Chapter 1 #2
Once we arrive at the clínica veterinaria, Jorge does most of the talking, and since it’s tough for me to understand the exchanges, he repeats everything back to me in slower Spanish.
The vet, a small man with wavy black hair, looks concerned, but after examining Poco, he says his vital signs are good and there aren’t any injuries or puncture marks indicating a snakebite.
“?Tienen veneno para ratas en la casa?” he asks, and Jorge explains that, yes, there’s rat poison on the property but it’s protected in bait stations.
The vet says that Poco most likely ate or drank something nasty rather than poisonous, but as a precaution he wants to induce vomiting and observe him for at least twenty-four hours.
“Muchas gracias,” I tell him, and kiss Poco’s head. The vet promises to phone later with an update.
As soon as I’m in the car, I call Bas on WhatsApp and fill him in.
“So, the vet isn’t too worried?” he asks anxiously when I’m done.
“He doesn’t seem to be, so you shouldn’t worry, either. Just focus on the meeting with your dad, okay?”
“Thanks, carino. I’ll call you later.”
Like Bas, I feel awful about Poco, but as the kilometers pass, a sense of dismay invades my concern. Poco, the dog with a constitution of a damn ox, has gotten sick during the one time Bas is away overnight. I’m going to be all by myself tonight, maybe tomorrow night, too.
When we reach the property, Jorge drops me at the house and asks if there’s anything I need before he heads to the cottage.
“No, gracias, no necesito nada más,” I tell him, forcing a smile.
I return to the galería and finish reviewing my work on the book.
I also respond to a few emails, including one from my best friend, Ellie, a book editor who came up in publishing at the same time I did and followed, all the way to the end, the career path I imagined for myself but never finished—editorial assistant, associate editor, senior editor, executive editor, and then finally head of an imprint at a major publishing house.
She’s not only been wonderful about staying in touch during the time I’ve been living with Bas, but she’s got a gift for offering the right words of support year after year.
I know I can count on her not to tell me that a flickering lamp or the feather from a red-tailed hawk is a sign that the daughter I will never see again is keeping an eye on me from some other realm.
Finally, at six, there’s a message from the vet. Poco is better, drinking a little water, and might be well enough to return home tomorrow. Knowing Bas is probably talking to his father now, I text him the news instead of calling, and I also shoot a text to Jorge.
Not long afterward, the scent of sautéing chicken and onions wafts from the house. I look up and realize the day has turned to dusk. The only sound is the far-off yawn of cars on the highway leading toward miles of Uruguayan beach towns, including Punta del Este.
As I gather up my laptop and folders, preparing to go inside, I feel my body humming anxiously. I should have gone with Bas, I tell myself.
“?Quisiera comer al aire libre?” Maitena asks when she sees me enter the great room. She’s wondering if I want to eat on the galería since the weather this evening is particularly pleasant.
“No, gracias. Aquí, por favor,” I say, nodding to the dining table. There’s no way I’m sitting out there by myself tonight.
She smiles, retreats to the kitchen, and returns with the chicken dish, rice, and a simple ensalada verde.
I pour myself a glass of red wine. While I eat, I hear her cleaning up in the kitchen, and when she comes back to say good night, there’s a crazy moment when I consider asking her to stay in the guest room tonight.
But what in the world would she think of me if I floated that request?
As soon as I hear her leave through the kitchen, I not only lock up but also begin flicking on lamps and sconces throughout the entire house.
I tell myself that I’m being insane, that even if thieves want to break into a house in the general area, they’ll select one of the fancy estancias around here instead of our chacra.
Bas calls at eight thirty, just as I’m making myself a cup of herbal tea.
“So, how did it go?” I say, eager for his news.
“To our complete shock, he agreed almost instantly to retire. What’s the English expression? Like taking candy from a baby? Needless to say, my mother’s in heaven about it.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Deep down, he must have known it was time.”
“Yes, I think he was waiting for someone to give him permission . . . How about Poco? Any news?”
“Not beyond what I told you.”
“And how about you, Bree? I realized that without the dog, you might be nervous.”
“Just a little,” I say. Bas knows the broad outlines of my history, but I’ve never spelled out to him how much the dark freaks me out. I wonder what he’d think if he could see the house from the highway right now, glittering like a cruise ship sailing north toward Rio.
“Well, you’ll only have one more night alone. Friends of my parents want to take them out Wednesday night to celebrate, so I’m going to catch a midday flight manana instead of coming back Thursday.”
“Fabulous,” I say, feeling a ridiculous rush of relief. “I’ve really missed you.”
“Same here, carino.”
After we say our goodbyes, I settle on the couch with my Kindle. I tell myself to savor the evening—the tea, the peaceful silence, the lingering smell of old woodsmoke from the hearth.
But then, just as my eyes finally focus on a page of text, I hear it: the purr of a car engine. And nearby, not on the highway. Someone is coming up the long dirt driveway.
It’s Maitena and Jorge’s twenty-something-year-old son, I tell myself. Sometimes he visits in the evening. But never this late.
Has someone made a wrong turn? I wonder, rising from the couch. Most of the driveways that are off the main road, the ones to farms and chacras, don’t even have the name of the property posted.
I hear the car come to a stop. The driver will have reached the locked wooden gate just below the house.
For a few seconds I stand with my ears perked, waiting for another sound. The driver backing out, recognizing he’s come down the wrong road. But it’s silent.
I pick up my phone and tap Jorge’s number.
A half dozen rings and then only voicemail.
I try Maitena’s mobile next, but also without luck.
I hurry into the kitchen and glance out the window, gazing through the trees toward the cottage.
It’s dark, except for the security light above the back door. Where in God’s name are they?
I squeeze my head in my hands. How can this be happening? I could hit the panic button on the alarm fob, but it would take forever for anyone from the security company to arrive.
I return to the great room, still straining to hear. Is the driver just sitting in the car, watching the jerky movements of my shadow behind the curtains?
And then another sound comes. Not of the car backing out but footsteps. Softly scuffling along the gravel in front of the house.
Holding my breath, I tiptoe toward the thick wooden door. Whoever’s out there is now standing just on the other side—I can feel it. And then there’s a rap on the wood. My heart nearly explodes in my chest.
“Who is it?” I call out.
No reply.
“Who’s there?”
“Bree, it’s me. Logan.”
Instinctively, my hand flies to my mouth in shock. I reach out and inch open the door, needing to make sure before I swing it all the way.
And then there he is, standing right in front of me, bathed in a small halo of light. My ex-husband. A man I last set eyes on seven years ago.