Jake took Mirabelle through the lineup they’d developed. When he finished, Mirabelle said she’d like to add a final story: a profile of one of the current Back to the Land pioneers. “I have a few candidates in mind,” she said. “There’s a couple you could speak to who moved there very recently. They’re both very sweet, really excited to be there. Just got their house up and running.”
“We’ll use your discretion,” Jake said quickly.
“Do you have a writer in mind for that?” Charles asked Jake. “I could call them after the meeting, make sure they’re free.”
“Why don’t you write it?” Jake said.
“Me?” Charles thumbed his chest.
“You’re always asking to write things. Plus, you live out that way. A lot closer to where the community is.”
Mirabelle smiled and pushed a pamphlet across the table to Charles. It was different from the one he’d seen yesterday, with only a simple log cabin on the cover. “The directions to the homesteads are there,” Mirabelle explained, turning the shiny pages and pointing. “That’s probably where we’ll set up the interview, and then they’ll take you to their cabin and show you around.”
Not knowing what else to do, Charles opened the pamphlet. On the first page was a group of adults sitting in a circle, talking. It must have been pre–Back to the Land, for they were all wearing Ralph Lauren polo shirts and sneakers and lipstick. “Life can be simpler than this,” said the caption.
He flipped to the next page, which described the training process of becoming an intrepid frontiersman. Now the same people were sitting outside on logs and tree stumps, dressed in rags. A woman was holding a long, wobbly saw, examining a tree trunk. Someone else was hovering over a smoldering fire, grinning.
Charles turned to the next photo, his eyes skidding over it. Then he turned back; a chilly hand squeezed his heart. A woman was leaning over a square of soil, pulling at a stalk. She wore a long skirt, frayed at the ends, and an oversize cotton shirt. Her mouth was half open, and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Charles blinked at her oval face, her slender nose, and her full lips. The photo was in black and white, but if it had been color, Charles was sure her eyes would be blue.
He tapped the photo; the words dried up in his throat. He read the caption. Her name.
Mirabelle leaned forward. “Oh, she’s wonderful.”
Her name was Bronwyn Pembroke.
“I didn’t even think of her,” Mirabelle went on, “but she’d be a great person to profile. Young, intelligent, articulate, and really exemplary of what we’re trying to accomplish.”
“Done,” Jake said, brushing his hands together. “Let’s use her.”
Charles pressed his lips together, trying to conceal his panic. It was her. Bronwyn. His Bronwyn.
“Are you all right?” Mirabelle said.
Charles looked up. Everyone was staring at him, and he wondered if he’d made some sort of sound. He nodded and reached for his water glass but missed it, tipping the whole thing over. Everyone leaped up and grabbed their papers. “I’ll get a paper towel,” one of the assistants cried and ran out of the conference room. Charles mopped up the water with napkins as best he could, apologizing. His hands felt so clammy.
The assistant returned with a roll of paper towels. The conversation rushed on without him. It had been settled; Mirabelle told Charles that she would contact Bronwyn—Bronwyn!—and they’d set up an interview for early next week. In no time, Mirabelle was standing to leave. She shook everyone’s hands. Jake held the conference room door for her, and Charles followed them out.
When the elevator doors closed, Mirabelle safely gone, Charles turned back to the conference room. The pamphlet was still there in the middle of the table. He rushed back in and practically pounced on it, whipping to the photo again, eager to scrutinize it without restraint. Bronwyn looked so plain. Older, too, and she’d gained some weight. Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, a few pieces hanging in her eyes, and there was a pile of what looked like carrots next to her, dirty, teardrop-shaped things just lying there on the filthy ground.
He closed his eyes and saw Bronwyn softly talking to Scott on the patio at his parents’ house, trying so desperately to draw him into their world. He remembered the last day they’d ever spoken, how she’d pulled his hand to get him to sit back down, nudged him to clap at the Swithin awards ceremony. He recalled the horror in her eyes when he’d said all those foul, putrid things to Scott, the pain on her face when she broke it off with him a blink later.
There was a knock on the glass, causing Charles to jump and look up. Jake opened the door and poked his head inside. “Everything all right?”
Charles swallowed, running his fingers along the sides of his pants. “Uh-huh.”
Jake hesitated, then walked in and put his hands on the back of one of the swivel chairs. “What’s up?”
Charles’s throat felt tight. “It’s just that … I’m not sure I’m the right person to write this story.”