"I'm sorry to hear that," I say.
"Just be careful since the cabin is so secluded," Hope reiterates. "The sauna door was replaced, and I'm sure it's been used many times since then, but maybe test the door first."
Barry squeezes her shoulder. "I've told you, there's nothing to worry about, hon."
She places her hand on his. "I've always had the heebie-jeebies about it, that's all." In a cheerier tone, she adds, "I'm sure you'll have a great visit."
"Thank you for your concern," I say. I appreciate anyone and everyone who's looking out for my safety right now. "I'll place an online order as soon as I get my grocery list together. Thank you both so much."
Hope rips off a piece of paper, writes something on it, and presses it into my hand. "That's my cell number. Call me if you have questions about anything. I'm happy to help."
"Will do." I slide the paper into my jeans pocket.
As I tote my bags out to the car, my spirits lift. I don't feel as nervous in this town, now that I've met Barry and Hope. They seem invested in my safety, which will give Emily and Jeff some peace of mind.
On my drive along the back roads, my imagination shifts into overdrive, readily supplying me with a gruesome image of a woman suffocating in the sauna. Trying to ignore the visual, I roll down the window and take a deep breath of the leafy green foliage outside. It turns out that late summer in West Virginia has a definite smell to it, and it's lush and intoxicating, with hints of dead leaves, fresh grass, and wet rocks. Black-eyed Susans and goldenrod spires edge the sides of the mountains, along with some purple flower I don't recognize. I should've packed my allergy medicine, but I'm sure I can add it to my upcoming grocery order.
As the sun lowers behind the shadowy, rounded peaks, I'm able to barely make out a beat-up, crooked sign for my road—Dogwood Lane. I pull onto the gravel drive and continue for about three minutes, until I see a fork in the road. After stopping the car and reading over Robin's directions, I decide I need to veer left.
On the right, the lane dead-ends in front of a lone white house, where there's a man sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. I squint to get a better view. He has wide shoulders and curly dark hair, and he seems to be looking at me. I throw my hand up in greeting, but he doesn't make any move of acknowledgment. He simply continues to stare.
He must be the reclusive caretaker Micah told me about. I put the car in gear and drive for a couple more minutes, holding my breath as I clatter across a rickety bridge over a fast-flowing creek.
Once I've rounded a gentle curve, the house comes into view. The sheer vastness of it is breathtaking. Barry and Hope tried to explain what a huge place it was, but I simply had no mental construct for a rustic-styled cabin of this size. The upper A-frame section is wrapped with windows, top to bottom. The sides of the house sprawl in both directions, and a raised deck runs the length of the cabin. There's a screened-in gazebo off to one side, along with a seating area circling a fire pit and grill. Fully-established flowerbeds line every walkway.
If I wanted to design the perfect writing retreat, this would be it.
I roll to a stop in front of the house. After locating the lower-level entry door Robin said I should look for, I pop the trunk and grab my rolling suitcase. I head over, punch in the keycode, and open the metal door. Light filters in through an upstairs window, but the downstairs floor is mostly dark. I manage to locate a nearby light switch, then flip it on.
I glance around the room and my eyes widen. The deadly sauna sits directly to my right.
Taking a deep breath and tightening my grip on the suitcase handle, I roll it forward, forcing myself to scan the rest of the spacious room. The bottom level has clearly been built for entertainment, from the pool table to the sauna to the hot tub on the end of the deck. I move farther into the space and find a door that leads into a home movie theater.
An elevator is positioned near the theater, but I don't know if it works. After flipping on another light, I finally catch sight of carpeted stairs leading to the upper level. I bounce my suitcase up one small flight, then turn to go up the other.
The main living area sprawls out before me, lit by a wooden lamp in the corner. It features a white, wood-beamed cathedral ceiling and an open kitchen that could have come straight out of a home design magazine. I walk over and feel the island's swirled white countertop, which is cool like marble.
Like the proverbial kid in the candy shop, I rush down one hallway, opening each door. I find three huge bedrooms, each with an adjoining bath. Making my way down the opposite hall, I find two more bedrooms and baths. I choose the smallest bedroom for my own, since I prefer dark, cozy spaces, and deposit my suitcase in it.
Realizing I've left the groceries in the open trunk, I head downstairs. As I glance out the wide back window, a jolt runs through me. The man from the rocking chair is now standing by my trunk, draping my bags on his large arms. His four-wheeler is parked nearby.
He's built big, with wide shoulders and long legs—probably well over six feet tall. White hairs are woven in with his dark curls, placing him somewhere around my age or a little older.
What on earth does he think he's doing, rummaging around with my groceries? I'm not about to go out and greet him, even if he is the caretaker for this place. It's weird that he would follow me over and voluntarily unload my car.
I guess the best thing to do is pretend I don't see him. I go back upstairs, heading into a bedroom with a window overlooking the driveway. The man makes short work of his chore, then heads back to his four-wheeler.
He throws a look over his shoulder, giving me a clear view of his face. Heavy brows frame his wide-set eyes, and he has a short, graying stubble beard. In fact, he resembles a tan, bearded Edgar Allan Poe. I should know, because Poe is one of my special interests. I own an astonishing number of his biographies, and I've probably seen every photo in existence of him.
He revs his engine and tears off, bouncing across the bridge as if his four-wheeler is on fire. The devil-may-care Poe lookalike hasn't even bothered to wear a helmet.
Realizing I don't even know the man's name, I text Micah and ask for it. When the text doesn't go through, I move to another room, only to realize I don't seem to have any kind of signal. I should've asked Robin for the Wi-Fi code.
After roaming around the kitchen, I'm finally able to get my text through, presumably on a cell signal. I send Micah a follow-up text asking for the Wi-Fi code before traipsing downstairs.
The caretaker has positioned my bags just outside the doors, so I haul them inside. I head over to the elevator, figuring I might as well try it out. When I push the button, the elevator roars to life and its doors slide open, revealing a small, wood-paneled interior. What a handy luxury. Micah has certainly done well for himself.
Once I've unloaded the food bags into the capacious cabinets and fridge, I glance down at my arms, realizing the rayon sleeves of my shirt have been flopping up and down in a way that's irritating my skin. I should've gotten rid of it years ago, but hate to feel I've wasted money on clothing purchases.
Renard was always urging me to buy more stylish clothing, but since I stay inside writing most of the time, I've never seen much reason to invest in my wardrobe. My go-to writing outfit is a pair of bootcut jeans and a frayed hoodie I've had since high school. I've packed them at the top of my suitcase, anticipating I'd need them soon after arrival in the new place.
After changing, I dig into the outer suitcase pocket and retrieve my beat-up, fleece-lined boots, pulling them on over my socks. Unlike my mom, I don't walk around the house barefoot, because I can't stand the cringey feeling on my sole when it contacts a stray crumb or a clump of dirt. Socks are a constant in my indoor life, unless I'm in the shower or in bed.
I feel a thrill of anticipation to explore the grounds around the house. Both my front and back yards in Greenwich are tiny—basically squares of grass I hire a neighborhood teen to mow. Here, nature seems big and unknowable, and, to my surprise, it doesn't terrify me. Maybe my Alaskan reality show has somewhat prepared me for the wilds of West Virginia.
Along that vein, it would probably be wise to carry some kind of weapon around. Since I write suspense, I've become acutely aware of the numerous ways things can go wrong in the great outdoors. I've read there can be bears and coyotes in the Appalachians, so I want to be prepared, if the need arises.
Padding down to the kitchen, I glance around. Chef's knives line a magnet strip on the backsplash, but they're far too long and sharp to tuck into a hoodie pocket.
I shift direction and head toward a maple-colored roll top desk in the living room. It's no stretch to imagine Micah sitting here, editing novels like my own. I give the roll top a tentative push, but it's been locked. So much for writing at this desk.
But in one of the unlocked side drawers, I discover a petite pair of scissors with keen blades. I shove a paper towel into my hoodie pocket, then ease the scissors in with their handle facing out. Then I jog downstairs, open the back door, and let the golden August air envelop me.
As I follow the stone pathway toward the gazebo, fireflies drift up from the neatly mown grass. I brush against a droopy bloom on a sprawling purple bush, sending a couple of blue-and-black butterflies fluttering. Glancing toward the thick treeline that edges up behind the cabin, I can make out a family of tawny deer browsing under a row of apple trees. Although they freeze and stare at me, they don't run away. Some piece of me seems to unlock, opening up in response to the natural beauty around me.
