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Chapter 7
Melanie stood on the balcony, watching as Rhys hopped into Zanifa’s car with a cheery wave, as if they’d been the best of friends for years. She felt a small, protective pang, but reminded herself that Queenie had personally assured her that the governess was both highly trained and trustworthy, and he would be safe with her.
At Queenie’s suggestion—and on Queenie’s dime—the two were off to town to shop for new clothes for Rhys, since they’d packed so hastily and scantily. They had also debated long and hard about other necessaries, including a new microscope for biology, a sheaf of charts for astronomy, and garden tools for the herb garden they’d decided over breakfast that the house desperately needed. Back home, Rhys had maintained a row of small potted herbs on the windowsill: basil, thyme, dill, and oregano, but here, with unlimited space, he was already waxing poetic about all the gardening he could do.
“Did you know there are over 600 varieties of mint?” he’d enthused.
Zanifa had shaken her head gravely. “Non. I did not.”
He began counting off his fingers. “My favorites are spearmint, peppermint, chocolate mint, and orange mint. At least those are easiest to find at the gardening store back home. But I’m sure we can find so much more. And lemongrass! We’ve never had enough space at home to grow lemongrass!”
Melanie had looked on silently, smiling on the outside even though her heart was painfully swelling. It was good to see Rhys so happy, so relaxed. Sharing something he loved with no fear of recrimination. When she and Wilder were still together, his reaction would have been enough to make Rhys withdraw into his shell just like the snails in the kitchen: “What nonsense are you talking about plants, boy? Who the heck cares about that? What are you, some sort of nerd? Why don’t you go outside and kick around the ball I got you? Like a normal kid?”
She felt the dull ache in her chest at the memory, and wondered if that recording, that mocking, denigrating voice, played out in Rhys’s head as often as it played out in hers.
There was no question that being here would be good for him. Here, in this tiny village in France, her son would be able to be his true self, and express his love without fear.
Melanie straightened up. There was only one way to ensure that she stayed, that she could see this project to its end, not just for her own sake but for her son’s. She would have to find Corbin Durant, apologize for her crazy assault this morning, and plead with him to reconsider.
She consulted the location Queenie had sent her again. It looked like he was just two kilometers away; a little over a mile, she calculated. Should be easy; she walked twice a week down at the high school track, even jogged a little from time to time.
She put on her sneakers, locked the front door, and headed out, consulting her phone frequently as she went. The road was reasonably well paved, just about wide enough for two cars to pass each other, but for the first time she realized how hilly the terrain was. It meant that the road meandered back and forth, veering sharply around corners and then correcting itself in the opposite direction.
Forty-five minutes later, she consulted her GPS and noted that she’d been overly optimistic about the distance between the two properties. Sure, Durant’s house was just a short distance away as the crow flies, but following this unreasonably looping road, switchback after switchback, it was a heck of a lot longer than that.
And she’d stupidly left the house without water.
When she was an hour in, she stopped to catch her breath, propping her hands on her knees. At least I’ve worked off those two strawberry crepes, she joked to herself, but groaned when noticing that her tongue was already cleaving to the roof of her mouth.
Right now, she’d drink from a puddle if the opportunity presented itself. What made it even worse was that across the way, down a slope, beyond a narrow valley and up the other side, was Durant’s house. It shone like a beacon, and on the GPS, the little arrow flashed invitingly. If she continued on the roadway, she had another mile and a half of switchbacks.
If she crossed the valley, however….
Ten minutes,she calculated. If I head that-a-way, down the slope and up the other side, I could be there in ten minutes. The slope was gentle, almost lazy, the gradient way less than some of the jaunts she and Rhys had ventured on with their monthly walking group. As a matter of fact, it was so obvious that she wanted to kick herself for not having thought of it sooner.
Down one side, up the other, and voila.
Melanie left the path, so happy not to have to trek all that way back and forth that she practically whistled. She popped in the earphones and set her Spotify to something cheerful, glad that the slope was so easy she didn’t even fear tripping and tumbling down.
At the bottom, there was an expanse of brilliant green, tiny-leaved plants that lay before her like a well-hydrated carpet and interspersed with large purple flowers that reminded her of lilies. Rhys would have loved them. The vibrancy almost made her want to spread her arms and spin around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
She trotted forward, delighting in the brilliant color all around her. Two steps, three, and then four.
And realized she was stuck.
Melanie looked down. To her horror, her feet were sinking into something soft. Something soft and wet, she corrected herself. She tried to lift her foot, but the muck that grasped her ankles quickly claimed her calves with a squelching, menacing sound.
Her heart began to race. What was happening?
One foot free, she tried to turn around, go back where she’d come from, but the abrupt movement made it even worse, and down she went, twisting, onto her elbows and belly into soft, possessive muck.
Quicksand?she wondered. No, that only happens in the movies. It must be some kind of bog, a mud pit. She pressed up on her hands and knees as if she was planking, but the muck wasn’t having it. She could feel the clammy dampness wrap its arms around her waist, a lover’s embrace.
That was when sheer terror claimed her. She could taste the mud now and spat it out. The more she moved, the worse it got, she realized. So if she stayed absolutely still, would the mud relent? Or would the bog gleefully claim victory, consume her without a trace?
Almost hysterically she had the image of a team of archeologists, a thousand years hence, discovering her remarkably well-preserved body and wonder over the fact that this 21st century female had wandered away from the tribe and been taken unawares. Or maybe her body would simply turn into petroleum. Maybe she would one day fuel a futuristic hovercraft….
But that was dumb. She wasn’t going to die here. She was a few hundred yards from the side of a roadway. Surely some passing motorist would spot her. This was even the road Zanifa and Rhys had taken to drive into town. They’d be able to see her from up there on their way back.
