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I need to add map reading to my list of skills.

Tracing a path across the thin lines becomes a way to steady myself. To pull away from the swirling mess inside my head because without the map, I’m lost.

I tossed my cell phone out the window, and the car is too old to have a built-in GPS.

And this area of New Jersey is basically wilderness.

How did I not know before? When you hear the state name, you think about the cities. You think about pavement and yellow skies, pollution and traffic. Not tall trees and backroads.

Not small towns with farm stands empty yet prepped for summer produce.

Holly Brook is just outside of Sussex and about as quaint as a postcard. Which makes my skin crawl because thingsaren’t supposed to be this cute or perfect. Surely the white mailboxes, trees blossoming for spring, and winding roads aren’t real.

I’ve stumbled into a fantasy hiding nothing but secrets.

I slow the car at a stop sign and the brakes grind. Maybe those fuckers killed me and I’ve been taken someplace much nicer than anything I’ve experienced.

It’s a nice thought. I’m not smiling.

The main street winds over a small rise in the land before dipping down toward a park on the left and a row of shops on the right. There’s even a fucking gazebo painted white, like it’s ready to become a grandstand at a Fourth of July bash.

I pass a coffee shop, a small country store, a restaurant, a bookstore, an odds-and-ends shop, and a veterinarian clinic.

Oh, gosh.

My heart gives a little flip at the sign with the silhouette of a dog and a cat nuzzling together in neon, straight out of a greeting card and oozing quaintness.

I flick on the turn signal and take a left down some historically named street.

The distance between houses in the suburban paradise outside Holly Brook’s downtown area begins to grow and the trees get thicker. The vibrant green of fresh spring growth…I can see why people move to the country.

Why they want to escape the crowded sidewalks and conveniences of a fast-food joint on every corner. Once you live with the stench of hot garbage long enough, you appreciate it.

Right?

A few more turns and the road turns to gravel, then dirt. A sign marks the end of state road maintenance and I grind to a stop again.

“Where the hell am I?” My painted fingernail trails over the map toward my destination, circled three times in red ink.

Nope, I’m definitely headed in the right direction.

I push the car past ruts and bumps toward a small turnoff marked by a weathered post in the road.

Savage Gardens

A smile teases my lips. Corny name. But cute. I wonder who picked it, father or son.

I don’t remember much about Alistair beyond his impressively loud laugh and a trim figure, to counter Bill’s failing physique.

Soren I remember for the stick-up-his-ass haughtiness and the blond hair which seemed so off-putting to me, smack dab in the middle of my family of brunettes.

Oh, and the pocket square.

This last stretch of road is nothing more than a trail through the woods. Finally the press of timber opens up to the glint of sunlight on water as the lake looms ahead. Situated on a small flat rise near the edge is the one-story cabin I remember seeing photos of years ago.

I made it. Relief floods my system and eases a bit of the constriction in my chest. At least I got here in one piece. There are no cars parked, and the shades are drawn on all of the windows.

It’s perfect.