Escape Read Free Page B

paused only when I set it on the bed. What to bring? That depended on where I was going, and I didn’t have a clue.

Chapter 2

 
    Where I was going depended on what I wanted, and that part was easy. I wanted to have fun.
    Picturing the beach, I pulled out a bathing suit. And a sundress.
    But I also liked antiquing. I used to tag along with a high school friend and her mom, and though I knew little about antiques, I remembered the smell of history and the quiet. Both appealed to me now. So I pulled out a peasant blouse and shorts, jeans and T-shirts and sandals.
    But I also liked hiking. At least, I had liked it that one college summer. Jude had known the forests—every tree, every stream, every creature—and had taught me well. Mountaintops were cold. I added a sweater and a fleece to the pile. Having tossed out my hiking boots long ago, I added sneakers. And heavy socks. And underwear, nightshirt, and hairbrush.
    Did I want my laptop? Kindle? iPod? No. I didn’t even want my BlackBerry, but it was my phone, which, in an emergency, was a good thing to have.
    Makeup? I didn’t want it, but didn’t have the courage to leave it at home. That said, I didn’t need purple eye shadow, navy liner, or two spare blushers. Leaving these on the bathroom counter, I put the makeup case on top of the pile.
    It was a big pile. No way would everything fit in my bag. I thought of taking a second one, but vetoed the idea. A second bag meant clutter. If I was running away from a tangled life, simplicity was key.
    I changed my blue shirt and black slacks for one of those T-shirts and jeans, switched diamond studs for gold ones, and glanced at my watch. It was 11:23.
    I turned away, then back. This was no digital watch. Yet I knew it was 11:23—now 11:24—because in this life that I’d made for myself, every minute had to be accounted for.
    Defiant, I removed the watch and left it with the earrings, then packed what I could and returned the excess to a drawer. Only when I lifted the closed bag did I notice the unmade bed beneath—beige sheets rumpled on a black platform bed, all sleek and minimalistic, like the rest of the place.
    The bed went unmade often, a concession to the rush of our lives, but I made it now as a small gesture to James. Quickly done, I ran down a flight to our beige-and-black front hall, dropped my bag there, ran down another flight to our beige-and-black kitchen. Grabbing granola bars (colorfully wrapped) and bottled water (not Eagle River), I ran back up to the front door.
    The mail had just arrived and was strewn under the slot in a way that previewed its contents. Resigned, I singled out my credit card bill. The company had notified me that I was maxed out, and I knew the offending charge wasn’t mine. Seeing it on the bill, though, rubbed salt on the wound.
    I was returning it to the fanned-out mail, feeling discouraged, when another letter caught my eye. It was from Jude.
    I didn’t have time to read it. I had to leave.
    But I couldn’t
not
read it.
    Like its predecessors, it was postmarked Alaska. Jude was fishing for crab on the Bering Sea, and he wrote remarkably well for a man who had thumbed his nose at every teacher he’d ever had in school. His lengthy descriptions of his boat, the sea, the nets spilling theirjumble of bodies and legs on the deck, even the other men aboard, were riveting.
    This letter was a single sheet.
    Hey
,
Em
,
life does funny things. I’m forty and have been away from Bell Valley for ten years
,
fishing crab for six of those. But a good buddy of mine just died. Swept overboard
,
just like that. Death never bothered me before. But I’m thinking big-picture thoughts now
,
and I see a load of unfinished business at home
.
    So I’m going back to Bell Valley. I haven’t told anyone. They’ll make plans
,
and I hate plans. But I should get there at the end of the month. Who knows. I may not last the summer. I always felt strangled in Bell Valley
.
    I don’t know why I’m