Instead, I start the car and head back home to Jules.
I told her I’d be home before dark, but the sky is a deep navy by the time I take the exit to Tavistock, and I push the gas a little harder, the needle ticking toward ninety.
The sooner I’m back, the sooner we’re gone, away from this place, just the two of us.
Just as it should be.
The sky is lighter when I make the turn up the mountain, and for a moment, I’m confused, looking at the clock, glancing back over my shoulder, trying to figure out if the sun is still setting in the western sky.
But no, the compass on the SUV’s dash tells me I’m headed northeast, and the glow in the sky is an odd color, not the soft pinks and purples of Blue Ridge sunsets at all, but a brighter orange.
Fire.
My heart is in my mouth, my hands choking the steering wheel, and the back tires slide as I slam on the gas, climbing higher and higher as the sky gets brighter and the thick smell of smoke starts seeping into the car.
The gates are open, and I tear through them so fast that I hear roots scraping the undercarriage, a distant metallic thunk that can’t be good, but I don’t care because now I’m rounding the last bend, then I slam on the brakes as I raise my hand against the glare.
Ashby House is burning.
Every inch of it is lit up with white-hot flames. The fire engine I now see at the side of the house is blasting water, creating clouds of steam in the night sky. But the steady stream is no match for the blaze.
When I stumble out of the driver’s seat, the heat almost has me reeling back, but I can’t, I have to keep moving toward the house, toward Jules.
“Jules!”
Her name is a harsh scream in my throat, and I call it again and again, eyes frantically searching, but the house is so damn bright, and the few dark figures I see are all in heavy gear.
Firefighters, spraying their hoses, wielding their axes, and I stand there, watching Ashby House burn, imagining Ruby’s portrait inside, those painted eyes somehow intact, watching as flames lick at Jules’s skin, her hair, burning her to ash.
If only you’d been the man I thought you were, Camden. If only you’d picked up that phone.
My knees are weak, and I’m fighting the urge to sink to them when I see white lights off to the other side of the house.
An ambulance, doors flung open, and a figure on a stretcher.
Sitting up. Gesturing toward the house.
Blond hair glowing.
I’m running toward her before I know it, and when she sees me, Jules pulls the oxygen mask off her face. She’s streaked with soot and tears, parts of her hair crisped away, but she’s alive, and already reaching for me.
“Cam!”
I wrap my arms around her, hardly believing it.
“You’re okay,” I say, and one of the EMTs, a redheaded woman I think I went to high school with, gently pushes me back.
“She’s not okay. She’s got a nasty lump on the back of her head, and she’s inhaled a lot of smoke.”
“I’m okay,” Jules argues, then turns to me, insisting again, “I’m okay.”
Her face clouds then, cold fingers tangling with mine. “But Cam … Ben was in there. I don’t know about Libby, but…” Her voice breaks, a sob mixing with a hacking cough.
She tries, she really does.
And it’s good, I have to give it to her. Good enough to fool anyone else. My girl wasn’t a theater major for nothing.
But she can’t hide from me.
Maybe one day she’ll tell me the truth.
Maybe not.
Maybe she’ll wait until she’s in her seventies, and then she’ll write me a long stack of letters, letters that are actually for me this time.
That’s fine.
For now, I just hold her hand in mine and together we watch the McTavishes burn.
From the Desk of Ruby A. McTavish
March 31, 2013
Surprise! Another letter.
I’m sure you thought I was done after the last one. Honestly, so did I. I’d given you everything, darling, so what else was there to say?
But then I got your reply—now thrown in the fire, just as you asked, how very clandestine we’re being!—and, since I have some time tonight, I thought I’d jot one final missive.
Besides, I have some questions for you now, questions I somehow neglected when we met.
Have you always been this clever? It’s just that cleverness does not seem to run in the family, no offense. （And how could I offend, given that it’s my family, too? Insulting your bloodline is insulting mine, let’s not forget, darling.）
Although, I suppose my father/your great-grandfather had a certain kind of low cunning. You have to be pretty ruthless to sell your toddler, after all. But then my mother, your great-grandmother, had the integrity to burn thousands of dollars when she could barely keep a roof over her head.