One more kiss and he was out the door, heading toward the back of the cabin. If there were a clue nearby, Nate would find it. Christine headed to the bathroom where she soon learned Nate hadn’t exaggerated about the vanilla scent. Lotions, bath oils, salts, and an exfoliating scrub labeled vanilla this or that. Vanilla cream, vanilla bean, vanilla spice, vanilla latte…it was a regular coffee shop for the body. The rim of rust that had once circled the tub drain was gone. She touched one of the loofahs hanging from the hot water faucet, noticed it was still damp. Whoever had set up home here had done it with the intent of maintaining creature comforts, as though she planned to stay for more than a day or two.

What kind of person did such a thing? One who thought she was entitled and therefore could lay claim to the space, believing no one would ever find out? Nate had wanted her to turn off the utilities because no one lived in the place, and as far as he was concerned, no one was going to live there. But she hadn’t been able to do it because a small part of her had held out hope that one day she and Nate would fix up the place and bring the girls here—to rest, relax, and dream, without real life intruding.

Why had she ever thought that might happen? Or that she might want it to happen? Maybe to erase thoughts of her father’s betrayal and replace them with memories of her husband and children in the cabin? As she stared at the single toothbrush and tube of toothpaste resting on the sink, more questions surfaced, ones she’d wondered about since learning of her father’s life in Magdalena. Had the cabin ever been a refuge for him, or had it all been pretense? And what of her parents? Had they truly loved one another at one time and found slices of happiness with each other, or had the union been more about duty and power? If only she knew… But there was no one to ask, not even Uncle Harry…not about this. She turned off the bathroom light, moved to the bedroom.

The chenille spread was the first thing she noticed. She guessed it was the same one she’d seen when she visited. Next, she spotted a pair of slippers beside the night table. Navy, size eight or so, well worn. Comfy. Another sign of a person making herself right at home. How dare she? Anger surged through her, spilled out in quiet rage, and propelled her to the dresser where she yanked open drawers and tossed out their contents. T-shirts, jeans, socks, underwear, all landed on the hardwood floor. Christine moved to the bedside stand and emptied its contents, too: hand cream, lip balm, headbands, a bible. The intruder wanted to move in and snuff out memories of Charles Blacksworth? He’d never disappear, no matter how many vanilla-drenched items smothered the cabin. She tore off the chenille spread, tossed it on the floor. Nobody was going to erase her father from this place, not until she’d said her last good-bye.