think of a good enough excuse, so her hand dropped away.
“One more stop,” Peter said, taking off again. “Keep bringing that chest.”
He led them back through the hallway—past the freezer, past the garage’s loading zone and the embalming room—to a door that swung open on the kitchen.
Camilla wasn’t expecting the kitchen to be on the other side of that wall. Before she could even blink, her eyes plunged to the back exit, expecting to see the wet six-year-old boy standing in the doorframe…
But the room was empty.
“Carrots or no carrots?”
“What?” Camilla turned to see Peter pulling open the fridge.
“Carrots it is. Bring the box.”
Camilla carried her chest to the kitchen island and set it down. Peter took off the lid and started loading it up with food from the refrigerator: a bag of carrots, half a baguette, a bowl of cucumber salad, a few prewrapped sandwiches, and a couple of butter tarts.
“Where’d all this come from?” Camilla asked incredulously, remembering the bare refrigerator from the night before.
“I had a hunch mom would be too busy to make dinner tonight, so I put something together.”
“A salad and two sandwiches are going to feed everyone?”
“No,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking it, uh, it could just be us.”
Right
, Camilla thought,
there it is. The moment a guy says something about what he’s thinking without actually saying it. Now I feel stupid
.
“Sure.” She felt herself blush as bright as her hair color.
“I also thought you could use another break from the house.” Peter picked up the chest of food and moved past the oak cabinet—the one that Camilla knew kept the mysterious stack of towels—toward the back exit. “Even if it’s only a stone’s throw away.”
He gripped the latch on the patio door and twisted the handle at the same time, swinging it open to reveal the beautiful back courtyard.
As Peter and Camilla stepped off the veranda, the ugly porch light went out and they were immersed in full, velveteen darkness. Camilla’s eyes dilated and took in a much softer glow: themoonlight washed down from above, complemented by beads of fireflies burning in and out on the breeze. Tiny lawn lights stitched their way along a stony path through the length of the enclosure, and had she not known that there were bars on the shed’s windows, she wouldn’t have noticed it now; the beautiful lighting illuminated a lot, but it obscured a lot too.
Fountains played as Peter and Camilla passed them by, the water dappling off the stonework, and then the walking path curled along the edge of the pond and led them deeper into the night. It wasn’t until now that Camilla got a sense of how big the pond actually was. It was easily the size of a public swimming pool—not Olympic dimensions by any means, but still a very large, slightly oblong basin that was dark enough to be a lot deeper than anyone would think.
Here the soil rolled up with the roots of the tree that towered near the outer edge of the Vincents’ plot. It was massive up close. Its branches hung over the pond, ancient arms reaching out to snare something in the darkness, and the leaves were fully flushed like an emerald mink.
They reached the base of the tree, and Peter set their picnic box on the ground. He put a hand against the black trunk and took a step up.
Camilla squinted and noticed a series of planks nailed into the bark: it was a ladder that snaked up to a tree house camouflaged in the cover of the leaves. In the blink of an eye, Peter was up the steps and inside the house.
“Incoming!” A wicker basket with a rope tied to the handle launched out of the window, soaring through the air, and flopped to the ground. “Load the food and come on up!”
Camilla placed their picnic inside the basket and gave the rope a tug, then braced her body against the tree and hoisted herself up the first two planks.
The higher she got, the more of a rush she felt. The
“One more stop,” Peter said, taking off again. “Keep bringing that chest.”
He led them back through the hallway—past the freezer, past the garage’s loading zone and the embalming room—to a door that swung open on the kitchen.
Camilla wasn’t expecting the kitchen to be on the other side of that wall. Before she could even blink, her eyes plunged to the back exit, expecting to see the wet six-year-old boy standing in the doorframe…
But the room was empty.
“Carrots or no carrots?”
“What?” Camilla turned to see Peter pulling open the fridge.
“Carrots it is. Bring the box.”
Camilla carried her chest to the kitchen island and set it down. Peter took off the lid and started loading it up with food from the refrigerator: a bag of carrots, half a baguette, a bowl of cucumber salad, a few prewrapped sandwiches, and a couple of butter tarts.
“Where’d all this come from?” Camilla asked incredulously, remembering the bare refrigerator from the night before.
“I had a hunch mom would be too busy to make dinner tonight, so I put something together.”
“A salad and two sandwiches are going to feed everyone?”
“No,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking it, uh, it could just be us.”
Right
, Camilla thought,
there it is. The moment a guy says something about what he’s thinking without actually saying it. Now I feel stupid
.
“Sure.” She felt herself blush as bright as her hair color.
“I also thought you could use another break from the house.” Peter picked up the chest of food and moved past the oak cabinet—the one that Camilla knew kept the mysterious stack of towels—toward the back exit. “Even if it’s only a stone’s throw away.”
He gripped the latch on the patio door and twisted the handle at the same time, swinging it open to reveal the beautiful back courtyard.
As Peter and Camilla stepped off the veranda, the ugly porch light went out and they were immersed in full, velveteen darkness. Camilla’s eyes dilated and took in a much softer glow: themoonlight washed down from above, complemented by beads of fireflies burning in and out on the breeze. Tiny lawn lights stitched their way along a stony path through the length of the enclosure, and had she not known that there were bars on the shed’s windows, she wouldn’t have noticed it now; the beautiful lighting illuminated a lot, but it obscured a lot too.
Fountains played as Peter and Camilla passed them by, the water dappling off the stonework, and then the walking path curled along the edge of the pond and led them deeper into the night. It wasn’t until now that Camilla got a sense of how big the pond actually was. It was easily the size of a public swimming pool—not Olympic dimensions by any means, but still a very large, slightly oblong basin that was dark enough to be a lot deeper than anyone would think.
Here the soil rolled up with the roots of the tree that towered near the outer edge of the Vincents’ plot. It was massive up close. Its branches hung over the pond, ancient arms reaching out to snare something in the darkness, and the leaves were fully flushed like an emerald mink.
They reached the base of the tree, and Peter set their picnic box on the ground. He put a hand against the black trunk and took a step up.
Camilla squinted and noticed a series of planks nailed into the bark: it was a ladder that snaked up to a tree house camouflaged in the cover of the leaves. In the blink of an eye, Peter was up the steps and inside the house.
“Incoming!” A wicker basket with a rope tied to the handle launched out of the window, soaring through the air, and flopped to the ground. “Load the food and come on up!”
Camilla placed their picnic inside the basket and gave the rope a tug, then braced her body against the tree and hoisted herself up the first two planks.
The higher she got, the more of a rush she felt. The
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