clothes and began scrubbing down and waxing the wooden floors throughout the cabin. Afterwards, I showered and changed. Then I checked my email.
In my inbox, I found a lovely message from Phoebe Demeris, along with her rewritten draft. Immediately, I sat on the sofa and began reading. After I raced through the first few chapters, I called her: “I love it!”
We talked about the revised publishing schedule, ways to polish the manuscript, next steps. We talked about characters that might recur in the third novel. It was a positive, energetic, and inspiring call. It reminded me what I love about the creative process.
Then I dialed Louise to update her. On the first ring, I felt my insides begin to crumble.
“Louise Hayden’s office.” It was JP’s voice.
“Hey, JP. It’s Ellie. Is she available?”
“You’re in luck,” he said. “I’ll put you right through.”
Three thunderous heartbeats later, Louise picked up.
“Ellie! How are you? Where are you? I’m surprised your cell works in Tahiti.”
“Ha-ha, Louise,” I said, smiling. “I’m fine. No Tahiti, but I’m relaxing at my parents’ cabin up near Woodstock.”
“Like hell you are,” she laughed. “How hard have you been working up there? Do you need me to read you Merriam-Webster’s definition of ‘vacation’?”
“I’ve been taking it easy,” I said. “Really. I just happened to read a few chapters of the Demeris rewrite this morning—”
“Aha!” she crowed.
“So I just called to let you know it’s in great shape and everything’s on track. And that I’m really looking forward to coming back.” I didn’t add, Unless I won’t have a job to come back to.
Louise paused, and my nerves frayed. “Ellie,” she said softly, “I need to tell you something.”
“Yes?” I fought back a panic attack, willing myself to be strong no matter what she was about to say to me.
“I admire you.”
“What?”
“I admire you, Ellie,” she repeated. “And do know why? It’s not because of talent, which you have in spades. And it’s not because you’re smart, or because you work so hard. It’s because you’re strong. You’re resilient. And you can’t see this yet, but in the end you’ll be fine. You’re going to come out of this stronger.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted it to be enough. But part of me was still hanging on.
“Louise,” I asked, “have you heard anything from him?”
“Yes,” she said, hesitating. “He’s all over the place. Carpenter can’t get a draft out of him, says he’s been hostile, and he won’t return our calls. We’re doing what we can, but I don’t want you to blame yourself. It’ll get handled. You just worry about you right now.”
“I’ll do that,” I said with a sinking heart, knowing it would be impossible. “Thanks, Louise.”
“Anytime. I look forward to reading Phoebe’s book,” she said briskly. “Thanks for the check-in. Take care of yourself, Ellie.”
I wanted to feel strengthened—my job was safe, I had Louise’s support, and Phoebe’s manuscript was in a good place. But it weighed on me knowing that Jackson was still struggling with his book, was still in a dark place, and that there was nothing I could do to help him. So I packed a snack and a bottle of water and spent the afternoon hiking, hoping to clear my mind. It helped a little.
When I got back to the cabin, I showered, changed, and set to work making myself a solid meal of baked lemon-garlic salmon with roasted peppers and brown rice. Afterward I read more of Phoebe’s book and then got into bed.
But all I could think about was Jackson. The way his powerful thrusts had slammed me into the desk when we fucked in his office. His fierce mouth. His intuitive hands.
I stopped myself. This wasn’t the way forward. I started over, licked my finger and began to rub my pussy, dipping in and then massaging my clit with my own slick juices. I imagined a stranger bending me over my desk, taking me from behind, his hands on my breasts. The tension built and built until it became torture, but there was no release until, unable to bear it any longer, I imagined Jackson, his powerful body on top of me, his cock gliding perfectly into me, his kisses denying me air. I visualized him lifting his eyes to meet mine, his gaze soft, his thrusts steady and sure, and then I crashed into orgasm. Afterward, I slept.
The following morning I finished taking measurements and photographing the cabin. I emailed the pictures to Nancy along with the room dimensions, property features, and other pertinent details. She emailed back that she would list the house right away and be in touch soon. Then I got dressed, took a backpack from my freshly organized closet, and headed into town.
The air was nippy, and I overheard talk of snow. I had lunch at Margot’s and by the time I emerged from the diner, the temperature had already dropped. I went to the Go-Mart, bought a backpack’s worth of groceries, and headed straight home. The storm arrived later that afternoon.
The snow slowed everything for me. I made myself a cup of tea and sat near the windows for a few minutes, just watching the flakes drift down, dusting the earth and trees. I kept the fireplace roaring, wrapped myself in a cozy sweater, and spent the afternoon reading the latest Ella James novel. I talked briefly with Bianca and Maggie and slept well. Then on Sunday night the rain came an
d washed all the snow away.
It was Monday morning when I received the call.
“Ellie?” I recognized Nancy’s voice.
“Hi, Nancy. How are you?” I set Phoebe’s manuscript aside and walked to the kitchen to reheat my tea.
“I’m fine, thank you. So listen, we’ve had an offer on the cabin.”
“Really? That was fast.” My initial excitement was quickly dampened by the reality that soon my little haven would be gone, along with all the memories that still reverberated within its walls.
“Are you sitting?” she asked.
“No,” I replied. “Is it bad news?”
“I think you might want to sit down.” I did. Nancy took a breath. “The offer is for. . . $750,000.”
I thought I hadn’t heard her correctly. “I’m sorry, Nancy,” I said. “How much? Fifty thousand?” It wasn’t what I’d hoped, but maybe I could make it work.
“That would be seven hundred fifty thousand,” she repeated. “Dollars. That’s three quarters of a million.”
“I don’t understand.” For a moment, I struggled to grasp what she was saying. “It’s listed for a tenth of that. How is that possible? It must be a mistake—a typo in an email or something.”
“I confirmed it,” she said. “Not a typo.”
“But why would someone offer ten times the asking price?”
“I talked to the gal twice now,” she said. “They’re buying up several properties in the area and building a compound. Listen, Ellie, money doesn’t seem to be a problem for these people. I’d strongly encourage you to take the offer.”
My head was swimming, my knuckles gone white around my mug. “But. . . doesn’t this seem like a scam?”
“It did seem odd because of the amount, and they want a cash sale. But I found out it’s going to be handled through some lawyers in England, so I checked them out with the Solicitor’s Regulation Authority. They’re legit.”
“Then I guess. . . I accept,” I whispered, still not sure I wasn’t hallucinating.
“I think your money worries might be over, Ellie,” she said. “If you want to buy another property in the area, I would be happy to handle it. And, of course, I know a good carpenter. I think you can afford him now.”
We talked about the process, how long it would take after accepting the offer to receive various payments. She described entering escrow, the inspection process, the timetable for closing and when they would take possession. It was surreal. We made an appointment to sign papers the following morning.
When she hung up I sat, stunned, on the sofa. I felt lighter. My head dropped back onto the cushions and I looked up into the beamed ceiling. I felt a sense of security I hadn’t felt in years. She would be okay now, my mother. No matter what she needed, I would be able to provide it. She’d be okay. We would be okay.
27
The following morning I packed my things and closed up the cabin. I loaded my duffel, the photographs, fishing poles, and the record player into the cab I’d called, and had the driver drop me off at the real estate office in town.
After signing the purchase agreement for the house, I presented the fishing poles to Nancy. “For Rob,” I told her. “He owes me and my friend a date.” Nancy beamed and hugged me before I left. Then I took the bus back to New York City.
Once on the highway, I texted Bianca and Maggie: “Headed home. Happy hour at Amelie?”
When I arrived at the bistro, Bianca was already waiting. Mags arrived minutes later. There were hugs and wine and lots of smiles.
“You look good,” said Bianca, squeezing my arm.
“You do,” agreed Mags.
“I feel stronger,” I said.
I told them about the snowstorm and my hours of reading. I told them how I’d transformed the cabin and about my mother’s photographs. I told them about Rob, watching Maggie’s eyes light up as I described his flannel shirts and his sense of humor. I explained that Nancy had listed the cabin. Then I reached into my bag, took out my copy of the purchase agreement, and placed it on the table.
“What’s this?” asked Mags.
“A contract. The cabin is sold,” I replied.
Maggie’s eyes widened. “Already?” Her voice was wistful. “That was so fast.”
“You did it,” Bianca said supportively. “Though I can’t say I’m not sad to see it go.”
“Maybe we can go up together one last time,” suggested Maggie. “To say goodbye.”
“I’d love to,” I said. “We have time.”
“What did it go for?” asked B, scanning the contract. Mags read over her shoulder. Seconds later she looked up at me, puzzled.
“Is this for real?”
“It’s for real,” I answered. “It sold for $750,000.”
Their jaws dropped. “What?” said Mags.
“Why?” asked B.
“Someone’s buying up a bunch of properties in the area. They have a lot of money. Nancy checked out the law firm that’s handling their end of the deal, and they’re legit. This is really happening.”
“Holy shit,” whispered Mags.
“Holy shit!” echoed B.
“My mom is secure,” I told them. “She’ll have what she needs.”
Bianca started to cry. “This is amazing, Ellie. It’s the break you needed. Finally, something good.”
Maggie just stared in disbelief.
“Listen,” said Bianca. “You have to be smart about what you do with this money. This could set you up for a long time, Ellie, if you invest it right.”
“I agree,” I said. “And I’ve thought a lot about this.” I took a breath and turned to Mags. “Maggie, would you do me the honor of allowing me to be your first investor?”
“Oh, Ellie,” was all she could say before she broke down, too.
That night, when I got home, I was filled with joy at being able to care for the people I love. Once I’d done some financial planning, I could even spring for some plane tickets for the three of us. As a surprise for B. I searched my bookshelf for my copy of Under the Tuscan Sun.
There, on the shelf above, was Lions and Lambs. I felt the familiar tightness in my chest. The loneliness fell upon me like a shroud. Then I realized something. I still ached for him. But at least I wasn’t afraid. I was surviving, and I was strong.
28
I remained “on vacation” for another week. During that time I was productive, dealing with the details of the cabin’s sale, approving my mother’s participation in the clinical trial for new medication, having my lawyer draw up a simple investment deal for Maggie and me. Louise was right; even without putting in my hours at Denton Rifkin, I was still a workaholic. Keeping busy energized me.
When I finally returned to work, I felt rested and refreshed. Part of it was that I no longer needed my job for financial reasons; I was choosing to be there. But more than that, I was excited to get back to my writers and to see Phoebe’s book to fruition. Carolyn had covered my desk beautifully while I was away, and Louise even spoke to me about promoting my assistant to associate editor in the near future. I told her I fully approved.
The week flew by, and on Friday night when Maggie asked for my help at the shop, I texted back and said, “Of course! I have to protect my investment.” We’d officially made a date to go fishing with Rob soon, and Maggie’s mood had been markedly brighter.
Saturday morning I was in the supply room carrying an armload of boxes when I heard the bell jingle. I shouted, “Be right out!” and hurried to the front desk. From there I saw a young woman from the back, her pale blonde hair glistening down past her shoulders. She selected a pair of grey suede platforms with a chunky square heel.
“Those are my favorites,” I offered. And she turned toward me. When I saw her I felt the blood drain from my face, my stomach clench. “Olivia? What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to cover my shock with a shaky smile.
“I kept the card you gave me at Jackson’s,” she replied, making me wince at the mentio
n of his name. “And I have a few clients who would love your friend’s work. What are you doing here? Helping out?”
“Yes,” I said, recovering a little. “I’m so glad you stopped in.”
Olivia took one look at my forced smile and stepped closer, her face kind.
“Ellie, I know it may not be my place to say so,” she said, “but I’m so sorry about what happened between you and Jackson.” Her empathy was real. I leaned against the counter for support. “I thought you two were so good together.”
A million thoughts flooded my mind. A million questions. So many questions that they paralyzed me. I stood there, silent. I hid my hands under the counter so she wouldn’t see them shaking.
“The thing about Jackson, though,” she went on, “is that fidelity—well, he has a lot of baggage around it. I told him a serious commitment is a lot to ask so early in a relationship—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “I don’t know what you’ve heard from Jackson, but when he and I were together, I wasn’t seeing anyone else.”
I knew what had happened between me and Jackson was nobody else’s business—and that it was over and I needed to move on—but part of me also needed Olivia to hear my side of the story. Maybe I just wanted someone in Jackson’s circle to believe that I wasn’t lying, to know that I’d done nothing wrong.
Olivia searched my eyes, and then said, “But Ellie, he saw you with another man.”
“No, he didn’t.” I shook my head. “He couldn’t have. It never happened.”
“But. . . ” Her brow creased. “He went to your apartment. He drove in to surprise you, because you two had argued, over an outline, I think? I talked to him just before he left. Gave him a pep talk. And then. . . he saw the two of you together.”
She described the mystery man Jackson had seen, and realization dawned on me.
I stared at her in disbelief. “Luke? That’s what this is all about?”
Mistaking my shocked revelation for an admission of guilt, Olivia patted my arm with a sympathetic expression. “Can we sit?” she asked gently.
