Chapter 3 - The Secret Escapes
Word count: ~1,500 words
Over the next four weeks, I lived a double life.
By day, I was the devoted wife and mother everyone expected me to be. I kept the refrigerator stocked with sparkling water for Ethan, coordinated Ryan's car repairs, managed the household expenses, and attended Mark's corporate dinners. I smiled when his colleagues praised how "supportive" I was of Mark’s demanding career.
But every Friday evening, under the cover of routine, the shift began.
"Where are you off to this weekend, El?" Mark asked one Friday afternoon as I loaded my small SUV. He was standing on the porch holding a coffee mug, watching me lift two plastic totes into the trunk.
"I told you last week, Mark," I replied smoothly, closing the hatch. "I'm helping the local historical society organize their summer archive project in Pine Creek. I'll be back Sunday evening."
Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "You and your history projects. Well, don't overdo it. The boys are coming over Sunday for roast beef. Make sure you're back in time to put it in the slow cooker."
"I'll make sure everything is taken care of," I said, slipping behind the wheel.
Thirty-two minutes later, I turned off the paved state highway onto a narrow, rutted gravel road named Cedar Point Trail.
The tall white pines arched over the road like a cathedral ceiling, filtering the late afternoon sunlight into rays of deep green and gold. The air smelled different here—crisp, sharp, and rich with the damp earth of the forest and the clean, massive scent of cold lake water.
I stopped the car at the end of the trail.
There stood the house.
It looked even older than it had in the real estate photos. The cedar shake siding was dark and weathered, blanketed in soft moss along the northern side. The front porch sagged on the right corner where a wooden pillar had rotted out. The windows were gray with decades of grime.
I pulled the heavy brass key from my pocket, stepped onto the porch, and unlocked the thick oak door.
The interior smelled of dry cedar, old woodsmoke, and dust. Light streamed through the large, multipaned windows in the main room, illuminating a massive fieldstone fireplace that stretched all the way to the vaulted ceiling. Floorboards creaked under my boots—solid, honest oak, four inches thick.
"Step one," I said aloud to the empty room.
I didn't hire a massive crew of commercial contractors. That would have drawn attention. Instead, I hired Tom Miller, a local retired carpenter who lived two miles down the trail. Tom was seventy, drove an ancient Ford truck, had hands like weathered leather, and didn't ask personal questions.
"She’s got good bones, Eleanor," Tom had told me on my second visit, tapping his hammer against the heavy timber beams supporting the living room roof. "Roof needs new shingles before winter, porch needs a new support cedar post, and the plumbing needs to be converted to copper. But the foundation? Native fieldstone set deep into granite bed. This place ain't going anywhere."
Every weekend, Tom and I worked side by side.
I wore old jeans, a faded flannel shirt, and work boots. I learned how to tear out water-damaged drywall, pull old rusted nails, and strip layers of yellowed varnish off solid pine trim. I sanded the stone hearth with a wire brush until the rich red and gray granite sparkled under the light.
My hands grew calloused. My shoulders grew stronger. The tight, constant knot of tension that had lived between my shoulder blades for twenty years began to melt away.
One Saturday afternoon, while Tom was outside replacing the rotten cedar post on the porch, I stood on a stepladder in what would be my bedroom, scraping off peeling wallpaper.
My phone rang in my back pocket. It was Ryan.
"Hey, Mom," he said, his voice loud over the speaker. "Where's the spare key to the lawnmower? I came over to cut the grass at the house and I can't find it."
"It's hanging on the hook behind the garage door, Ryan," I said, holding the phone away from my mouth so he wouldn't hear the scraping sound of my putty knife against the plaster wall.
"Okay, found it. Hey, when are you coming home? Dad said you were at some library thing."
"I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."
"Can you pick up some of those Italian sausages from the butcher on your way back? Ethan and I are staying for dinner."
"No, Ryan," I said quietly, looking out the scraped window at the vast, endless blue horizon of Lake Michigan stretching out to meet the sky.
"What?" Ryan sounded confused.
"I won't have time to stop at the butcher," I said smoothly. "You and Ethan are grown men. You can stop at the store yourselves."
There was a long pause on the line. Ryan cleared his throat. "Uh... okay. Sure, I guess. See ya tomorrow."
May you like
I hung up the phone and set it on the ladder tray.
I picked up the putty knife again and pushed it deep beneath the paper. With one smooth, firm stroke, a massive six-foot strip of graying wallpaper tore away from the wall, revealing the clean, bright, untouched pine boards beneath it.
