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 more like an ex-linebacker than the classically handsome, square-jawed anchorman of most news shows. When we first met, he appeared so gruff and unapproachable that I avoided him, and he proved to be as scrappy, combative, and tough as he looked. Yet I melted like candle wax under a flame whenever his eyes met mine.
Spotting me at the door, Emmet called out his usual greeting, “Hey, Honeycutt,” and I responded with “Hi yourself, big guy.” My vexation of the previous day was forgotten, and I went into his arms, loving him again.
My joy was short-lived. To my surprise, Emmet announced that he had invited the gang over for drinks that evening, only a few hours away because I’d slept so late. At least he had the grace to look apologetic when I went into full panic mode. I reminded him that we’d just arrived, that we hadn’t even unpacked the car, and that I couldn’t possibly entertain on such short notice—I didn’t even know my way around the kitchen! Emmet knocked down my arguments one after the other. He promised to get us unpacked, and to help me get ready for the gathering. He’d already ordered a cheese and fruit tray from the caterer in town, and was about to make a run to the wine store. Plus, we’d entertain on the side porch, not inside the house, so I need not fret about fixing it up. With a defeated sigh, I gave in.
It had been surprisingly cool that evening, and I’d ended up changing clothes twice before our guests arrived. I’d never tell Emmet that the oh-so-smart black sundress I’d splurged on at one of Fort Lauderdale’s ritziest boutiques had been with this occasion in mind, hoping to impress his friends. As it turned out, I might as well have saved my money. The only sweater I brought was coral colored, which made the black dress look like a Halloween costume. Didn’t matter; I still had to wear it. Packing up, Emmet’d warned me about mountain nights being cool, but I hadn’t understood that to mean freezing-ass cold.
Taking pity on me, Emmet built a fire. The fire made the open, spacious porch cozier, especially after he lit the wall lamps, which gave off just the right glow for a twilight evening. As the time for our gathering grew nearer, my trepidation gave way to excitement. I’d wanted time to throw an impressive party, to wow everyone with my entertaining skills, but conceded that Emmet’d been right. His friends were as eager to meet me as I was them, and they’d understand that our getting together was the important thing, not a fancy spread. Or so I told myself as I awaited their arrival. Emmet watched me with such amusement that I dared not look his way at the sound of a car in the driveway. Instead, I busied myself at the wicker table rearranging Willa’s yellow zinnias, the only centerpiece I had.
Tansy was the first to appear. Emmet’d instructed everyone to park on the side and come directly to the porch, which would be easier for Linc than trudging all the way through the house. I had my back to Emmet, who was at the makeshift bar setup in the corner, when I heard him call out, “Tansy!” I turned to see him moving forward to greet the woman who was coming up the porch steps, her arms outstretched.
I watched as Tansy hugged Emmet, then stepped back to take his face in her hands and kiss him right on the mouth. Laughing, she used her pinkie to wipe the dark red lipstick from his lips. Their greeting gave me time to study her before she turned to me. As I’d feared, she was every bit as intimidating as I’d imagined from our brief, unsatisfactory phone conversations. As tall as Emmet, with glossy black hair in startling contrast to her magnolia-white skin, Tansy was the epitome of glamour and sophistication, the kind of woman who’d always made me tongue-tied and knock-kneed. Twirling around in a side-tied dress that showed off long, slim legs, she made her way from Emmet to me, and I gulped.
“So you’re Helen,” Tansy said as she eyed me with unabashed curiosity. “I’m Tansy Dunwoody.” Her black eyes boring into mine, she grasped my hand with a grip as strong as Willa’s had been.
“I guessed that,” I said with a laugh. I hated my nervous little laugh, which I seemed to have no control over, especially in situations like this. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last, Tansy.”
With my hand still held firmly in hers, Tansy glanced over her shoulder at Emmet and hissed, “Cradle robber.”
I was so taken aback I was speechless, but not Emmet. Eyes glittering, he raised his glass to her in a mock salute and said, “Ah, yes. My child bride.”
I gasped and freed my hand from Tansy’s as I cried out, “Oh, no—not at all, Tansy! I’ve always been told I look younger than I am. Emmet’s just teasing you . . .” My voice trailed off and I looked toward Emmet helplessly.
To my further surprise, Tansy waved off my protests, swung her head back to me, and said as casually as if we had been discussing the weather: “So, Helen. How do you like Moonrise?”
I took a deep, bracing breath before spouting out such overwrought hyperbole in praise of the house that I cringed hearing it. Mercifully, the rest of the gang appeared before I could make a complete fool of myself, and I stopped to wait