Secluded Cabin Sleeps Six(11)

You talked about how after graduating you could have gone anywhere to start your company, but you wanted to come home. You made it sound so meaningful, so emotional.

And I could see why women responded to you. I even felt a little tug myself. You’re that good. That handsome. Virile but boyish, intelligent but sweet.

“I guess what I’m looking for most in a personal assistant is something I like to call ‘The Three I’s.’” You used your fingers to make quotations marks. “Intelligence, integrity, and initiative. The person who had this job was smart, but lacked foresight, failed to learn how to be in step with me, or even one step ahead.”

You want someone to read your mind, to anticipate your whims, to cover for your shortfalls, to make you look good, to laugh at your jokes. In other words, you want someone to stroke your enormous ego, daily, in ways that you don’t even notice.

“I understand,” I said. “Engagement is key. You have a huge job; your assistant needs to be like a second brain, sharp and responsive.”

It was the right thing to say. Your smile was wide and sincere. “Exactly.”

My offer letter came via email later that night with a salary that was a little too high for an assistant job, good benefits, 401K matching, stock options. We like to make a financial commitment to our employees because we want to earn their loyalty. We want people to stay so that we can grow together.

How nice.

I happily accepted.

I texted my half brother right after: I’m in.

Was there ever any doubt?

This is the last one.

You’ve said that before.

I mean it this time.

I did mean it. I have tired of this enterprise. In fact, I’m not even sure I have the energy to see it through. Life, choice, the actions we take—it’s so much more complicated than we imagine as younger people. People are layers of light and dark. There are few true villains and justice is a shape-shifter. But here we are. One last time.

That day seems like so long ago.

It wasn’t.

Tonight, I watch a while longer from my place across the street. Then I head back to the dark of my car. I recline a bit, not quite ready to leave.

What is it that they say? That thing about happy and unhappy families? That happiness is all the same, but misery is unique? It makes a kind of sense. When you think about the people you know who love their families and who are in turn loved, cherished, respected, honored—it’s a bit dull, isn’t it? I mean, there’s not much to it. You’re born, you’re loved, you die. Where’s the excitement, the drama? Where are the blow-out fights, the tentative makeups? The estrangements? The seething bitterness? The dysfunction?

Happy families. Unhappy families.

Actually, it’s all pretty dull, isn’t it?

What’s interesting is the families that pretend to be happy, that have a carefully constructed facade, just barely propped up by secrets and lies.

One breath and it all falls down. I can’t wait to see yours crumble.





3


Hannah

Later Bruce slept, the full moon casting the room in silver through the thin drapes. Gigi’s breathing was deep and even over the monitor. And Hannah tossed and turned—couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t quiet her mind. The unknown caller, her worries about leaving Gigi, the fictional affair she’d concocted for her husband—all of it on spin cycle in her overtired brain. Hannah finally gave up on sleep and took her laptop to the couch.

She clicked on the link to the place where they’d be staying, a cabin called Elegant Overlook. This secluded cabin sleeps six. Peaceful, luxurious, every detail from the original art to the chef’s kitchen has been carefully considered.

Click. Click. Click. She scrolled through the images. It was stunning—at least in pictures—with three bedrooms, a huge great room, fireplaces, a hot tub, hiking trails from the property, another cabin.

But yesterday, she’d pulled it up on Google Maps and noted with a tiny bit of panic that it was totally isolated. The satellite photos showed a huge house in a clearing, surrounded by acres and acres of trees, one thin, winding road, miles long, leading to the home. No neighbors at all, not another structure in sight—except for the small second cabin. The nearest town was almost twenty miles away.

She had cast about for ratings and reviews, but it wasn’t offered on any of the usual vacation rental sites. So there wasn’t the comforting catalogue of star ratings, and comments about the good sheets, or complaints about the noisy neighbors, judgments on cleanliness and comfort, proximity to sites and attractions.

It was managed by a company called Luxury Cabin Rentals of Sleepy Ridge. The website was elegant and expensively designed, showing the five cabins it offered, plus one under construction. Elegant Overlook was the grandest among them—of course. There was another smaller one called Peaceful Retreat, which looked like it might have served just as well for half the price. But the pictures of the trails from the Elegant Overlook property, the bubbling hot tub, the roaring fireplace, were enticing. The site also offered a list of possible services: the private chef, an in-house masseuse, private yoga instruction. These offerings had clearly been Mako’s—or Liza’s—guide to setting up the itinerary.

There were a slew of five star reviews listed on the site.

The perfect getaway!