on until I reached the white post that marked Pepin Hill. There were no other cars on the road, but out of habit alone, I signaled before turning off and starting up. I didn’t smell the Spa here but rather woods, water, and mud. Lovely smells all, they reinforced the sense of distance that I had worked so hard to create. By the time I pulled up at the cabin, I could hear Jonah barking inside, which was another special sign of my new life.
The path to my door was free of slush, thanks to the job done during last week’s late-season snow by a plow guy who liked me. And UPS had come by. Several boxes were stacked at the door.
Nudging them aside with a boot, I had the front door barely open when Jonah bounded out, heading for the brush to do his business. He was a beagle and a small one, for the breed. Nearly twelve, his puppy years were well past, which meant he was okay being inside for large stretches of time. After nearly four years with me, he had grown even more okay with it. Though I still tried to get home in the middle of the day to let him out, he never seemed to suffer when I could not.
That said, I felt guilty watching his exuberance now. He ran into the woods and back for several minutes before making a slower, panting return to the cabin.
The cabin? My realtor had always called it that, so I did. But given that it had well-planed wood siding, a paneled oak door, and a gable roof covered, Vermont-style, with the best metal money could buy, calling it a cabin felt like a misnomer. It was really just a very small house, painted the same slate gray as the squirrels in the woods. The first floor, front to back, held an open living room, eating bar, and kitchen, while the second floor was split between a single bedroom and bath, and a loft. Driving me here the first time, the realtor had described it as rustic, perhaps to prepare me for the worst. She knew I was from a suburb of Boston, knew that the house I was leaving had every modern appliance built in, along with a wine cooler, a hand-crafted Italian backsplash, and radiant heat. By comparison, the amenities here were modest.
Modest suited me just fine. Modest I could handle.
Besides, there was an element of pride involved in owning something myself. Granted, the divorce had given me enough money to buy it, but, had it not, my art would have. This was my own place. I had never owned my own home before, having gone from my parents to college to nomadism to Edward.
Should I try to call him? Did he even have the same number?
Stacking the boxes on a bench just inside the door, I hung my coat on a hook above and was toeing off my boots when my cell buzzed again. Seeing the name of another friend, I was tempted to answer. Alexandra Smith taught at the local school and might have inside news. But something in me couldn’t go there yet, especially not with Hex and Jinx rubbing against my legs, one cat per leg, and vocal.
All three pets were from the shelter. I had adopted Jonah, because, as sweet as his face was, he was old, and old pets were hard to place. The problem with Hex and Jinx wasn’t their age, which was two, or their health, which was fine, but because too many people were superstitious when it came to black cats.
Having lost a child, which, as far as I was concerned, was the worst thing that could happen to a mother, I was past the point of superstition. Moreover, the comfort my cats gave was beyond measure. Snugglers both, they curled beside me when I was on the sofa and slept on my bed every night. I wished they were better with Jonah. They picked on him like he was a cat toy, and, good old boy that he was, he took it. His revenge, of course, was going out with me for walks and drives, neither of which the others could do without risk of escape and subsequent death-by-fisher.
My phone vibrated again. After a quick glance to make sure it wasn’t Grace, I set it aside. I stroked the cats head to tail, one hand per cat, until they slipped free and made for the