Page 40 of The Invisible Hour

They agreed that they would meet at daybreak at the farm.

“Today is yours,” Joel said. “But when the morning comes, don’t make me wait. You’ll regret it if you do, and so will that man of yours.”

NATHANIEL WAS SITTING IN a rough wooden chair outside the inn, waiting. He had paced until he’d left a trail in the grass, before realizing it would do no good to worry and fret; he would have to have faith. He was relieved when at last he saw her emerge from the woods, her red hair loose. She had a singular way of walking, different from most women of this time, as if she were free as a bird, and could fly away if she wished. She came to him and sat in his lap, arms looped around his neck.

“This is still the place where I spent my childhood. I vowed to never come back, until I heard that you were here.”

“I’m glad you changed your mind,” Nathaniel said.

Mia could have cried had she allowed herself to do so. “You changed my mind. Now I want us to have a perfect day,” she told him. She really couldn’t ask for more. “Can we do that?”

“We can indeed. We’ve already begun.”

They hiked into the woods, where the wild asters were blooming, and the grass was nearly waist high. As they neared the river, Mia heard branches breaking; for a moment she feared it was Joel, out to double-cross her, then they saw two fishermen who waved and wished them good luck, shouting that the trout were running in such great numbers the river itself had turned blue. The orchards of apple trees for which the town would later be famous had sprung from the seedlings Johnny Appleseed had left behind, but there were pine and fir and oak and wild pear laden with fruit, with heaps dropping onto the ground. It was the time of year when bears began to go mad for all the local bounty, devouring the blueberries, and wild walnuts, and the ripening pears, eating all they could before summer’s end.

Farther downstream, the deep pools reflected the clouds in the sky. Water ran two ways in this river, down from the mountain. Mia had skated here when she was a girl, fashioning skates of sticks tied to her shoes. It was not a childhood anyone would have chosen, but it was hers all the same. Once, Ivy had followed her to the river. What do you think you’re doing? Ivy had said, concerned that Mia would get caught breaking the rules.

Having fun, Mia said. Ever hear of it?

Ivy grinned, then she tied sticks to her boots as well. Once she was out on the ice, Ivy fell again and again, until Mia came to offer her arm. They skated round on the blue ice until their fingers were freezing through their cheap work gloves. It was more than fun. It was perfect, or almost.

Don’t tell anyone we were here, Ivy had said when they trekked back through the snowy woods, walking lightly over the frost. But Joel had been waiting up for his wife and he’d seen the snow dusted in her hair. The next evening, when Mia saw her mother in the dining hall, she noticed the dark mark on Ivy’s arm. Ivy caught her staring and hurriedly pulled down her sleeve, but Mia had seen it. A for self-absorbed, A for anarchy and for acts of wickedness, as if a cold blue night of fun had been a sin to be placed beside vanity and envy.

When Mia and Nathaniel reached the bank of the river, they lay on their backs to gaze at the wisps of clouds racing through the sky. Mia rested her face against Nathaniel’s rough cheek.

Oh, perfect day, the one day they would never forget. Mia ran her fingertips along Nathaniel’s features, memorizing him through touch.

“I haven’t been honest with you,” she said. “I haven’t told you how I came to read your book and how it changed my life.”

She told him that when she was fifteen and lived just over the hill, on a farm that overlooked Hightop Mountain, she had been so desperate that she had counted out black stones until there were seventy, all glimmering in the sunlight that filtered through the leaves. She knew that there had been drownings in the Last Look River, and she would simply be one more. She told Nathaniel that she had read that people who attempted to take their own lives and failed reported that they regretted their actions as soon as they stepped off the bridge or threw themselves into the sea, but she had been so lost she could not see how that was possible. Then she had found his book, and once she began to read, she understood there was a door that would lead her out of her situation, and that every book was a door, and that there were a thousand lives she might live.

“Mia, I don’t know what I could possibly write that would affect you so,” Nathaniel said. It was a burden and a huge responsibility, and he didn’t know if he was capable of such an undertaking.

Mia held her hand to his face. “You’ll write something beautiful and true, and I’ll read it and live.”

THEY LEFT THEIR CLOTHES scattered in the grass and went down to the low stony edge of the water. It was the sort of bright, sun-yellow day that felt as if it would last forever. For a few hours, they didn’t have to think about what the future would bring.

Nathaniel was the first to step into the shallows. The trout splashed away in a blue blur as he threw himself into the depths with a shout. Mia laughed and applauded his daring. He was perfect. He was still hers for one more day.

“Come in,” Nathaniel called. “Be brave!”

She thought of the times she’d been bravest. When she went through the woods to watch the play on the town green on a summer night, when she asked her mother if she could visit the castle and she began to read, when she broke the lock on the barn door and ran down Route 17. You had to lose something to gain something. It was the reason why so many people stayed, long after they knew they should leave. Mia walked into the water. The last time of everything was painful, no matter how beautiful it might be. The last time I walked with you, slept beside you, loved you, spoke to you, told you the truth, the last time I looked at you. She would not tell him about their child, and he would not notice. They would see what they wished to see, only one another. The birds were quiet, and all the world seemed still as Mia plunged into the deepest pool. Nathaniel drew her near and she kissed him recklessly, as if the world was about to end, but it wasn’t. It was only the story that was over.

ON THEIR WALK BACK, Mia asked if they might visit Blackwell, the town she had known so well when she was young.

“Are you certain you won’t feel sad as you’re reminded of your mother?” Nathaniel asked.

“How can we ever be certain of how or what we’ll feel?”

Mia kissed him for being thoughtful, keeping the reason for her request to herself. They walked down the lanes and across pastures that would become Route 17 when all the trees were cut down and tar was laid. Nathaniel put a hand on Mia’s arm to stop her before they left the forest. He nodded to a shaded glen. There was a fox, the sign of good luck. They held hands then, their fingers interlaced. Mia was thankful that she knew how to feel one thing and pretend that she was feeling something entirely different. She had learned that in the Community. She knew how to stop herself from crying.

At last they reached the section of the woods where Mia and her mother had stood to watch the play about the drowned girl called the Apparition.

“Shall we turn back?” Nathaniel asked, gauging the sadness in Mia’s mood.

“Oh no. We’re almost there.”

Soon enough they came upon the town center, the place where Joel said they should have left Mia when she was a newborn. Across from where they stood was the library with its brick façade and its turrets.