She got up and browsed the library stacks until she found some collections of plays. She skimmed through a few, looking for accessible texts, something Rose could read during the next few days while Mary Ellen explored her new approach to photography. She was absorbed in a collection of Stoppard plays when the librarian appeared beside her.
“We’re closing early,” she said. “For the storm.”
“Oh!” Mary Ellen said, blinking at the window, which was busy with clumped snowflakes tumbling fast and heavy. When had it gotten so bad? She gathered her books and checked them out with the library card Justine had given her.
“Careful out there,” the librarian said as she locked the front door. “It’s a big one.”
The Price Chopper parking lot was empty now; the few cars still on the main road drove slowly, their tires spitting slush, wipers frantically waving. Mary Ellen got into her car and started the engine, holding her hands in front of the heat vents. She couldn’t believe she’d blown off work like that. Was she crazy? It was only going to be harder to fix things when she got back. Still, there was a hum of excitement in her bones, mixed with self-satisfaction. Her photos… They’d been launched into the world! She couldn’t wait to hear what Justine thought of them. She’d have to come back to town in a few days to check her email again.
Mary Ellen took the journal and pen out of the bag from the stationery store. She opened the book to the first page and sat thinking for a few minutes, watching the snowflakes rapidly darken her windshield. She started writing, slowly and carefully, not wanting to mar the beautiful book with any mistakes.
Dear Rose,
When I saw this journal, I thought of you, not just because of the rose on the cover, but because of all the potential contained in these empty pages. Your life is a story waiting to be written, and I can tell, having spent this time with you, that you are going to create something wonderful. Just remember to pay attention to the things that make you happy, and never let anyone tell you they’re not worth doing.
She stopped writing, looked something up on her phone, then continued.
“Only through art can we emerge from ourselves and know what another person sees.” —Marcel Proust
I wish you much success with your writing, your education, and your future career.
Your friend,
Mary Ellen
She waited until the ink was dry, then placed the journal and pen in her purse. By that time, the windshield was packed with snow too heavy for the wipers to clear, so she got out of the car and used the scraper. Finally, she rolled slowly out of the parking lot, squinting into the whirling torrent. A guardrail appeared on the right side of the road, so she focused on keeping it in sight, following it up the mountain. Normally Mary Ellen would have been terrified to drive in these conditions, but she felt a thrill as she plunged through the storm. She was doing this. She was totally doing this. It was a new feeling, this invincibility, and the novelty itself was exhilarating. Most of all, though, she enjoyed the feeling that she was in charge: of her art, her protégé, her car.
The GPS told her the turnoff was coming up, so she slowed to a crawl. At the gap in the woods, she bumped over the edge of the road onto the driveway. The snow was falling a little less heavily under the trees, so she was just able to make out the switchbacks ahead of her, and then, down the slope, a glimpse of rust-colored walls. Mary Ellen downshifted and urged the car around the bend, its engine protesting against the low gear. She could feel the snow brushing against the underside of the little car, so even when the drive steepened on the next switchback, the car descended sluggishly. “Come on,” Mary Ellen growled, impatiently shifting back up to third, letting the snow do the braking for her. At the bottom of the drive, where the trees cleared away, was a small rise, and Mary Ellen, eager to go inside and give Rose her gift, accelerated confidently to climb over it. But instead of going up and over the little hill, the front of the car plunged straight into it, lifted upward slightly, and stuck there with a crunching jolt.
“Shit,” Mary Ellen said, touching her forehead to the steering wheel.
She’d forgotten to call the girls.
15
Nice going, lady, Ivy thought, watching Mary Ellen spin her tires deeper and deeper into the snowdrift. Even if she managed to get the car out—which wasn’t looking too likely—Ivy could tell they wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. It was snowing the way it did sometimes in Good Hope—lake-effect snow, they called it. It was the kind of snow that meant you were going to be stuck inside for three or four days, so you’d better be prepared to spend some serious quality time with your antsy, not-making-any-money relatives. The last time it happened, Colin spent so much time doing curls in the basement that his bicep popped and
