High Country Fall

developers moved in, the town was “revitalized,” and gradually the town board filled up with such fierce zoning zealots that houses and storefronts are now forced to conform to a limited range of bland colors and architectural styles, signs are discreet and almost invisible, and every lawn is groomed and manicured into such prettiness that all individuality has been tidied away—the Stepford wife of North Carolina towns.

Like Cary, Cedar Gap looked to be well on its way to becoming picture perfect, too. No ugly “big box” stores up here. Huge old sycamore and oak trees almost met overhead, and Main Street consisted of boutiques, upscale souvenir shops, real estate agencies, and restored Victorian houses that had been turned into B and Bs or pricey restaurants that catered to the tourist trade. A handful of law offices clustered around the courthouse just off the traffic circle here in the middle of town. Each sported dark green balloon awnings in keeping with all the other businesses. The whole town is only six or eight blocks long, and cedar-shingled houses and condos stair-stepped up and down the mountain on either side, through thickets of hemlocks and hardwoods. Banks of rhododendron bushes filled all the spaces in between.

Eventually, the light changed and oncoming traffic finally cleared enough to let me make a left turn through a set of gates next to an old stone church.

My cousin Beverly, who lives in Durham, has a condo here and she’s always urging me to use it during off- season. Leaf season still had a few weeks to go, so when I called her Friday night, it was only to ask if she could recommend a place.

“Oh, you’d have to pay an arm and a leg for something up there right now,” she said. “If you could even find a vacancy. The leaves are supposed to peak this week. But you can use our condo if you don’t mind the mess it’s in —”

“It’s not rented?”

“—and if you don’t mind sharing it with the twins on the weekend.”

“The twins? I thought they were in school down at Wilmington.” Beverly’s daughters are nineteen and sweet kids, but not rocket scientist material.

“Nope. They flunked out before Christmas,” she said cheerfully. “We’ve had them at Tanser-MacLeod since last January.”

I’d never heard of Tanser-MacLeod and said so.

“It’s in Howards Ford. Used to be a junior college up until about three or four years ago. Fred and I thought a small campus might work better for them. Anyhow, we’re in the process of renovation and they’re doing the painting, which is why the condo’s not rented out right now. We need to get it refurbished before it starts snowing. You’re more than welcome to use it if you can walk around paint buckets.”

Better than sleeping in my car, I assured her.

Beverly said her unit was three levels up from the street. Following her directions, I drove through the gates of the condo, up a slight incline to the parking area that served the first level, then up a steeper drive onto the second level that curved around to a driveway that I swear to God was only about three feet wide and went straight up the side of the hill.

No guardrails, just firs with long feathery branches that brushed the car windows.

My sporty little flatlander car took a deep breath—I did, too—and somehow we made it. At the top of the drive, the area leveled out and I pulled into the slot marked F-3 and switched off the ignition.

I do not consider myself a coward, but simply looking back down the way I’d come gave me vertigo. The angle was so acute I couldn’t see the bottom and I shivered at the thought of having to drive out again anytime soon.

“Put your faith in the Lord,” said the preacher who lives in the back of my head and tries to lead me in the paths of righteousness and sanity. “If He can move mountains, He can surely help you drive back down one.”

“Or,” said the pragmatist who shares the same headspace and who had noticed a set of steep stone steps that led down to the street, “maybe you could just walk back and forth to the courthouse.”

“Wimp!” sneered the preacher. He took another look at that ski jump of a driveway. “On the other hand, your hips could certainly use the exercise.”

CHAPTER 3

The two-story weathered cedar condos were built up the side of the hill so that each had an entry that was close to ground level (or what passes for level ground in the mountains) depending on where the front door was in relation to the driveway that wound past the various units. Two shallow steps led up to a small porch in front of Beverly’s. I was unloading my car and stacking groceries and duffel bag by the railing when the door to the next unit opened and a gray-haired man emerged, carrying two large suitcases.

“Ships that pass in the night,” he said cheerfully. He pointed his remote toward the blue Grand Marquis parked in the next space and the trunk lid popped open. “You just getting here?”

I nodded. “I take it you’re leaving?”

“’Fraid so.” He set his bags in the trunk. “Are you up for the leaves?”

“Not really. You?” I put the last of my stuff on the edge of the porch, closed my trunk, and fished in my purse to find the notes and numbers Beverly had given me over the phone. One set was for the electronic keypad Beverly’s husband had installed so that they wouldn’t have to keep replacing the keys their renters lost or forgot to return to the local leasing agent.

“We come every fall,” the man said. “Forty years we’ve lived in Tampa and my wife still misses watching the seasons change.”

He smiled at the woman who now appeared in the doorway. “Not that she’s ever actually missed them.”

“He brings me back every spring and fall even if it’s just for a long weekend,” she agreed, handing him several shopping bags to stow in the trunk. “Azaleas and dogwoods in the spring, colored leaves in the fall.”

I smiled and wished them a safe trip home as I keyed in the numbers Beverly had given me.