As I followed Rae across the driveway, I glanced back toward the studio. October was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with her arms crossed and her giant, mastodon dog beside her. They were both watching me.

FOUR.

My landlord said if I moved out on such short notice I would lose my deposit, but I left anyway. I was convinced this job was a sign of good things to come. A fresh start. I was going to show up on day one as a new and improved Joe Harper. Leaving my miserable years in Berkeley behind. Leaving the Mill Valley of my past behind. The Mill Valley of Bob, Sam, and even Cal behind.

Leaving my sorrow behind.

I didn’t have much to pack—just clothes, books, some kitchen paraphernalia, a couple of lamps, my laptop, and my guitar.

I threw it all in my truck and headed back to Casa Diez on Saturday morning.

The studio was dark when I got there, and I went to the main house and knocked, figuring I should let October know I’d arrived. The furry dinosaur greeted me first, rushing out through a linebacker-size dog door on the east side of the house.

“Hey there, Diego.” He walked underneath my hand and leaned into me, and I scratched his back without having to reach for it.

October opened the door seconds later, holding a pair of dirty sneakers.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she said back at me, a broad, thousand-watt smile immediately lighting up her face.

Only then did it hit me how pretty she was. I don’t know why it hadn’t been more obvious at our first meeting. Sometimes I can’t see things when they’re right in front of my face. But I saw it then. I saw how her eyes were like the forest that surrounded her house: mysterious but fresh, bright, and alive. And I saw how all of her features seemed kaleidoscopic: colorful and constantly changing, depending on the angles, the reflections, and the light.

However, it feels important to say this: It wasn’t anything as superficial as the way October looked that eventually drew me to her. It was something else. Something deeper. An energy. A spirit. Her presence warmed my heart and terrified me at the same time.

She sat down right where she stood in the middle of the doorway and put on her shoes.

“We’re about to head out for a hike.” She nodded toward the dog. “He won’t let me do anything unless I tire him out first. Walk with us. Then you can unpack.”

We followed the path that wound around the back of the house, through deer ferns, sorrel, and ivy, and up a short hill to the property line, where a chain-link fence with a gate entangled in wild blackberry bushes opened onto the fire road that led to the top of the mountain. It was a trail that Bob, Sam, and I had spent a lot of time on when I was a kid and, later, Cal and I as teenagers. I knew it as well as I knew the five-string triad arpeggios I used to practice with my eyes closed.