cloud of white. And there was no way to turn back. The road was too narrow and far too dangerous for that.
She was driving blind, trapped in the heart of what seemed to be the beginning of a blizzard. All she could do was hunch over the steering wheel, urge the car forward inch by slippery inch, and try not to wonder whether or not she had the ‘new-fangled’ brakes she’d pooh-poohed just half an hour ago.
The old man had been right. She’d been stupid not to have rented a car with four-wheel drive. Who was she kidding? She’d been stupid to have decided to come to the cabin at all.
Everyone had tried to tell her that. Not just the guy at the gas station. The clerk who’d rented her the car. The traffic cop in Burlington, when she’d asked for directions. Even Belinda, her agent, who knew as much about New England as a vegetarian knew about a pot roast, had blanched when Holly had said she was taking off for a few weeks in Vermont.
‘Where?’ Belinda had said incredulously—but Belinda figured that civilization ended once you took the Lincoln Tunnel out of Manhattan.
‘It’s a place called North Mountain,’ Holly had replied. ‘I’ve rented a cabin.’
‘You’re going to spend a few weeks in a cabin?’ Belinda repeated, the way someone else might have said, ‘You’re going to spend a few weeks on the Moon?’
‘That’s right. It’s very luxurious. There’s a Jacuzzi, a huge stall shower, a big fireplace in the living room…’
Belinda snorted. ‘Try the Waldorf. It’s got all that, plus room service.’
Holly did her best to offer a cheerful little laugh.
‘I need a change of routine,’ she said. ‘ A real one, before I start on the next book. You know how hard I’ve been working this year, and there’s a whole bunch of ideas I want to try before I begin writing…’
And then she stopped, because she knew she was babbling, because she could tell from the look on Belinda’s elegant face that she knew it, too.
‘Poor darling,’ Belinda crooned. ‘You really do sound exhausted.’
‘Oh, I am,’ Holly said quickly, because it was true. She was stressed.
That was what she told herself, at first.
She’d been working hard. She had been for the past seven years—well, six years, ever since she and Nick had been divorced. Her parents had wanted her to come home and pick up her life as if nothing had happened but something had happened, and Holly wasn’t about to pretend otherwise. The last vestiges of girlhood had fallen away the day she took off her wedding ring. So she’d explained, as gently as possible, that going home just wasn’t possible. She’d refused her father’s offer of financial support the same as she’d refused Nick’s, and set out to create a life for herself.
And she’d done it.
The little column for the Green Mountain Daily had blossomed into a monthly feature for What’s Cookin’? magazine, and it led to the contract for her first cookbook. Holly had found herself on the fast track, and she loved it. She could put in six hours in the kitchen, another two at the computer, tumble into bed and wake up the next morning, eager to start all over again. At least she had, until a couple of weeks ago.
The first time she’d awakened in the middle of the night with a knot in her belly and another in her throat, she’d figured it was a sign she’d put too many capers into the Putanesca.
By the fourth time, though, she knew it wasn’t a recipe gone wrong that had awakened her.
It was her dreams.
She was dreaming of Nick, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t done that in almost six years, hadn’t seen him in almost six years, hadn’t thought about him in almost six years…
It was a long time. The realization hit at three o’clock on a cold December morning, when she awakened with Nick’s name on her lips. That wasn’t heartburn she was feeling, it was anger. And why not? She was coming up on the seventh anniversary of what had begun as a marriage and had ended as a disaster.
Holly rose from bed, wrapped herself in her robe and padded out to the living room. She clicked on the TV and surfed through a bunch of movies that had been old before she was born. She zipped past a pair of talking heads that were deep in what she’d thought was a discussion of ghosts, then zipped right back when she realized the ‘ghosts’ they were discussing weren’t spooks at all but memories, unwanted ones, of people in a person’s past.
‘So, Doctor,’ the interviewer chirruped, ‘how does one put these memories to rest?’
Holly, with one hand deep in a bowl of leftover gourmet popcorn, paused and stared at the set.
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘how?’
‘By facing them,’ the good doctor replied. He pointed his bearded jaw at the camera, so that his bespectacled eyes seemed to bore straight into Holly’s. ‘Seek out your ghosts. You know where they lurk. Confront them, and lay them to rest.’
Pieces of nut-and-sugar-encrusted popcorn tumbled, unnoticed, into Holly’s lap as she zapped the TV into silence.
‘North Mountain,’ she’d whispered, and the very next morning she’d phoned her travel agent. Was the cabin on the mountain still available? The answer had taken a while but eventually it had come. The cabin was there, it was for rent, and now here she was, about to face her ghosts…or to turn into one herself, if she didn’t make it up this damned mountain.
There! Off to the left, through the trees. Holly could make out the long, narrow gravel driveway. It was still passable, thanks to the sheltering overhang of branches.
The car skidded delicately but the tires held as she made the turn.
She pulled up to the garage, fumbled in the glove compartment for the automatic door opener the realtor had given her. The door slid open. Holly smiled grimly. So much for the old man’s predictions about a power outage, and thank goodness for that. Night had fallen over the mountain and for the first time it occurred to her that it wouldn’t be terribly pleasant to be marooned here without electricity.
Carefully, she eased the car into the garage. Seconds later, with the door safely closed behind her, she groaned and let her head flop back against the seat rest.
She was safe and sound—but what on earth had she thought she was doing, coming to this cabin? You didn’t bury your ghosts by resurrecting them.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said brusquely, as she pulled her suitcase from the car and made her way into the kitchen.
She switched on the light. There was the stove, where she’d prepared the very first meal she and Nick had shared as husband and wife. There was the silver ice bucket, where he’d chilled the bottle of cheap champagne that was all they’d been able to afford after they’d blown everything on renting this place for their honeymoon. There was the table, where they’d had their first dinner…where they’d almost had it, because just as she’d turned to tell Nick the meal was ready, he’d snatched her up into his arms and they’d ended up making love right there, with her sitting on the edge of the counter and him standing between her thighs, while their burgers burned to a crisp.
The lights flickered. Deep in the basement, the heating system hesitated, then started up again. Holly sighed in gratitude.
What on earth was she doing here? She was an idiot, to have come back to this place.
‘Worse than an idiot,’ she said, in a voice blurred with tears—not that she was weeping with regret. Why would she? Marrying Nick had been a mistake. Divorcing him had been the right thing to do, and she didn’t regret it, she never had. She was crying with anger at herself, at the storm that was going to make it impossible for her to turn around and drive down the mountain…
The lights blinked again. In a moment, the power would go