There stood Russell, wagging his tail, well over the soil line her neighbor had claimed was the new Invisible Fence. Where he had obediently stayed behind when her parents were in view. But now, the second they were gone . . .
From the porch, she heard the chuckle. He put up his hands in surrender. “I really tried that time, Bree. I promise—”
Her head jerked in his direction. “You.”
Her voice was surprising in her own ears. She sounded like a teacher whose students put a tack on her chair. She sounded like Saruman calling up the orc army to war. She sounded like a woman who’d had enough.
She stared at her neighbor and made a mental declaration then and there. Her fingers slipped into her pocket for support, and she gripped the key.
When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the residential bands which have connected them and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
Well, she had declared her injustices, and he had done nothing but mock.
So, she, therefore, Bree Leake, resident of 425 Stonewall Heights, of Abingdon, Virginia, appealed to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of her intentions to, in the Name, and by Authority of Her Sanity, solemnly publish and declare, that she ought to be free from pestilential neighbors, absolved from neighbors’ crude mockery, and that all connections between herself and Iniquitous Neighbor and Loathsome Dog will, and ought to be, totally dissolved.
In other words . . .
This.
Was.
War.
Chapter 10
Chip
Chip slipped past a slow-moving couple as he dragged the bulky easel along the Creeper Trail. Haste had not been a merry accomplice in his mission, given that there were approximately zero stores within a fifty-mile radius prepared to sell him a modern, portable easel at a reasonable price. And he opted not to steal the blue Fisher Price one from the toddler across the street.
As a last resort, and at great personal risk, he cashed in a favor from a family friend and hopped by the elderly woman’s estate that morning to borrow her sturdy midcentury wooden easel. He was going for the authentic artist look, and a six-foot-high antique accessory would do the trick. He hoped the old lady wouldn’t tell his mother about their little exchange at the next garden party.
Juggling the easel in one arm and a gallon of turpentine, palette, half a dozen oil paints, and ten brushes in a newspaper in the other, Chip struggled to slide his phone into his breast pocket and move on. A few art enthusiasts were already wandering the trail—men and women walking arm in arm, pointing whenever they spotted an artist as though they’d spotted a deer in the wild.
It was the day of the William King Museum’s Plein Air event, and artists already dotted the dirt path every thirty meters or so. They had set up their easels to capture the picturesque farms and tree line along the thirty-four-mile route that trains once took from the elevated peak of Whitetop Mountain to the little town of Abingdon below. Every year thousands of people trekked their way to Abingdon as tourists, spent the evening at a Barter play, stayed the night at the Martha or one of the dozen Colonial-style bed-and-breakfasts, then set out for that scenic bike ride along the Creeper Trail the following morning. Even the locals strolled or biked along the trail as part of their daily schedule. Abingdon was the gold standard for tucked-away vacations.
Chip stopped and squinted down the path, searching for the perfect location to set up. Accomplishing both of his goals at once would be a challenge: first, locating a prime spot for being seen by Mr. Richardson, and second, making himself invisible to his mother or any other person who might know him. So, basically, being visible to one person while being invisible to everyone else. Right. Totally doable.
He spotted a bench somewhat obscured by two trees. Struggling, he dropped his easel down on the grass just off the path. With plastic bags of paint and brushes dangling from his wrists, he fought with the easel to pry it open. It creaked with the obstinance of a buried treasure chest. But there, at last, it stood beside the