Amy And Roger's Epic Detour Part 14

"Get into the right lane," I interrupted him, seeing the sign for Louisville a little late, and hoping Roger would be able to make it.

"What, now?" Roger asked, already starting to cross lanes of traffic.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry." I looked down at the map. "Okay, so I think we stay on this and go past Louisville, and then Hummingbird Valley should be a ways outside it-maybe half an hour."

"Loo-vulle," Roger said.

"What?"

"You said Lou-ee-ville. But it's p.r.o.nounced Loo-vulle. Believe me, I got quite the education."

"Loo-vulle," I repeated. "That it?"

"Beautiful," he said.

We were now driving past downtown Loo-vulle; the highway was on an overpa.s.s above the city. It was nearing eight, and the sun had just set, leaving a blue, shadowy light over everything. It was lovely; it just made sightseeing harder. But I could see a big stadium outside my window: Slugger Field.

About twenty minutes outside Louisville, I saw the sign for Hummingbird Valley. I directed Roger off the interstate, and soon it was like we'd turned into an entirely different world. There seemed to be nothing but green rolling hills on either side of us, and everything was dark and quiet and fresh scented. Kentucky smelled great-like fresh gra.s.s. Like summer. I rolled down my window and breathed in, and realized with a little bit of a shock that it was was summer. A new season had begun without my noticing. summer. A new season had begun without my noticing.

I looked out the window but I wasn't seeing any houses; there just seemed to be long stretches of green land broken by occasional white fences. "What is this?" I asked, turning to Roger. "Is it a town?"

"It is," Roger said. "It's a town with only about two hundred people in it."

I turned away from what I could still see of the hills and looked at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing a little uncomfortably. "Welcome to the wealthiest town in Kentucky. One of the wealthiest in the United States."

"But I don't even see any houses," I said, peering outside.

"They're back there, from what I understand," said Roger, gesturing to the side of the road. "Way back." He squinted out the window. "I don't think these are properly called houses. I think they're actually estates."

"G.o.d," I said, looking outside, suddenly feeling nervous myself. "Something tells me we're not in Kansas anymore."

"You did not just say that."

I scrolled through Roger's phone, found Hadley's address-1205 Westerly Road-and pointed Roger in what I hoped was that direction. When we found the street, which was getting harder the darker it got, Roger slowed so we could start looking at the house numbers. But there weren't any house numbers. There were just endless white fences and the occasional gated entrance with a plaque with the house's-or estate's-name on it.

"Look," Roger said, slowing even more and pointing to his side of the road. "Do you see that?"

I looked. They would have been hard to miss. Animal-shaped topiaries stood on an expanse of lawn. But they were bigger and more detailed than any I had ever seen. Two bears, probably to scale, stood on their hind legs, raising paws in greeting to the pa.s.sing cars. Below them, a fox waved a paw cheerfully. "Wow," I murmured. Roger rolled the car on slowly, and I turned back for a last look at them before they vanished from view. In the rapidly fading light, they somehow looked almost like sculptures, or enchanted creatures. Less and less like shaped shrubbery, at any rate. "Is that it?" I asked, catching sight of a sign outside a pair of gates. "On the left?"

The gates were wrought iron, and huge, and connected to two brick pillars on either side. ARMSTRONG FARMS ESTATES ARMSTRONG FARMS ESTATES was carved on a silver plaque on the pillar on the left. was carved on a silver plaque on the pillar on the left. HUMMINGBIRD VALLEY HUMMINGBIRD VALLEY, KENTUCKY KENTUCKY was carved on a plaque on the right. The whole setup was intimidating. But lucky for us, the gates were open. "I think so," he said. Roger looked more nervous than I'd ever seen him. I watched as he clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel and drove through. was carved on a plaque on the right. The whole setup was intimidating. But lucky for us, the gates were open. "I think so," he said. Roger looked more nervous than I'd ever seen him. I watched as he clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel and drove through.

True to his speculation, we did not reach the house for a long, long time. We drove up a gently winding driveway surrounded by green rolling hills. But I felt that at some point, this could not still be called a driveway. After this long, logically, it would seem to become a road again. As we drove, I thought suddenly with a pang about my house back in California, the Realtor's sign on the lawn and the driveway that had taken me, at most, ten seconds to cross.

We made another turn in the driveway, and then suddenly it was before us: huge and imposing and what immediately sprang to mind when you pictured a Southern mansion. It was large and white, with columns, dark green shutters on the windows, and side buildings that sloped down from the main house. There was a circular drive in front, but there were no cars parked around it. In the light that was still left, I could see beautifully landscaped flowers and white porcelain pots filled with blooms lining the steps. From what I could see along the side of the house, it looked like there was an expanse of manicured grounds in the back.

"Wow," I said, taking it all in.

"Yeah," said Roger, looking around as well. "I'd gotten the description, but I see now that she was downplaying it a bit." He put the car in park and killed the engine.

I turned away from the house and toward Roger. "So?" I asked. "Game plan? Are you just going to ring the bell?"

"I guess so," he said. "I hadn't really thought about this part. I'd thought about getting here, and what I'd say when I saw her, but not the bridge between the two." Roger cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to go for it." He ran his hands through his hair again, making it stand up in all directions. Which was probably not the look he was going for, if he wanted to impress Hadley.

"Good," I said as encouragingly as possible. "But-if I could just do one thing ..." I leaned forward, closing the s.p.a.ce between us in the car, and reached over to him. I placed my hands firmly on his head, feeling the spring and softness of his brown hair against my hands, how on his left side it was warmer, from driving in the sun all day. I had an impulse to run my fingers through it, but pushed it away immediately. Instead I smoothed my hands forward over the cowlick in the back, flattening it down. "There," I said. "Better." I smiled at him quickly, then retreated to my side of the car.

"Oh," he said, looking in the mirror again. "Thanks."

I was about to wish him luck, when I was distracted by the sight of a person coming around the side of the house. It was a very large person wearing a white doctor's mask and brandishing a chain saw. And he was heading toward the car.

5.

How to Decapitate a Moose

You'd better go on home, Kentucky gambler.

-Dolly Parton.

"Okay," I murmured to Roger, my pulse pounding, "I think what you should do is turn the car on quietly and back down the driveway as quickly as possible."

"How," Roger whispered back to me, "do you turn a car on quietly? And you do remember that driveway, right? You expect me to back down it?"

"Roger, he has a chain saw," I hissed. "I am not going to die in Kentucky!"

Roger burst out laughing as the guy waved with his non-chain-saw-wielding arm. "Hey!" he called. "Y'all lost?"

"See?" Roger said. "He's friendly."

"That's probably how he lures his victims! They have made movies about this!"

"That was Texas," said Roger, still smiling, rolling his eyes at me and getting out of the car. "Hi," he called. "I was just ... um ... looking for Hadley Armstrong."

Coming closer, the guy took off his mask and had thankfully turned the chain saw off. We must have activated some kind of motion sensor, because the driveway was now softly lit, and I could see the guy actually looked fairly normal. He was wearing boat shoes, khakis, and a polo shirt. And though he was about the same height as Roger, he was just bigger. Not fat, exactly, just all-around big. Kind of like a teddy bear. Figuring this took him out of murderer territory, I opened my door as well and edged out slowly.

"I'm her brother," the guy said. "Lucien Armstrong." He held out his hand to Roger, and they shook. "Pleased to meet you."

"Roger Sullivan," said Roger. "Likewise."

"Oh!" Lucien said, snapping his fingers. "You're the guy who sent roses, right?"

Roger cleared his throat and gestured to me. "And this is Amy Curry," he said.

I stayed where I was, leaning against the car. "Hi," I said, lifting one hand in a wave.

"Hi," said Lucien, clearly not picking up on this, and crossing over to me. He held out his hand, and I shook it, feeling that I'd never shaken so many hands in my life as I had in the past few days. His hand was huge, and almost closed over mine. He didn't look anything like Hadley had in her picture. He had slightly overgrown blond hair that looked sun-bleached, and a sunburn across his cheeks. He was cute, I was surprised to see. I tried to take a step back, forgetting that I was already backed up against the car.

"Nice to meet you," I said, extracting my hand from his.

"Sorry about the chain saw," he said. "I was just cutting back some brush. So," he said, looking from me to Roger, "y'all are friends of Hadley's?" Roger nodded, and I nodded as well, thinking that it just seemed simpler than the truth.

"Yes," Roger said, sticking his hands in his pockets. "We were in the area, and I talked to her earlier, but then she stopped answering her phone. So I just thought I'd see if she was home. I left a message, but ..."

"You know, this is awful," Lucien said. Unlike most people-and most people my age, which he looked near to-he actually seemed to really mean the things he said he felt. His brow was furrowed, and I could hear genuine regret in his voice. "I wish you could have gotten through to her, rather than coming all this way. Because Had left for a horse show a few hours ago and isn't getting back until tomorrow. I know she'll be sorry to have missed y'all."

"Oh," said Roger, nodding. "Right." I watched as he stuck his hands in his pockets, his energy ebbing away, looking a little lost. I found myself incredibly mad at this girl I'd never met. Why would she tell Roger to call when he got to Louisville when she had no intention of being there? I could only imagine how he felt-like if we'd traveled all the way to Yosemite, only to learn it was closed on Mondays or something.

"But," I said quickly, trying to cover the silence that was edging into uncomfortable territory, "I mean, maybe ..." I looked at Roger and could see how much he didn't want to just turn around and go. "We could crash in Louisville tonight...."

"Loo-vulle," Roger and Lucien said simultaneously.

"Right, there," I said. "I mean, we're pretty tired. We came from Missouri this morning and have been driving all day. So," I went on, trying to see how Roger felt about this plan I was inventing on the spot, "maybe we'll just head into town now, find a hotel, and come back tomorrow?" Roger met my eyes and gave me a small smile, and I had a feeling that I'd made the right call.

"Well, excellent," said Lucien, clapping his hands together, which made a surprisingly loud sound. "That sounds good. I would've hated for Had to have missed you if you've come all this way."

"Great," I said, turning back to the car. "So ..."

"We don't want to keep you," said Roger.

"Nothing to keep me from," Lucien said. "The parents are down in Hilton Head for the week, Had's gone, I'm just holding the fort here by myself." He rubbed his hand over the nape of his neck, smiling a little fixedly.

There was something in his aspect that seemed startlingly familiar to me. It took me a moment, but then it clicked into place. He was alone in his house, with his sibling and parents gone. He had seemed so happy to talk to us. He was, most likely, as lonely as I'd been for the month I lived by myself in our house. There was something about being alone in places that were usually filled with people that made them seem particularly empty when it was just you.

"It was good to meet you, man," Roger said, extending his hand.

"Do you want to come to dinner?" I asked without even thinking about it, surprising myself. Roger glanced over at me, eyebrow raised, hand suspended in midair. "I mean, we were probably just going to grab something in town. And if you haven't eaten, I mean ..."

Roger dropped his hand. "Yeah, you should come," he said. "I mean, if you don't have plans, that is."

Lucien looked from Roger to me. "Really?" he asked. "I don't want to impose on y'all."

"Not at all," I said, surprised that these words were coming out of my mouth. I had spent so long trying to avoid strangers, and now I was inviting them along? Apparently, I was. I wondered when that had happened. "You should come."

"Well, okay," said Lucien, smiling at us. "That's real nice of you. I appreciate it."

"Come on," Roger said, as he opened the driver's-side door. "I'll drive."

"Great," Lucien said, heading over to the Liberty. "All our cars are around back." Roger met my eyes as he said this, and we exchanged a tiny smile. I wondered how many cars he was talking about, how many there had to be to use the the word "all."

Lucien opened the pa.s.senger-side door, and startled, I took a step back, figuring that maybe he really liked riding shotgun, or something. It took a silent, confused minute of him holding the door open expectantly for me to realize that he had opened it for me, and was just waiting for me to get in.

"Oh," I said, climbing in. "Um, thanks." I reached to close it, but a second later, he did it for me, shutting it gently.

He got into the backseat, buckling himself into the middle and leaning forward between our seats. "Have either of you ever been to Louisville before?" he asked.

"Nope," Roger said, and I shook my head.

"That decides it," he said, leaning back against the seat and smiling. "We're going to the Brown."

The Brown, it turned out, meant the Brown Hotel in downtown Louisville. Before we got there, Lucien gave us a quick tour of Louisville, which was lovely. It was the cleanest city I'd ever seen-certainly cleaner than Los Angeles. But it was beautifully landscaped, with trees in bloom all around us, making the air smell wonderful. The streets were wide, and n.o.body seemed to be in a particular hurry-another big change from L.A. There was horse stuff everywhere-which made sense, considering that this was the home of the Kentucky Derby. I noticed that some of the license plates in front of us even had horses on them, which seemed like a nice touch. Louisville just felt peaceful, which I hadn't expected.

Lucien had us drive past the Louisville Slugger Museum, which had a bat the size of the building leaning against it. I gawked at it and made a mental note to have Roger drive by in the morning again so that I could take a picture. Charlie would get a kick out of it-he'd always loved baseball. This thought jarred me a little bit, and made me realize how little I'd been thinking about my brother-or how much I'd been trying not to think about my brother. I had a suspicion that it was the latter. But I didn't want to think about Charlie. He was too tangled in everything that had happened, and then everything that had happened with him afterward.... I stared out the window, trying to concentrate only on Louisville pa.s.sing by.

Lucien directed Roger to a very fancy-looking hotel. It had a huge red canopy, with THE BROWN THE BROWN written on it in gold lettering. It looked written on it in gold lettering. It looked nice nice, and way out of our price range.

"This looks great," Roger said, glancing over at me, and I had a feeling he was also thinking of the four hundred dollars and change that was all the money we had. This place looked like it probably cost that much for one night. "But I'm not sure this is exactly the kind of place we were planning on staying tonight...."

"No worries," said Lucien. "We're just eating here."

"Oh," Roger said. "Got it." It seemed like restaurants at this hotel might also be a little more expensive than the fast-food and diner dinners we'd been having, but I figured we could probably afford it for one meal.

Lucien's directions brought Roger around to the valet entrance, and before we could say anything, three doors were opened simultaneously by valets in white coats. I stepped out, glad once again I was wearing Bronwyn's clothes. I noticed that Roger was tucking his white T-shirt hurriedly into his jeans. Lucien stepped over to the valet who'd opened Roger's door and shook his hand, and I saw a flash of green pa.s.s from his palm to the valet's as he did this. Then he motioned us inside the hotel, as the doors were pulled open for us by two more valets, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. We stepped inside, and I looked around, my mouth hanging open a little. I was now certain this was out of our price range-this was an extremely nice hotel. There were chandeliers above us, and thick, patterned carpet on the floor, and there seemed to be a lot of shiny bra.s.s fixtures everywhere.

Lucien led us across the lobby-filled with antique-looking couches, Oriental rugs, and oil paintings of horses-and down three steps to J. Graham's Cafe and Bar. There was a crowd standing around the host's podium, but Lucien just walked up to the front, and we were seated right away, in a corner booth that looked out on the quiet street, lit with streetlights. "Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Armstrong," the host murmured as he handed us menus and departed.

I looked at Lucien, surprised. "They know you here?" I asked.

Lucien shrugged, looking a little embarra.s.sed. "We've been coming here a long time," he said. "Every Derby season, the parents rent out a suite on the eleventh floor. So you get to know the staff."

"Right," I said, as though this was perfectly normal, and not at all intimidating. I looked around the tastefully decorated, clearly expensive restaurant and realized how long it had been since I'd been somewhere like this. Roger and I hadn't encountered cloth napkins in quite some time. I started to open up my menu, but Lucien laid his hand on top of it.

"If I may," he said, looking between Roger and me. "The Brown makes a famous dish that originated here, and if you haven't had it, you really should."

I thought about Roger asking me before where my sense of adventure was. I knew that he'd been kidding, mostly, but the question was now reverberating in my mind. Even Old me had always been a little cautious. I had to be, with Charlie not taking any caution at all. And I'd been reading maps too long not to want to follow some sort of plan and have an ending in sight. But I had told my mother off, and the world hadn't ended. And here I was, cut loose and in Kentucky, with Roger and a stranger, at a fancy restaurant, wearing someone else's clothes. Maybe my sense of adventure wasn't lost. Maybe it had just been lying dormant. I pushed my menu away. "Sounds good," I said, hoping immediately after I said this that the famous dish wasn't snails. Or anything to do with sweetbreads, which I'd found out the hard way in England were neither sweet nor breads.

I saw Roger give me a little smile across the table, though it faded when he heard Lucien order for all of us, something called a Hot Brown.

"You guys do eat meat, right?" he asked when three skillets were placed in front of us simultaneously by three waiters. "I should have checked, with you being from California and all." We'd done the basic introductions while we'd waited for the worrisomely named food to arrive. We'd found out that Lucien was eighteen and beginning college at Vanderbilt in the fall.

"No vegetarians here," Roger said.

"Good," Lucien said, "then dig in."

I looked down at the skillet that had been laid across my plate. One of the waiters had explained the dish: A Hot Brown was a turkey breast on big pieces of soft-looking bread, covered with parmesan cheese and a creamy sauce, flanked by tomato slices and finished with parsley and two pieces of bacon laid across the top. I had just been taking it in, wondering where to start, when I realized Lucien hadn't started eating yet. He was looking at me expectantly, and only after I'd raised my fork did he raise his. I'd heard about Southern manners, but I'd a.s.sumed they'd died out a hundred years before. Apparently not. The proof was sitting in front of me, waiting for me to take a bite before he would begin to eat.

The silverware was surprisingly heavy, and I cut a small piece and took a bite. It was fantastic. I took another bite, and saw that across the table, Roger was eating with gusto. I realized as I ate more that these were all foods I liked-why had n.o.body except people in Kentucky realized how good they might be when combined and covered with melted cheese?

Roger had ordered a c.o.ke, since root beer was not on the menu. But I'd taken Lucien's lead and ordered what he had, something called sweet tea. I took a small sip, then another one, realizing that cream soda might just have been eclipsed as my favorite drink. It was iced tea, but very sweet, with the sugar not grainy and mixed in, but part of the drink itself. Between this and the NuWay, I decided that from now on I would always follow the recommendations of the locals, as I hadn't been steered wrong yet. Lucien said that he would take care of ordering dessert, and I was happy to put myself in his hands.

I headed to the ladies' room, leaving the boys in an intense discussion of sports movies. I only hoped, for Lucien's sake, that he would have the sense not to bring up Hoosiers Hoosiers. As I washed my hands, I looked at my reflection. I thought back to the me reflected in the bathroom mirror at Yosemite. I looked different, and not only because I hadn't just been crying, then rubbing my face with paper towels that felt like they'd been made from some kind of bark. I was more tan now, and I had a new wardrobe. But it wasn't that, entirely. I looked at my reflection a moment longer, pulling my shoulders back.