But Cal’s mother is gone too. I remember that from his wife’s obituary. I feel another thrust of guilt. This man has gone through a lot. I don’t want to upset him more than I already have.
“So you want me to stalk him and pop out from behind something?”
This clearly triggers Harry, who winces.
“No, that’s not what we were thinking,” Blue says. “Nature is calming, so we figured it would be a good place for you two to talk.”
“Cal always takes a hike on Thursday mornings,” Nicole says. “It’s something he’s done for years.”
I find myself wondering how many years. Is this something he’s only done since Alice died? Some other form of self-appointed therapy?
“Let me guess,” I say. “You know where he goes.”
Her shrug is entirely unselfconscious. “I was curious. I followed him.”
No wonder Cal is afraid of stalkers.
“The thing is,” Blue says, “nature does have a calming energy, and we think he’ll be more likely to talk if you go on the hike with him.”
“Are you all setting me up to get murdered?” I joke. “Because I recognize a good murder plot when I see one, and I assure you that my sister is mostly fond of me.”
Harry waves this off. “You have a very low-percentage chance of dying on a hike in the woods, by murder or otherwise. You might even call the odds miniscule.” He tips his head, as if thinking. “I suppose it depends if there’s a cliff nearby. If there’s a cliff, the odds increase a lot, especially if it hasn’t rained in several days and the ground is dry and dusty.”
I don’t find his words as comforting as he intended for them to be. I may have grown up in Asheville, but I’ve never been what you might call outdoorsy. And something tells me Cal isn’t just the type to carve and sculpt wood but to climb into the forest and haul out a fallen tree.
All the same, I can no sooner cast off this invitation, such as it is, than I can abandon this story. Despite my hesitations, and maybe even my better judgment, it’s seeped into my blood.
Chapter Ten
Cal
Rule #19: If you’re no good at love, let your sponsor choose your dates. They know you better than you know yourself. Your love life will be turned around in no time. You’re welcome.
—Augusta Glower, Bad Luck Club
When my alarm goes off at five, I nearly turn it off and go back to sleep.
I had a hard time winding down last night, and probably tossed and turned more than I slept. And in the midst of all that tossing and turning, I found myself thinking of what that server at the tea shop said. Your past haunts you. That thing you did…you can’t forget it, and you won’t until you forgive yourself. For someone who’s clearly not psychic, she saw through me easily enough. Either that, or it was a lucky guess. Of course, thoughts of Molly kept me up too.
That’s why I hike, though, to clear my mind, and it definitely needs clearing now, so I force myself out of bed and throw on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeve thermal shirt. It may be June, but it’s chillier at the higher elevation of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and it’s always best to come prepared.
After I use Dad’s French press to make a thermos full of coffee and fill up my canteen with water, I grab my backpack and head out to my truck. Although I’m running late, I should still be able to see most of the sunrise. If Ruby were awake, she’d be riding shotgun, but she’s slept through my morning routine, so I don’t disturb her.
The caffeine wakes me up, and my heart already feels lighter as my truck climbs the mountains. I hike in a couple of places, and it’s usually a toss-up between the often more crowded and easier-to-hike Bluff Gardens Trail or the Deep Gap Trail, which is longer and harder. I usually prefer Deep Gap—partially because I often hike the two-mile trail without ever seeing another soul—but I have an eight o’clock meeting, so I go with Bluff. It doesn’t hurt that this might be the last week to see the wild rhododendrons lining the trail and the surrounding area.
I started hiking soon after Alice’s death. It was a chance to get away from everyone and commune with nature. In my life before, I wasn’t the kind of guy who communed with much of anything besides my woodworking tools and a rich piece of wood, but I gave up that kind of woodworking after Alice’s death, and I’ve found being in the mountains gives me a similar kind of peace. Even if it’s often short-lived.
When I pull into the parking lot, I’m disappointed to see there’s another car there. Hopefully the other hiker isn’t a talker. Most people respect each other’s privacy, but the exceptions are usually…um…let’s go with memorable. One time a middle-aged woman and her daughter latched themselves on to me out on the trail. They started asking questions about the area, and I didn’t mind much until the mother started playing matchmaker. They were visiting from Pennsylvania, but that didn’t stop her from trying to hook us up. Her daughter was embarrassed, but by the time we made it back to the parking lot, she’d gotten over it enough to engage in a debate with her mother about whether we would live in Pittsburgh or Asheville.
I’m half tempted to say screw it and head to Deep Gap, even though I’d miss the sunrise. The only thing that stops me is that eight o’clock meeting. I pull into a space a few spots away and get out. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but I’ve been on this trail enough to walk it in semidarkness, and my phone has a flashlight if I need it.
As I grab my backpack and get out of the truck, then start for the trailhead, I realize someone is standing next to it. A woman, from her height and shape. Is she waiting for someone?
She’s holding two to-go coffee cups in her hands, and as I approach, a cold shot of dread washes through me.
No. It can’t be.
“Hi,” Molly says in a perky tone.
Jesus. It is her.
I stop in my tracks. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was in the mood for a nice morning hike. Looks like you were too.”
I give her a dry look. “And you happen to have two coffee cups?”
She lifts her shoulders into a playful shrug. “Hey, you never know. Maybe I’m a caffeine addict, and they’re both for me.”
“Why are you here, Molly?” I ask with a sigh.
“We got off on the wrong foot,” she says, holding out one of the cups. “I brought a peace offering.”
Against my better judgment, I take it.
She smiles, and even in the shadows I can see her whole face light up. I realize I love her smile, which pisses me off. I shouldn’t like anything about Molly O’Shea.
“It’s an Americano,” she says as she shivers, and it’s only now that I register she’s wearing a short-sleeve shirt and shorts. Although she has a pack too, it’s one of those tiny string backpacks that probably only has room for a cell phone and a wallet. Not only that, but she’s wearing Toms shoes. They have a strawberry pattern, for God’s sake. Bluff Gardens isn’t a difficult hike, but it’s not paved either. She’s woefully unprepared.
“And how did you know I like Americanos?” I ask, lifting my brow. This should be creepy, yet I don’t complain as I take a sip.