Cindy’s parents never liked the idea of the two of us being together. We were from different worlds, Cindy and me. The Lovelands, they had a big white house with a fountain in the front and people to do their cleaning. All their money was on account of Mrs. Loveland, who was filthy rich and always had been.
Anyhow. Cindy found out she was pregnant and I’m telling you: I’d never been happier. I guess you could say she felt torn about it, and the fact that her parents tried to convince her to put an end to it didn’t make it any easier on her. But after a while I convinced her to move out to Lincoln’s place with me and to keep the baby because it was ours—it was our baby and we would love it and take care of it, and we could be happy. The thing was, we really were happy for a while. The two of us and then the three of us.
But then. One night me and Cindy and Grace Elizabeth were driving home. We’d run out of diapers and we went to the Shop ’n Save to get some. With the new baby, we didn’t get out much, so it was sort of our big trip of the week, something to do, a reason to leave the house. Cindy had fixed her hair and put on makeup. Anyhow, on the way home it was raining and dark and a deer ran out and I slammed on the brakes and we slid and the car rolled and rolled. Me and Grace Elizabeth were okay but not Cindy.
So then it was just me and Grace Elizabeth.
Gone, just like that. How your life can go from the three of you, so happy, to—
Well. A lot of things happened in those days after Cindy died. Things I’d rather not relive, things I’m not proud of. The long and short of it is this: we needed a place to go, the baby and me, somewhere we could be safe and together, sheltered from all of the forces that were trying to keep us apart. I thought of Jake’s offer and the key he’d given me. The rutted road that was barely a road. The little cabin, so beautiful. The hundred acres of woods surrounding it and then the hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest beyond its borders. The stream where Jake and me had caught trout that glimmered and twisted in our palms. And that’s where we went.
SIX
The day after I tell Finch about Jake, I’m at the woodstove, frying eggs like usual, and Finch is reading at the table, her finger tracing the fine print, her voice full of meaning. She always reads like that, with passion, just like Cindy. The eggs hiss; the woodstove crackles and hums.
Then, footsteps: someone crossing the front porch.
Heart scuttles up to my throat, stomach drops. I slide the skillet from the heat. “Root beer,” I say, and Finch bolts from her chair and darts toward the root cellar, fast. Instinct. A thing we have trained for, dozens of times. She’s there before I even turn around.
Rap, rap, rap.
And then a face peering in through the window. Scotland. Been a long time since he’s come to the door. He presses his face against the glass and gestures to the door.
“It’s all right, Finch,” I say.
She’s already halfway down the ladder, so she climbs back up, sees him at the window. She grins and bolts toward the door, sliding the two locks. I close the root cellar and straighten out the rug.
Over the years, we’ve had snoopers. A hunter who was technically on national forest land but close. He raised a hand, I waved back. That was all. But another time, we had a forest ranger who wandered onto our property. We were outside that time, and took cover in the woods. He peered in the windows, plucked some ripe blueberries. About a year later, two hikers who were lost. We hid then, too. Dashed into the root cellar so fast I forgot to lock the front door. They knocked, opened the door, called out. Then they plopped themselves right onto the front porch and ate granola, no lie. We could hear them talking. So, not that many trespassers, but enough that it has warranted our having a game plan, should someone appear unannounced.
Finch flings open the door. “Scotland!” She throws her arms around his waist and leans her head against his chest.
“Careful, little bird. Careful.” He pats his chest. “Something special in here and it’s fragile.” He stands in the doorway.
“Might as well come in,” I tell him.
He steps in, closing the door behind him and looking around. Probably casing the joint. “Here,” he says to Finch, kneeling down to her height, pointing to his jacket. “Unzip me and you’ll see.”
Finch squeals and steps forward. Slowly, she pulls at the zipper of his coat.
“Can’t you do that yourself, Scotland?” I stab the eggs with the spatula.
A nose emerges at his chest, pink and whiskered. Then eyes, ears, paws. A white kitten.