“Now,” Vince said, leaning back in his chair, “are we ready to eat dinner?”

Adeline and I nodded. Suzanne still stared at the table. We all began to eat.

The steak was probably delicious. I cut off the first bite and put it in my mouth, melting on my tongue, tasting like nothing. I sipped the martini. To my left, Suzanne gulped half of hers down. I touched her leg, trying to console her or calm her down or something, and she jerked away.

“Don’t touch me,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“No,” she said. “You know what?” she pointed at Vince. “I’m sick of your shit. I’m sick of you treating me like your unstable daughter.”

“Be careful,” he said.

“No. Fuck that. I’m sick of being treated like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy.”

This was between the two of them now. He said nothing.

“Say it,” she said.

He said nothing.

“Say I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were crazy, Suzanne.”

“You didn’t have to. But now I want you to say I’m not.”

“Take it easy,” he said.

“Say it.”

He turned his attention back to his steak.

“Fuck this,” she said, and flung her cloth napkin on the table. She slid her chair back and stood up. “You can go to hell,” she told Vince, before looking at Adeline and I. “And you can go to hell, and you can go to hell.” She lifted her martini glass, tipped back the rest of it, and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall.

Suzanne stormed out of the room, through the front door, and into the mountain night.

The three of us watched her leave, slamming the door behind her, then turned our attention back to each other.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Vince shook his head. “I can explain some,” he said, “but I’m afraid not all of it.”

“I should follow her,” I said, getting up from my chair.

“No,” Vince said. “It’s best not to.”

“It’s best not to,” Adeline agreed.

I looked at the door. “She doesn’t have a ride. She’s probably just waiting out there.”

“She’s not waiting,” Vince interjected. “She’s gone.”

“She’s gone,” Adeline said.

I looked at them. “How can you know that?”

“I know her quite well,” Vince said.

I expected more of an explanation.

“So,” I said, raising my palms in the air, “where did she go?”

“She belongs to the mountains now,” he said.

I shook my head and raised my voice. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“Please,” Vince said, “sit down. Let’s eat. Let’s have dinner, like we were supposed to. And I’ll explain as much as I can.”

I looked at him suspiciously. Then at Adeline. Then back at him. When would the explaining be over?

“Trust, remember?” he said, and held out a hand suggestively.

I sat down.

The steak did not regain its taste, and I kept glancing back at the door, expecting her to walk back in, teary-eyed and ashamed. But she didn’t.

Vince explained. And for once, something made sense, if only a little.

39

The candles burned down as Vince spoke, their hot wax flowing down the sides and hardening into new shapes. The martinis kept coming, and the lights seemed to dim.

“In our community,” he started, “women are welcomed with open arms.”

He went on to explain, in depth, the community of which he spoke. It was a cooperative living effort—not under the same roof, but spread out over many apartments and homes, all owned by Vince and one of his business partners, from the sound of it. The idea was that anyone who worked for them—or “with” them, as he said—in any capacity would be provided shelter, food, and amenities.

“We didn’t just want to build a business, but a community,” Vince said. “Where like-minded people can live together, work together, and help one another out when needed.

“There are all sorts of responsibilities assigned to individuals. Cooking, cleaning, small construction projects. Simple things like harvesting firewood in the winter. Most jobs vary by season, and often rotate. The majority are simple, straightforward tasks to keep our community going.”

“And the other thing,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “and the other thing. Probably twenty percent of the community members help out with my transportation business. Drivers and processers.”

“So those guys that always gave me a ride back to my apartment after runs?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “On my payroll. Some of the few people in the community that know the specifics of what we’re hauling.”

“What do you tell everyone else?” I asked.

“Most don’t ask. They have no interest in what I’m actually moving. They go about their business and live comfortably, and never once have to see heroin.”

I looked around the restaurant, caught off guard by him mentioning the drugs so freely.

“Don’t worry,” he said, motioning around the room, “these guys are legit.”

I looked at Adeline. She sat quietly.

“Why didn’t you tell me this up front?” I asked. “The community. No one told me. Is it some kind of secret?”

“We generally don’t like to explain the community to outsiders right away,” he said. “They can get the wrong impression.”

“Like it sounds like a cult?” I asked.

“Cult is one we’ve heard. Or simply oddball hippie commune.” He took a drink. “We’ve found when we can bring people into the community gradually, introduce them slowly, those sorts of preconceived stereotypes are broken down by the time they’re fully involved. It allows them to see us for what we are, rather than some cartoonish assumption.”

“So that’s what you were doing with me?”

“In a way. Though you made it quite more difficult than most.”

He laughed. She laughed. I laughed, because it felt right.

“I recognized your curiosity early on,” he said. “Putting you as a driver was an error on my part.”

They each took a bite of food, and new drinks appeared. My head was getting cloudy, and I reminded myself to stay sharp. I was driving, and I needed to process what was happening. I stopped drinking.

“Okay, so how does this explain Suzanne?” I asked after a lull.

Vince looked at Adeline.

“Suzanne and I came to Otter Ridge together,” she said, patting her face with a napkin, “as friends. We went to school together in Oregon.”

I nodded. She continued.

“It was years ago. At that time, we were very close. Like sisters. Attached at the hip in school, did everything together. We came out here looking for seasonal work, just trying to avoid getting a nine to five and falling into a boring life.

“We shared a tiny apartment we couldn’t afford and got crappy jobs. She was a bartender—that’s how she started singing in bars around here—and I worked at a ski resort. It was winter then. Before long, we met Vince and his people, and started working for them.”

“Define ‘working,’” I said.

Vince chuckled. “Nothing shady. At first, they both did a little of everything—odd jobs, keeping places clean—then they became our de facto chefs.”

“We essentially cooked for everyone in the community,” she said. “Suzanne and I, we were a team. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was fun. We were good at it.”

“The boys loved it,” Vince said, now recounting the time with nostalgia. “We’d never had a dedicated chef before. I understand how this might come off to some—two women doing the cooking for a company of mostly men. I understand how it might sound, if you were of the closed-minded ilk. It wouldn’t surprise me if your east coast roots were tugging on your brain right now, screaming sexism or chauvinism. Not by any fault of your own, of course, but because of how you’ve been conditioned. Because of how we’ve all been conditioned, over time.”