The Cartographers(96)

We left Agloe, and the rest of them dropped me off at home to get started and carried on to Rockland to replenish our wine supply. I was dicing onions, garlic, tomatoes, and mushrooms for spaghetti when I heard their car pull back in.

“That was fast,” I said, opening the door.

But it wasn’t our old Volkswagen.

And it wasn’t them.

It was a much newer, sleeker car, with tinted windows. Two middle-aged men I’d never seen before were in the front seats, in dark, conservative suits.

Debt collectors from the vacation rental company.

“Humphrey Turan?” the first one asked as they climbed out of the car.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping back through the door.

The men moved calmly up the drive. “Mr. Turan, stop.”

The screen door banged shut, and I reached for the solid one behind it. “The stove is on, I have to go.”

“We’ve been trying to reach you, but you haven’t returned any of our messages, via mail or phone,” the first man continued as the slab of wood slammed closed between us, ignoring my excuse entirely. “You’ve left us no choice but to come in person.”

I knew it was true. The rental company had started with the mail, sending me threatening letter after threatening letter, but when that hadn’t worked, the calls had begun. After a few weeks, I was so exhausted from leaping up at the first ring to grab the phone before anyone else, I’d secretly unplugged the cord. Even then, I’d known it was only a matter of time before they’d start showing up in person—but somehow it was still a surprise that it was finally, finally happening.

“This is serious, Mr. Turan,” the other said.

This was it. They’d come to evict us.

“You have to open the door,” the first man added, knocking again.

I turned the lock and put my head against the wood. I thought that maybe if I waited long enough, they’d get tired and go.

“We’re not going anywhere,” the first continued, in an almost bored, expectant way—they probably went through this every time. “Not until you talk to us.”

My eyes slid to the window. In the falling light, I could still make out the lazy curve of the highway, up which Daniel would be driving the rest of them, wine in tow. Back here, where they were expecting to find dinner waiting.

Instead, they were going to see the debt collectors’ car and their ominous silhouettes lurking at our door, threatening to throw us out. They would know how much trouble I was in, and how far I’d gone to hide it.

Or, even worse, maybe the men would leave before the others returned—but then they’d come back. Because men like these always came back. And if they did when we were all in Agloe, they might let themselves inside the house. I didn’t really know the laws, but as delinquent on the rent as I was, the place might not even be mine anymore, contractually. It was one thing if I was physically inside, but if all they had to do was show up when the house was empty . . . the owner probably had even already given them a key, by now.

And if they did go inside, if they saw our notes, what we’d been working on . . .

If they tried to reach Agloe on their own, or told the rental company about their findings, if the news got out . . .

I had no plan, but I had to say something to buy some time. I opened the wooden door just a crack. “Give me a week,” I said.

The two men looked at each other, then back at me.

“Please,” I begged. “If I talk to you in good faith like this, don’t you have to give me at least one extension?”

“Your account is already incredibly past due,” the first man said.

But the second finally shrugged. “How much will you be able to contribute toward your debt, after this week?”

“All of it,” I promised, even though I had no idea how.

They both arched their brows in surprise. “All of it?” one repeated.

I nodded. “I just need a week.”

The first man still looked incredulous, but the other took pity on me. “One week,” he said. “We’ll come back next Monday.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” I closed the door again as fast as I could.

My heart was pounding as I ran back to the kitchen, just in time to save the sauce from bubbling over. I raced to finish boiling the pasta and stir the sauce as I listened to their car ease down the road—and then, a few minutes later, heard the one Daniel had been driving pull up and sigh into silence. Doors slammed, bottles clinked, and tired, familiar voices mumbled as the gravel crunched.

“Bear?” Tam’s voice floated in from the mudroom.

“In here,” I called back.

As they came into the kitchen, and the scent of the spaghetti sauce and my homemade garlic bread enveloped them, I watched the strain melt off all their faces.

“It smells incredible,” Eve said, smiling.

“Wow, Bear,” Romi agreed. Their eyes roamed the still-steaming platters I’d set out on the counter. “This looks so good!”

“Let’s eat while it’s hot!” Daniel cried.

The room swelled with laughter. I passed out plates, and Tam opened the wine. If things had tentatively been going better lately, that night felt downright magical. Everyone was joking, helping serve each other across the counter, and playfully stealing bites off someone else’s plate. Daniel poured far too much to drink for everyone, and we finished it all, and then drank more. Even Eve was laughing, more relaxed than I’d seen her in a long time. The only thing that would have made it better was if Wally and Francis had been there, but I knew they’d be back from their latest trip and rejoin us soon. I would cook again, and I would figure out something to save us from my horrible secret. If I just worked hard enough, I could keep this feeling going forever.