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Also ready to be rid of us, driver Gary ushers us from the bus into a sleek black sedan waiting nearby. I’m sure these two are about to get very, very drunk. I don’t know what happens to our bags, but the car is pulling away from the curb before I have any sense that things have been moved; it’s a Secret Service–level transfer. Ted apparently does not fuck around.
With Rusty in the front, and Carey situated between me and Melissa in the spacious back seat, we leave Laramie proper and drive about a half hour into what can best be described as the middle of nowhere, where houses become spaced farther and farther apart, the soft rolling hills so green it seems impossible that they’re real. I’m grateful for the silence, because the view is unbelievable. The Laramie River winds its way through the landscape, glittering in the late-afternoon sun like a trail of jewels.
Our driver turns down a series of increasingly rustic dirt roads before pulling up in front of a sprawling log cabin set only about forty feet back from a wide bend in the river. I peek down at my phone: no cell service. I doubt Wi-Fi is robust here, either. Good news, bad news: Melissa won’t be able to see reviews, tweets, or Instagram photos of her from her bad side, but we also won’t be able to easily check in with the outside world. We are a good half-hour drive from any stores, and—I note with some degree of trepidation—at least as far from any hospital.
Rusty climbs out and disappears around the back of the cabin, muttering something about needing some air, and I note that Carey and I both relax a bit when we only have one Tripp to manage at a time. Maybe if they don’t speak to each other for an entire week, everything will blow over. One can hope.
Melissa stares up at the hulking cabin and lets out a long-suffering sigh. “I guess it’s big enough.”
I can’t tell if she’s trying to be funny, or if the woman who helps families fit into the shoe boxes they can afford has genuinely become that spoiled: the home in front of us is easily big enough for twenty people.
There’s a dusty old sedan parked along one side of the house, and I’m hoping the keys are inside. As we approach the front door, I see our bags are waiting for us on the porch.
“I have no idea what kind of magic was involved in them beating us here,” Carey says under her breath, “but I’m into it.”
There’s an envelope taped to the front door, and I pull it off. Opening it, I find a key and a short welcome note from the property manager. Once I have everything unlocked, Melissa sweeps past her luggage and disappears inside.
A glance at Carey’s hands tells me she’s not having a good day: they’re rock solid, curled into fists, and even when she tries to shake them out I know that carrying even the smallest bag inside is going to be a challenge. How physically exhausting must it be to focus on every movement, to feel like your own muscles are fighting you, I think. I’m suddenly and blindingly furious with Melissa for being so consistently inconsiderate.
But Carey is Carey, and immediately reaches for the closest suitcase. I wave her off, she gives me a tiny, grateful smile, and guilt drills a hole in my stomach. If it weren’t for my encouragement, she would have quit before we got to Portland and would probably be home by now. I remind myself that in a few weeks we’ll both be out of this mess and in a better position. “Go figure out where we’re all sleeping, and I’ll bring these in.”
When she disappears inside, I take a moment to appreciate the masterful design of the property. The porch platform, columns, and cornice are constructed from the same beautiful redwood that frames each window; the finial and valleys of the roof are deep, sharp angles that make my blood sing.
Inside, the front door opens to an enormous entryway: The house is two broad stories and the second floor overlooks the foyer, with a knobby cherry railing lining a circular view down onto the gleaming hardwood floor. There is a huge living room straight ahead of me, a fireplace flanked by twin casement windows with lead glass, from floor to ceiling, that overlook the river. An expansive chef’s kitchen stretches to the right of the front foyer, and a hall to the left of the entryway leads, I find, to a family room, entertainment suite, and game room.
Carey calls from upstairs: “I have Melly and Rusty each situated, and there are ten bedrooms left. How picky are you feeling?”
“I feel like a room with a bed is fine,” I tell her.
