Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
M att charters a private plane for me to take from LaGuardia to our mystery destination, solely so I can bring Murphy with me. He insists where we're going is “an oasis for Murphy.” My dog has never been on a plane, and I've never flown private, so we are both very excited.
It is luxurious. No headache of security lines and baggage claims and delays. The pilot refuses to cave to my incessant needling for information about where we are going. He tells me he's been sworn to secrecy. I can figure out that we are headed south.
I doze off and wake when we begin our descent. I gather we have not been in the air very long. As we land, I see Matt waiting for me next to the runway. Leaning against a giant black truck, his arms crossed casually, he looks tired and a little pale, but still devastatingly handsome. As I walk down the stairs to the tarmac, his face breaks into a smile, one I've come to learn he reserves just for me.
Murphy runs from behind me and jumps all over him. Matt pets him before bounding over to me and scooping me up in his arms. "Hi, babe.”
"Hi." I kiss him. "Where are we?"
"Virginia. We've got a short drive to our final destination."
I hop into the truck. "Virginia? This wasn't on my guess list."
"I figured. I thought about pivoting to a more exotic location—warmer. The Caribbean, maybe. But I want to show you this place. I wasn't sure when I'd get another chance. Once you see it, I think you'll understand."
"I'm excited."
We drive in silence, holding hands.
"I realized, on my flight here, that I've been living a pretty nomadic life for a long time," he starts.
"Yeah?"
"I've been thinking about it a lot. Home. What is it? Where is it? What am I looking for?"
"What have you come up with?"
"I always thought home was a place. A structure. Something I could see and touch with my hands. But that can't be right, because I have those. My homes in New York and LA. But they feel … incomplete. LA feels a little more homey, I think, because of the yard and the space. But still, it's lacking. New York feels like I'm playing pretend. I sometimes feel like it's a very nice, very expensive, personalized hotel that I crash in when I'm there. So, then I was trying to think about the last time I felt at home. And I had to go back. Way back."
"Back to Allentown?" I guess.
"Yes. Exactly. But it’s not that house. I still get those waves of sadness when I see the actual house. The home I'm thinking of is a moment in time. Me, Eric, my mom, and Dad. It's a memory. I don't even know if it’s real or a fantasy or a mash-up of both. But it’s a Saturday morning. Dad's making pancakes. Mom puts Fleetwood Mac on the record player and goes back into the kitchen, pours a cup of coffee for Dad and then one for herself. Eric and I are on our stomachs on the family room carpet, playing with G.I. Joes. Eric's setting up an epic battle, but I'm not paying attention ‘cause I'm watching Mom and Dad. And feeling this feeling of just pure love. Or joy. Or safety. I felt home."
"Home is a feeling," I echo.
"Yes. Up until now, my efforts to find home have been fruitless, ‘cause I've been looking for the wrong thing."
"And now?"
"Now I think I know what I'm looking for," he says with his half smile.
He jerks the steering wheel to the right, and we head up the side of what appears to be a mountain. There is no road, but a path has been cleared, and the earth is packed down. We pull up to a clearing at the top next to giant oak trees, thirty feet high. Beyond that is a hill that slopes down into endless woods, farmland, and a large pond. The land is surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance, slumbering in the mist. It is breathtaking.
“We’re here!” He is so cheerful he seems boyish—I love it.
I blink at him.
“You are standing where a future house will be built. I bought this land. Twenty-eight acres of pure American beauty.”
“Wow." I walk around, taking in the vastness of this property. "This is incredible. But where are we?” The only sign I saw was for Charlottesville, and that was thirty minutes ago.
“Somewhere in the middle of Albemarle County. We’re about a hundred miles southwest of DC, three hours from Virginia Beach, and about thirty minutes from downtown Charlottesville.”
Murphy busies himself exploring the woods in front of us, sniffing and peeing every few feet.
“Walk with me.” He takes my hand and heads toward a clearing in the wooded part of the property. “My dad has been on me for years about investing my money in something worthwhile. I couldn’t think of a better thing to spend it on than my own piece of land."
“Why here?” It seems so random to me, this place in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
“My quest to find home has been ongoing for a while now. I was in a bit of a rut last year, felt like I wasn’t where I wanted to be in my life, wondering why I was alone when I didn't want to be, just feeling sorry for myself,” he coughs into his elbow, “I opened a map and started typing in different towns, checking out the local real estate. I started looking out West in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, and there were some beautiful options, it just felt like a bit of a cliché, plus I’ve always been an East Coast guy, so I started looking here, too. North seemed too cold, Florida seemed too hot; I wanted to be near the mountains, anyway, so I looked south, and this land popped up. As soon as I saw it on FaceTime with a Realtor, I could picture the house, the sunsets over the mountains, the space, the fresh air. Plus, all the amenities I could ever need are nearby in Charlottesville, and I'm within driving distance of my dad and New York in case the world ever shuts down again. It was perfect, so I put an offer in, and here we are.”
He points to a tiny structure up ahead with an even tinier front porch, two windows, and a stone chimney. “It's taken forever to get the zoning permits, to get water and sewage and electricity up here. But this little house is almost finished. It's not my end goal, but I figure I can eventually turn it into a studio or guest house when I build the main house,” he explains.
I walk inside. It is positively charming—a little studio with exposed beams and stone floors. In the center stands an antique wood burning stove. It has a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and living space. I can imagine two rocking chairs on the front porch and Murphy at my feet.
“What's going on in that mind of yours?” he asks me as I look around.
“I’m thinking you're right. This place is an oasis. I love it.” I never saw myself in the country. I grew up outside of Baltimore, and besides my quick stint in the upper-class suburbia of New Jersey, I've always lived either in or directly outside of a major city. The idea of being out here with all this space, in nothing but nature, feels completely foreign. But I can see the appeal of going off the grid, especially for Matt.
"I love you. And I want your input when I start to draw out the plans for the house."
I freeze. He wants this to be … our house?
"I was thinking about New York. And how when I'm there, we spend almost all our time at your apartment, even though there's more space at mine. Why is that? It's the same when I think back to Christmas—having everyone at my place, the same place I've lived in for years—but me and you, in the kitchen together, music playing, the warmth. These same structures, just typical New York apartments, they aren't anything special. So, what's different?”
I turn toward him, the mountains in the background. My head is spinning, my heart is soaring. I know what he is going to say.
"I think it's you, Jules. You're what feels like home."
I blink back tears and a calm comfort settles in my bones that this is right.
But a split second later, Kerri Taylor's venomous words ring in my ears: When he starts promising you the world, get ready.
I say nothing and lean in to kiss him. "I love you," I whisper in his ear, noticing how warm he feels against my face.
"We aren't staying here this weekend—the water is not reliable just yet, and there is no furniture, clearly. I thought that might not be the relaxing getaway you imagined. I booked us at a spectacular little hotel down closer to the town. We're going to sleep and eat, hit up the local vineyards, and I am going to ravish you. Because a month apart from you is way too long, Jules. We’ve gotta figure that out. As soon as possible. Ready to go?"
I nod. "Yes, we definitely need to figure it out."
* * *
On the short drive to the sprawling boutique hotel, Matt gets the chills. By the time we pull up, his muscles are aching. And once we check in and pull up to our own private cottage, he is burning up. The problem with the gorgeous, expensive boutique hotel is that it does not have a little shop in the lobby where you can buy Tylenol or Alka Seltzer, or Gatorade.
I rifle through the cottage, searching for supplies, barely noticing the beautifully appointed sitting area with fireplace bricks climbing to the ceiling, a blue velvet couch, and the lofted bed with floor to ceiling westward facing windows—everything feeling both old and new.
"Would you believe me if I told you this is called the George Washington suite?" Matt gives me a wan smile from the stairs, where he is hunched over the banister.
I laugh and help him up into the loft and into bed. "I think we're in the land of Thomas Jefferson, though."
"We are. His house … Monticello is around here somewhere. We should go see it."
"Are you okay? This came out of nowhere," I worry.
"I was feeling tired and run down all week, but I thought it was just from traveling and stress." He starts shivering in the bed.
"I'm going to find a CVS."
"No, no, I'll be fine. I'll just take a nap. I have dinner reservations for us at seven."
I give him a look. "Matt. I love you, but you look like shit. We aren't going to dinner. You need medicine."
"No, this is supposed to be your Christmas gift! I've been looking forward to this weekend for an entire month. I'll be fine. Just give me an hour."
He looks miserable, so I make an executive decision and tuck him into bed. Murphy senses something amiss with his beloved Matt, so he hops onto the bed and curls up next to him. I navigate the giant black truck into downtown Charlottesville and see that Matt was right—anything we could need is right here. Stores, restaurants, shopping, plus the University of Virginia, all brick buildings, white columns, and pristine lawns pressed up against the picturesque downtown. The campus gives the town energy, a vibrancy. I am charmed.
I procure supplies, and when I get back to the room, Matt has piled every blanket and towel on top of himself, and is still shivering.
"I think I'm pretty sick," he says sadly as I walk in.
"Oh no, I'm so sorry." I sit next to him on the edge of the bed and give him some Tylenol.
"This is humiliating. And disappointing," he moans. "This is not what I had planned for this weekend. You should go get a different room, so you don't get sick, too. Leave me here to fester in my own germs," he says through chattering teeth.
"Not a chance. I'm not scared of your germs. Just rest."
I change into my pajamas and climb into bed next to him. Murphy snuggles in between us. I stare up at the ceiling, lost in my own thoughts. I accept that I won’t be sleeping tonight between Matt’s tossing and turning as he burns off his fever and my mind busily reading through my news ticker of worries.
I replay my conversation with Meredith, reminding myself to simplify. I know that I love Matt. But is that enough? Why do I feel a little nervous about the idea of a house together—isn't that where this was all headed anyway? My conversation with Nick is still rattling around in my brain, and I need to take stock of things before diving in headfirst. But it's a little late for that. Why do I feel such a strong need to know all the other unknowns about us? I need to talk to him about the Kerri Taylor photos, but why? Why am I doubting him? Do I not trust him? Should I just forget about mentioning any of my concerns at all? No, I need to mention it so I can stop filling in the gaps with worst case scenarios. But when?
I reach over and feel his forehead with the back of my wrist. Not now, he's sick. Maybe tomorrow .