“See, I told you it’d come in handy,” Dominic said as he pointed to the all-wheel drive button on the dashboard. She did not, in fact, have a problem with spending the extra money to make sure they could go off-road—they lived in Texas after all. Sunny with a chance of hurricane. She conceded. The minivan didn’t have all-terrain capability, but she wanted the hybrid with better mileage. But Dom, a true son of Houston, represented some oilmen. “Never trust a skinny chef. It had better be fuel-injected American Muscle.” Dom said when she brought it up.

  “Manufactured in Mexico,” Rozie said in response, hands on her hips.

  The paved but pothole-filled road vanished behind the trees as they turned onto the long grass-lined track. As with all of East Texas, trees loomed over the path, obscuring the setting sun. Rozie looked up through the branches at the magenta clouds beyond. The wheels rolled over the track without protest.

  Rozie looked at her husband. “You know, this is actually smoother than the paved road.”

  The headlights clicked on automatically, driving the gloom away. Dom peered out his window.

  “Look at the road.”

  Rozie squinted. In the fading light, she saw a regularity in the grass. Cement pavers set in the ground allowed the stubby grass to eek out some existence. It created an unusual tile pattern in the in the green carpet.

  “Pavers… embedded in the dirt. They let the rainwater seep through without causing potholes. I bet it gives Conrad a boner when it’s all mowed and dreamlike.”

  He snorted a laugh. Rozie grimaced. She glanced at him. He had a stupid grin on his face. ‘Boner’ hadn’t appeared in his vocabulary since the last time he had hung out with his friends. A fresh layer of unease crept into her chest. She turned her focus back out the window.

  The landscape reminded her of a road trip her parents took them on when she was young. Hours watching wild greens and browns zip by in a blur on their way to Memphis.

  Her eyes flitted over Dom’s phone on the dash. The navigation didn’t account for their slow progress over the two-lane roads or for the fact that the posted speed limits were wildly unrealistic on the torn-up farm roads with numbers for names. She hoped she had time to clean up before dinner.

  The sun retreated over the horizon somewhere beyond the trees. The magenta faded to a curious purple overhead. A few balls of harsh orange light glimmered through the trees, scalding flood lamps fighting off the darkness for the scarce individuals who called this feral patch of earth home. They were the only reminders, besides the steel posts and barbwire fences that lined the road, that they were in the modern era, where cities erased the night sky and satellite imagery vanquished the mysteries of Earth. Until they came to the gate.

  “Well, there goes the neighborhood,” Rozie sighed. They had carved out a small clearing. A gate of black metal tubes, right angles contrasting against the wild woods all around, barred the road. An elegant guardhouse by mobile home standards sat twenty feet back, just inside the ten-foot high steel fence that disappeared off into the brush in either direction. Lights burned brightly on tall posts, and pristine asphalt appeared twenty feet beyond the gate.

  The front door opened, and a man stepped out toward the gate. The security guard shielded his eyes with a clipboard. He was fit—actually capable of guarding, Rozie thought—armed with a black pistol set on his hip. The guard stopped just shy of the gate and looked at the vehicle, checking the plate numbers. He glanced back up over the top of his glasses marched back to the guardhouse. He leaned in the open door and waved them in. The gate churned to life, swinging inward. Rozie turned in her seat to watch the it close with a distinct metallic clack.

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  The road wound back into the trees. After a few silent moments, it curved around a small hill, and, as they followed the turn, a wide clearing opened in front of them, like a valley amid towering trees. The moon crept over the treeline, bathing the acreage in silver light. Rozie saw the glint of a metal roof in the distance—a sagging barn, perhaps. Reigning beyond the ruins, looming above everything else, rose the Weaver Mansion, perched on a small rise in the center of the clearing.

  Dominic slowed and craned his neck to look up at the imposing structure. Once dead, now brought back to life. In a way. The Victorian mansion sat atop a partially buried basement. With its tall round turret, the mansion reminded Rozie of a lighthouse on a lone rocky outcropping in a sea of black. Mildew or lichen clung to the brown stonework, sapping what little cheeriness the dark house had left. A veranda ringed the right side, atop the ground floor. Its roof was another porch for the second floor. Fresh black enamel paint on the railing caught the moonlight.

  There was care. Concrete lines, a modern touch, defined the boundaries between flowering annuals and a bent Magnolia tree. A tiled roof capped the turret. Umber-colored metal panels covered the rest of the main house. A wing jutted out from the south side of the mansion like an after-thought, an attempt by a less talented architect to render the home into a resort with additional rooms. It was dark and beautiful, alarming in its enormity and isolation. The only fault Rozie could find in the reconstruction was the unsightly air conditioning units crouching at the foot of the base and along the second-floor porch. But then, function always beat form in the battle against the brutal climate.

  Trimmed to perfection, square topiary lined a low stone wall that separated the resort’s landscaping from the wild terrain. The road climbed the rise and curved in a long arc around the front of the mansion. Dom pulled in front of the proud stone stairs that mounted from the ground floor up to the front door. A young man in a neat gray uniform materialized from an archway beneath the formal entry, rolling a luggage cart down a winding ramp, before Dom had thrown the car into park.

  Rozie felt a splash of comfort. Directly in front of their car sat another familiar vehicle. Riley’s 2000-something white Honda. Maybe a few newer dents, but she recognized the bumper sticker.

  Do you follow Jesus that closely?

  Religious or not, she thought it was funny. And fitting for a youth pastor. The most stable adult among Dom’s high school friends.

  Dominic clutched the gear shifter, and Rozie placed her hand on top of his.

  “I know this is a boys’ weekend, but please promise me you won’t leave me alone, okay? These are your friends and…” Her face pinched—she couldn’t even begin to describe the discomfort she was already feeling. She heard the rising pitch in her tone, the insecurity.

  Dom put his other hand on top of hers. “We’ll do some guy stuff, and I’m sure ‘Without An H’ has some stuff planned for the wives. But it’ll be an easy weekend.”

  Rozie smiled at the in-joke despite her discomfort. When she met Sara Burke, the first statement out of her mouth was, “Sara, without an H.” And boy, was she.

  The bellhop stopped behind the car. Rozie stepped out into the breezy evening. The air cooled faster than she expected. Warmth rose from the sun-soaked asphalt and stone. She glanced back as Dom and the young man hunched over the vehicle’s back hatch. She hobbled up the steps to the front door, leaning on the wrought-iron handrail. Perks of being so very pregnant, she thought wryly. Just as she reached the level of the veranda, the doors opened, pouring a warm orange glow out onto the porch. A figure emerged. He stood with one heel propping open the door, a hand out to welcome Rozie inside.

  “My goodness, Rozie, just look at you! Dom should have taken me up on the helicopter.” Conrad Burke didn’t wait for a response. “How was the drive? I’m working on getting the county to freshen up the asphalt for our delivery trucks and in case anyone else chooses the long route,” he said with a wink.