sad, wild beauty calls out to me. In sunlight, the garden is unsightly but unremarkable, just another gone-to-seed backyard crying out for a Weed Eater. Being nocturnal, nothing much blooms there in the daytime, anyway. At night, however, the moon coaxes everything to life, with buds bursting forth from the dark earth like the souls of the dead on Judgment Day. It creeps me out, for some reason. The pathway veers away from the house and I raise my eyes in relief. Thankfully, the ruined gardens are now beyond my line of vision.
The flagstone path disappears into a sun-shot, shadowy tunnel of rhododendrons, much like the one at the entrance to the house. When I emerge, the pathway comes to an end on a secluded terrace nestled behind a copse of laurel. The terrace appears to be perched on the edge of the gently sloping mountain, in a cleared-off space that offers a bird’s-eye view of the lake. I make my way to a small sitting area at the far end, taking care not to slip on the mossy stones of the terrace. I was exploring the grounds a few days ago when I came across this spot, and could tell that no one had been here in a very long time. There’s only an old bent willow settee and chair here, and I plop on the settee gratefully. When I first stumbled on the terrace, I figured the seating was purely decorative, unable to imagine actually sitting on branches twisted into chair shapes without any cushions. Resting from my walk, I’d perched on the chair and found it surprisingly cozy, age having worn the willow as smooth as stone. I then dragged the old furniture to the edge of the terrace for a better view of the lake, making my own little tree house, and I had my refuge.
After pouring myself a cup of Chablis, I settle back into the settee, squirming until I’m comfortably situated. Funny, a house as grand and richly furnished as Moonrise at my disposal, and I can only relax when it’s out of my sight. I sip the wine and look down at the lake, where the last of the day’s sunbeams prance on its rippling surface like bright little seahorses. Looking Glass Lake is a long, spectacular body of water surrounded by woods; my lofty perch provides me a good view of the houses fronting its banks. A lot of them are hidden away in the woods; only the sight of a chimney or roofline above the treetops gives away their presence. Thankfully, the three houses that interest me the most are the ones most clearly in my sight.
Laurel Cottage is the closest, on the same side of the lake as Moonrise and right below us. Even from this distance, it’s so charming it appears make-believe, the dwelling of the seven dwarfs, and I halfway expect to see Snow White waltzing down the garden paths, singing to the birds. Despite the drought, the gardens surrounding the cottage are riotous with blossoms and butterflies. It’s a fanciful place, with koi ponds, a stone wishing well, and topiary cut in the shape of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I spot Emmet’s Jeep parked in front. He and Noel are most likely having their martinis on the back porch, which has French country decor and is every bit as exquisite as the rest of the house. Laurel Cottage is the only one of the three that I’ve been inside.
Linc and Myna’s cabin is a bit farther down, perched on a little cove that juts out into the lake. The porch appears to hang precariously over the water, and Emmet told me they used to dive directly into the lake from the porch railing. The house is an authentic log cabin that I’m dying to see, but Myna can’t have guests over until Linc’s comfortable with the new handicapped features. Which made sense to me, though I overheard Tansy and Kit saying that Myna couldn’t be happier at having an excuse not to reciprocate dinner invitations. Emmet was amused when I repeated their conversation, and told me that Myna wasn’t highly regarded by the others. She seems friendly enough, I responded, but of course I hardly knew her. For that, Emmet responded drily, I should consider myself fortunate.
Kit also has an excuse not to entertain because her house, located on the other side of Linc’s, is in the final stages of a big remodeling project. She’s talked of nothing else since I’ve met her, which is good since I’d wondered how she’d take to me. I’m still wondering. I’ve not only sensed her reticence at accepting me into the fold; she’s made several remarks that could be interpreted as such. Plus she’s always studying me curiously, sometimes not even turning away when I catch her. One of those times I felt sure she was regarding me with something like pity. Because she seems so sweet on the surface, there’s nothing I can pinpoint as proof of her hostility. When we first arrived and everyone came over to meet me, I asked Emmet afterward if his friends had approved of me. His look was so scathing that I’ve dared not bring it up again. I should’ve known better than to ask him, of course. Emmet Justice is not a person to give a rat’s ass whether he has the approval of anyone else.
I pour myself a bit more wine, thinking back on the day I finally met Emmet’s group of friends face-to-face. Maybe enough time’s passed that I can get some perspective on that occasion. Since that rather unnerving evening, we’ve been in such a whirlwind of activity that I haven’t had a chance to process much of anything. Not only that, the long-awaited meeting happened the day after Emmet and I arrived in Highlands, before I even had time to get unpacked, or oriented to my surroundings.
My first glimpse of the Blue Ridge Mountains had been nearly a religious experience. The two-day drive from Fort Lauderdale was so long and tiring that when I hit the horrendous traffic of Atlanta on the second afternoon, I was sure I’d made a terrible mistake. What had I been thinking, insisting Emmet and I spend our first summer together away from home? There was no turning back; we’d already sublet our town house for the summer. But a couple of hours beyond Atlanta, the landscape began to change from rural to mountainous, and my despair lifted. Although still in north Georgia, I’d entered another world. At the foothills of the Blue Ridge, I turned off the four-lane highway and onto a narrow road that took me into North Carolina. For several miles, I clung to the wheel white-knuckled while the road, which appeared to be carved out of the side of a mountain, wound upward. At a scenic overlook halfway up the mountain, I pulled over, wide-eyed and weak-kneed. There I stood and looked down at a blue-hazed valley so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes. I’d been born and raised by the sea, cradled by sun and salt water; but at that moment, I fell in love with mountain vistas.
The remainder of the journey only deepened my reverence. The dizzying mountain road continued through the storybook village of Highlands, then wound past Looking Glass Lake, a couple of miles outside town. Following Emmet’s directions, I turned off just beyond the lake; later I’d learn that the highway followed the Cullasaja River for several miles as it roared and tumbled down a rocky gorge, the site of several well-known waterfalls.
My arrival at Moonrise, then Willa’s informative tour, remains a blur to me. After two hard days of driving, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Moonrise was so much grander than I’d expected that I became irrationally angry at Emmet. Why hadn’t he told me? Fuming, I swore to myself that I never would’ve married Emmet if I’d known he ran with the jet set. Palm Beach was full of jet-setters, and I didn’t like them worth a damn. Fortunately I kept those foolish thoughts to myself, and Emmet attributed my sulky silence to exhaustion. To my further dismay, we ended up in the same bed he’d shared with his previous wife since the master bedroom was the only one with an adjacent shower. Why hadn’t I thought of which room would be ours before we arrived? I fell into such an exhausted sleep that I didn’t wake until noon the next day.
I awoke refreshed, my old self again, and bounded out of bed starving and eager for my first day at Moonrise. Following my nose to the kitchen, I made my way down the massive staircase to the back of the house. Emmet’d either just gotten up, or was brewing a fresh pot of coffee for me. More likely the latter; his years as an anchorman had made him an early riser. I paused at the kitchen door, stopped by the sight of Emmet at the old-fashioned stove, studying it in bewilderment. Because he was frowning in concentration and didn’t see me, I was able to watch him unobserved, one of my favorite pastimes. Sometimes I’d lie in bed and watch him dress, mugging his reflection in the mirror as he patted down his springy, gray-streaked hair impatiently. If he caught me, he’d strike bodybuilder poses until I giggled, but he was clearly disconcerted by my scrutiny. He couldn’t understand why I enjoyed simply gazing at him, watching him in action, and frankly I wasn’t sure, either. Although attractive in a craggy sort of way, Emmet was hardly eye candy. He looked
