Chapter 8
Hope
By the time we finish eating, Bellamy is rubbing her eyes and I’ve stifled two yawns.
Luna waves toward the stairs. "Thank you for cooking. I’ve got clean up. Go rest. Take a bath. Whatever you need. I’ll be in my studio if you need anything. And please sleep in tomorrow. The kale will wait.”
I’m literally here because it won’t, but I’m not going to argue her generosity when a bath and that quiet bedroom are being dangled in front of me.
So I take Bellamy upstairs. The bathroom is simple but clean, with fluffy towels and a collection of what looks like handmade soap. I choose one that smells like lavender and let Bella splash in the tub until the water gets cold.
By the time I get her into pajamas, she's yawning.
"Story?" she asks hopefully, climbing into the big bed.
I don't have any books. I left them all behind, along with everything else that we couldn’t wear out on our bodies. But I curl up next to her and make up a story about a brave frog who helps a little girl find her way home.
She falls asleep before the frog even meets the friendly dragon, her breathing evening out into the soft snuffle that means she's deeply under.
I return to the bathroom and fill the tub again. I keep the door open until the last second, not wanting anything between me and Bellamy. When I turn off the tap, my hands are shaking. I listen to the quiet house as I strip out of my clothes and slip with a gentle splash into the hot water.
Nothing interrupts my soak. Not Bellamy waking up, not anyone else in the house moving around. I strain to analyze even the silence, knowing I’m paranoid, knowing I should relax into the water.
I can’t.
The heat feels good. Getting clean feels even better.
But I wash myself with efficient speed, and as soon as I feel scrubbed enough, I pull the drain and get out.
My heart pounds as I towel off and try to decide which of my five items of clothing will make acceptable PJs tonight.
The relief I feel when I slide into bed next to Bellamy isn’t normal, I know that.
This is why I need to keep running.
Derek is paranoid and doesn’t trust the government. Doesn’t have any current ID, either. So he won’t be able to get on a plane. I have to get far enough away that it would be too risky for him to get to me, even if he tracked down my location.
Saskatchewan, maybe. Manitoba. Ontario, even, if my car can get that far.
Maybe I’ll keep driving until I reach the far end of Canada. Hide away somewhere in Newfoundland until Bellamy and—
I snap my eyes shut and roll onto my back, fighting to control my breathing.
Go to sleep, Hope.
I need it. I can feel my body screaming for rest.
But even with my eyes squeezed tight, I lie awake for what feels like hours, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of this place. Wind in the trees outside. The distant sound of animals. The creak of light footsteps heading up a far stairwell, in the direction of Luna’s studio.
And then nothing.
I wonder how long it took her to stop looking over her shoulder, or if, even after twenty years, maybe she still does.
I wake before dawn, ripped from sleep by a nightmare that fades before I can see it clearly.
I shiver, even though the room we’re sleeping in is nice and warm.
“Mommy?”
“Good morning, Bella.” I reach for her, and she crawls on top of me.
But it doesn’t take long before she wriggles down. “I have to pee.”
Once we’re both refreshed, I get us dressed for the day, butterflies rioting in my belly. I need to ask Luna if I can do some laundry, because our clothes are dirty. But since we’re going to be in the greenhouses all day, that’s not the end of the world.
Downstairs, we follow the scent of coffee and something sweet to the kitchen, where Bellamy’s eyes light up at the sight of muffins on the counter.
“There are eggs in the fridge, if you’d like,” Luna says from behind me.
I whirl around.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I press my hand to my chest. “Good morning. Muffins are all we need.”
“Zane makes bacon for everyone, too. It’s in the oven.” She crosses to the coffee pot and fills her mug. “Cups are here, if you want some.”
I move myself forward. “Thank you.” And now I need to ask for yet another favour. “I was hoping I could maybe do some laundry tonight?”
“Of course. There’s a washer and dryer at the end of the hall, in the mudroom next to the library.
And we have extra clothes that you can wear while we’re working, too…
” She scurries away, then returns with a small stack of soft, worn cotton.
“These are t-shirts and flannel pants that I’ve been saving to use as rags at some point.
You’re nice and tall, so they might fit you, although they’ll be a bit baggy. ”
“Baggy is fine. I’m grateful.” I glance at Bellamy. “Can I leave her here while I run these upstairs?”
“Of course.” Luna smiles at my daughter. “So you like muffins?”
I don’t bother to change when I’m upstairs. The clothes she gave me are clean and the ones I’m wearing are not, so I might as well save those for tonight.
The thought of sliding into freshly washed flannel pants and a faded t-shirt after my bath sounds amazing.
Downstairs, I find Bellamy’s face free of crumbs and her hands wiped clean.
Luna picks up her mug and opens the back door. “Shall we harvest some kale?”
We take our time getting started, slowly finishing our coffee as we check out the octagonal dome first, then walk through the crop areas making a plan for the day.
Three hours later, we’ve picked through the entire crop.
It’s hard on the fingers, but the rhythm of gathering the outer leaves is kind of nice.
Luna has planted oregano and thyme in with the kale in the high tunnel, and a kaleidoscope of different mum varieties edge the greenhouse—both pest deterrents, she explains, but it has the side effect of everything smelling a lot nicer than Derek’s shitty version of the same setup.
Plus she’s built her beds up more, with gravel underfoot, so it’s less muddy.
“You learn fast,” Luna observes when we’re back in the house making lunch. “Or maybe you have more gardening experience than I thought?”
“My ex wanted me to be a gardener. And a homeschooler, and a home maker. Full on trad wife fantasy,” I say with more bitter honesty than I should admit to a stranger.
“That sounds really challenging." She turns to face me fully, and there's something like concerned understanding in her expression, and it makes me want to share more.
“He didn’t have this much land on his homestead, and everything was always wet. He had a polytunnel, but it was a nightmare. It stank like rodents and it was hard to grow anything without it being a feast for mice.” I press my lips together to stop from saying anything else.
The less she knows about Derek, the better.
But since she doesn’t understand why, she misreads my silence. "Hope, I want you to know... you can talk to me. About anything. I know we just met, but sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger. Especially a stranger who's been through her own hell."
My throat tightens. "I don't—"
"You don't have to." She holds up a hand. "I'm just saying, if you ever want to... I'm here. And nothing you tell me leaves this kitchen unless you want it to."
I stare down at my half-constructed sandwich. Part of me wants to spill everything—the compound, the cameras, Derek's escalating control, the fear that wakes me in the night convinced he's found us.
But the words stick in my throat.
"I just want to work,” I finally manage. I need to work. To feel like I'm earning this kindness, this safety, however temporary it might be.
Just until my car is fixed and we can keep running.