“Close your mouth, dear. You’ll catch flies. Speaking of which, maybe I’ll text Joe about the bug spray. You’ll get eaten alive out there.”
I pushed my chair back and took my plate to the sink. “I have some.”
“Make sure it’s the beat kind.”
“The beat kind?”
“Yes. To beat the ticks away.”
I looked at her for a moment, trying to figure out what she was saying. Then it clicked. “DEET?”
“What? No, your feet should be fine if they’re covered.”
Shaking my head, I went upstairs to get ready.
When Joe arrived, he had a backpack, water bottles, and a can of OFF!, which he offered to me. “I put stuff on already.”
“Is it the deep woods kind?”
“Are we going into deep woods?”
He nodded, and I took the can and sprayed myself liberally with trepidation. Hiking wasn’t exactly my scene. Going for a jog along the beach? Yes. A walk through a seaside town? Lovely. Outdoorsy wasn’t an adjective one would use to describe me though. But my grandmother’s comment—What are you?—echoed in my head. I was never going to be as difficult as she was, but I refused to be boring. So I pulled my hair up into a ponytail, knelt to double-knot my shoes, and said, “Let’s go.”
I expected we would drive somewhere, but Joe led us past the cottage to the end of the street, where there was an empty, overgrown lot before the forest started in earnest. The remains of a rock wall led along the edge of the property, and we walked beside them. I pointed to a pile of rocks in the middle of the tall grass. “What’s that?”
“It was the Gardner house.”
“I don’t—”
“The family lived there for a hundred and fifty years or so. They gradually lost their money, and the last one died in the fifties. There was some legal issue with the property being entailed, and that’s the only reason there aren’t McMansions or some horrible townhouse complex there.”
“This many years later?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know who owns it. But the house was torn down before I was born.”
“When were you born?” He looked approximately my age, but I was curious.
“A year before you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Is there anything my grandmother hasn’t told you? The song I danced to in the sixth grade talent show? How I like my steak? My bra size?”
He glanced at my chest, and I blushed. That had just popped out of my mouth. But I stood my ground and didn’t cross my arms even though I wanted to. My grandmother wouldn’t have. She would have owned it.
He grinned. “None of the above. I know you’re a teacher, we’re about the same age, and you’re divorced.”
“Going through a divorce. Not divorced yet.”
“Are you getting back together?”
“No.”
“Then is there that big a difference?”
I didn’t respond, and we walked past the tall grass to a narrow path that led into the woods.
But a few hundred feet in, all signs of the path disappeared.
“How do you know where we’re going?” I asked.
“There’s a trail.”
“Where?”
“It’s a little overgrown. Not many people come out this way anymore, I guess.”
“You’re not bringing me out here to murder me, are you?”
“No.”
“Okay, but see, you didn’t laugh at that one.” He finally did. “I’d hate to find out this mysterious business of my grandmother’s was to have me killed.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she’s working for my hus—soon-to-be-ex-husband.”
“And divorcing you isn’t good enough?” I didn’t reply, and he looked back at me. “Ouch. What did you do?”
“Nothing! He’s the one who wanted the divorce. I was blindsided.”
“Then why would he have you killed?”
“He wouldn’t. I just . . . DC law lets you divorce after six months if both parties agree that it was mutual . . .” I trailed off.
“And you didn’t agree?”
“Not yet.” I shook my head. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want him back or anything. I just . . .”
“Want him to suffer.”
“Is that really so wrong? He’s living with his new girlfriend.”
He looked back over his shoulder at me, a wry smile on his face. “Then you’re right. Let him suffer.”