The Carpenter

Chapter 1

Driving into a blizzard two hours from home wasn't the best decision I'd ever made.

Dark clouds lined the sky, and snow pelted against the windshield in a mesmerizing pattern. The flakes fell in one direction, then shifted to another with the wind. The wipers went whoosh-whoosh, whoosh-whoosh, lulling me into a stupor. I hadn't slept well, and the coffee I slugged at my desk had worn off.

I blinked and took my hand off the wheel for a second to rub my face.

Wake the fuck up. Pay attention.

When the snowstorm was upgraded to a blizzard, I canceled my afternoon meetings and raced home to grab my bags.

I tuned the radio to a news station and listened to the report. The weatherman predicted heavy wind gusts and snow turning to sleet.

I was born in Vermont, so I wasn't afraid of bad weather. But if I didn't reach the cabin before the snow turned to sleet, I'd get in trouble on the rough back roads.

I grew warm inside my jacket and turned down the heat. A paper map lay across the passenger seat. The village of Carlton, Vermont was so small it wasn't listed on the GPS. My exit came up, and I let out a long breath. It wasn't far now. Less than ten miles.

I passed through a small town center with a steepled church and a post office. Large brick and stone houses lined the road. Sleet started plinking against the windshield as I turned onto a dirt road.

The road was bumpy, and my air freshener swayed on my rearview mirror. Adam had picked the scent: a manly, woodsy smell, like the one that clung to his flannel shirts. My center console held some of his favorite CDs. A pair of his work gloves were stuffed into the glove compartment.

"Grant, this is a dumbass idea," he'd say. "Driving in a blizzard. What if you got stuck?"

I had daily conversations with him in my head. Arguments. Things I wanted to say. Replays of boring conversations, like what to have for dinner or whose turn it was to load the dishwasher.

I heard his voice twice a week when he left long, rambling phone messages in his deep timbre. I never picked up, wanting a clean break. Hashing things out after a breakup just prolonged the pain, and I couldn't go through that with Adam.

But I still sat on the couch and replayed his messages, letting his voice fill my ears.

"Call me back. Please. I miss you."

Sometimes his voice cracked. He talked and talked until the message cut off. Then he'd call again, picking up where he left off. His words slurred on the last message, like he was drunk.

We were still in the no-man's-land of a breakup. Phone messages. Possessions left at my apartment. Friends gave me long hugs and pitying looks. Call if you need anything, they'd say, as if there'd been a death. I refused their dinner invitations, saying I needed to be alone.

I went to work, came home, and sat in front of the TV. I ate cereal over the sink for dinner, then walked around the apartment, looking at Adam's things. His paperbacks, piled on the end table in the bedroom. A pile of coins on top of the bookcase. And shirts, still hanging in the closet.

Nights were long. I stared at the ceiling for hours before falling into a restless sleep.

It was February, my least favorite time of year. The depression I fought came back during the heavy snow and long, cold nights.

Five weeks ago, Adam stood in my doorway in his favorite red flannel shirt, worn jeans and work boots. Two bags and a large box sat at his feet in the hall outside my apartment.