Chapter 4 - The Drive North
The drive from Atlanta to Blue Ridge takes about an hour and a half under normal conditions, winding north along Interstate 575 before bleeding into the scenic, serpentine two-lane highways of Fannin County.
As the concrete sprawl of the city gave way to rolling green foothills and, eventually, the jagged, tree-lined ridges of the Blue Ridge Mountains, I felt a profound sense of lightness wash over me. For thirty-three years, I had carried the invisible weight of my family’s expectations, financial mismanagement, and emotional convenience. With every mile marker I passed, another layer of that burden peeled away.
My phone buzzed relentlessly on the passenger seat.
First, it was my mother, calling three times in rapid succession. I let it ring to voicemail.
Then came a text message from Lauren: EMILY CARTER, WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY TO MOM? SHE’S SITTING IN THE KITCHEN CRYING! THE KIDS ARE ASKING WHERE YOU ARE!
I glanced at the screen, tapped the reply icon, and typed: Check the real estate portfolio, Lauren. You might learn something new.
That generated an immediate phone call from Grant. His voice, usually smooth and dripping with condescension, sounded frayed at the edges when it spilled out of my car's Bluetooth speaker.
"Emily? What kind of psychotic game are you playing?" Grant barked without a greeting. "Lauren is beside herself, your mother is a wreck, and we are trying to unpack a cabin with two overtired children because you decided to throw a temper tantrum!"
I kept my eyes on the winding mountain road, my hands resting lightly on the steering wheel.
"Hello, Grant," I said calmly. "Did you have a pleasant drive?"
"Cut the crap, Emily. Where are you?"
"I'm on my way to Blue Ridge."
A heavy silence hung over the phone line for three full seconds. When Grant spoke again, his voice dropped an octave, dripping with menace. "You are not welcome at Pine Hollow. This is a private family trip. Turn your car around right now, or I swear to God, I will make sure you never set foot near my children again."
I let out a quiet, genuine laugh. It was liberating.
"Grant, sweetie," I said, using his own condescending tone against him. "You don't own Pine Hollow. And as for your children—honestly, after the way you and Lauren spoke about me in those emails, the last thing I want to do is babysit for ungrateful narcissists."
The line went dead. He hung up on me.
I smiled, flicked on my turn signal, and navigated the final stretch of gravel road leading up to the crest of Pine Ridge.
Pine Hollow was magnificent. Built of massive, hand-hewn cedar logs in the 1970s by my grandfather, the cabin sat on five acres of pristine, heavily wooded land overlooking a breathtaking valley. A massive wraparound porch looked out toward the distant blue haze of the Smokies. A black Range Rover was parked conspicuously in the gravel driveway, alongside my father’s gleaming Mercedes sedan.
They were already here. All of them.
May you like
I pulled my Honda up behind the Range Rover, cut the engine, and sat for a moment, listening to the ticking of the cooling metal under the hood and the wind whispering through the towering pines.
It was time for the curtain to rise.
