Chapter 8
She swung her legs over the side of the mattress. The undyed flax nightshirt hung limp around her calves, rough against her skin. Over the last four days, her wardrobe had vanished in increments. Her sapphire silk blouse had "accidentally caught on a nail" in the washroom; her crimson wool pencil skirt had been placed in a cedar chest at the back of the attic because David insisted moth larvae were migrating from the valley floor. In their place hung five identical shifts of gray-brown linen, smelling of lye and rain.
She walked barefoot down the center hallway toward the second-floor library David had designated as her temporary drafting room.
The house was dead quiet. Downstairs, the grandfather clock David had restored—an 1820s tall-case with a cast-iron pendulum—struck seven with a dull, leaden chime.
Rachel stepped into the drafting room. The cherrywood table David had built for her sat under the double-hung dormer, illuminated by a pale, watery dawn. She moved around the table to the small rosewood secretary desk where she kept her business receipts, tax forms, and the duplicate keys to her Subaru.
She reached for the middle drawer.
The brass ring pull yielded smoothly, oiled with the same obsessive precision as every hinge in the house.
Rachel reached into the dark cedar recess where her leather-bound passport wallet usually sat behind the envelope of spare registration tags.
Her fingers met empty wood.
She froze. She pulled the drawer out until the safety catches engaged.
The registration was there. Her college diploma was there, rolled neatly in a cardboard cylinder.
The navy-blue passport with its gold-embossed eagle was gone.
Beside where it had rested, the molded black plastic spare key fob for her Subaru—the one with the miniature silver carabiner she had carried since graduate school—was also missing. Only a small, square pale patch in the cedar dust marked where the plastic had rested for two weeks.
Rachel’s mouth went dry, the taste of zinc flooding under her tongue.
She pushed the drawer shut, her hands trembling so violently that the brass ring clattered against the escutcheon.
Downstairs, the heavy rattle of an iron skillet hitting the cast-iron stove lid broke the silence.
Rachel walked to the top of the stairs, her feet silent on the rag runner.
David was in the open kitchen, framed by the wide doorway. He was wearing his clean, charcoal-gray flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled precisely twice to reveal his sinewy, hair-dusted forearms. He was whistling the low, minor-key melody of *Wayfaring Stranger*, tilting a seasoned skillet to let butter coat the surface.
On the soapstone island beside him sat his heavy canvas tool tote and a yellow legal pad covered in his exquisite, draftsman’s cursive. At the top of the page, beneath the date, Rachel could read the neat heading from the landing: *Pineville Hardware & Timber Manifest.*
He was going to town.
Rachel took a breath, held it until the trembling in her ribcage subsided into a tight, hard ache, and walked down the steps.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice dropping into the quiet timber of the hallway.
David turned. His face broke into that immediate, luminous tenderness that had once felt like an answered prayer. He set the wooden spatula down and crossed the kitchen floor, wiping his hands on a clean tea towel before reaching out to draw her against his chest.
His wool smelled of cured hickory and cold morning air.
“You’re up early, Rae,” he murmured, his lips brushing the crown of her head. “The house is still cold. I haven't stoked the lower firebox yet.”
“I couldn't sleep,” she said, resting her forehead against his breastbone, feeling the slow, unhurried, eighty-beats-per-minute thud of his heart. It was terrifyingly calm. “I went to look for my passport. I thought I should put our marriage certificate and the deed documents into the safety deposit box next time we go into the county seat.”
David’s hand stroked her spine, long, soothing strokes that traveled from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.
“I took them down to the workshop yesterday, darling,” he said smoothly, without a microsecond of hesitation. “The moisture in this valley is brutal on untreated paper. I put your passport, your social security card, and the title papers into my fireproof Sentry safe behind the lathe. The air down there is dehumidified. You don't have to worry about them degrading.”
“And the spare car key?” she asked, looking up into his gray eyes. “The black fob?”
David’s smile remained intact, indulgent and fatherly. He pinched her cheek with gentle fingers.
“I sent the spare down to the regional Subaru dealer in Asheville with the mail carrier yesterday, Rae,” he said, turning back toward the stove to crack two brown eggs into the sizzling butter. “The master technician needed the electronic chip inside the fob to reprogram the new starter relay they’re cutting for us. If we don't code the key to the new ignition barrel, the computer immobilizer will lock the steering column permanently.”
He slid the eggs onto a wide stoneware plate, garnishing them with fresh watercress from the cold-frame outside the kitchen door.
“Breakfast, my sweet,” he said, gesturing to the table. “Eat while it’s hot. I have to drive forty miles into Asheville this morning to pick up five hand-hewn oak rafters for the valley chapel ceiling. The flatbed trailer is already hooked up.”
Rachel sat down at the table. Her stomach twisted into a knot of cold grease, but she picked up her fork, forced herself to cut through the yellow yolk, and chewed.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the ceramic plate.
“The yard in Asheville takes two hours to strap and balance a heavy load,” David said, pulling his waxed canvas coat off the peg by the door. “With the mountain grade and the trailer weight, I won't be back before four. Three-thirty at the very earliest.”
He stepped behind her chair, bent down, and kissed the nape of her neck, his beard scratching her bare skin.
“Bolt the front door after I pull through the gate, Rae,” he whispered, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders. “Miller is patrolling the bottom road, but I don't want you wandering out into the timber. If Elena has been watching the road, she knows my truck’s engine sound. Stay inside the perimeter. Read. Draw. Let the valley take care of you.”
He picked up his tool tote and his manifest.
Rachel listened to his heavy boots crunch across the gravel. The massive V8 of the Grand Wagoneer turned over with a deep, authoritative rumble. The metallic clank of the trailer hitch echoed through the trees.
She stood by the narrow sidelight of the front door, her fingers pressed against the cold glass, watching the red taillights of the Wagoneer disappear down the winding hemlock corridor.
Through the trees, half a mile away, she saw the brake lights flare.
David was stopping at the stone pillars.
She heard the faint, metallic rattle of the heavy chain, the snap of the brass padlock.
Then the engine roar deepened, receding down the mountain until the ridge swallowed the last vibration, leaving behind a silence so total it felt like pressure in her ears.
