“Lake Powell,” I said, drying my eyes on the heel of my hand.
“Whatever.” She pulled me in for another hug. “You take care of yourself. I mean it. And God forbid if it don’t work out—”
“Don’t even.”
“If it don’t work out like you want, sugar, you come right back here, okay?”
“I will,” I said, touched to the core by her offer and praying I’d never have to take her up on it.
I took US 20 West toward Dallas, the same route Evan took in our flight from Dolores. The drive to Lake Powell would take eight hours. I could’ve done it in one day, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I didn’t think the authorities were still watching me, not after a month had passed, but better safe than sorry and all that.
Outside Dallas, I stopped at a small drugstore to buy a comb and scissors, then checked into a motel. After a meal of takeout barbecue and a Diet Coke, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and cut my hair off.
I took it up to a chin-length bob, changing my appearance while still concealing my scar. It hurt seeing the tresses piling up in the sink, but only a little. When I thought of all that Evan sacrificed for me, some goddamn hair was nothing.
Besides, Jo March cut off her hair too.
Except I wasn’t Jo anymore. I was Amy. But not Amy March. No, I decided if I had to be a literary Amy, I would be Amy Dunne from Gone Girl. On the lam, holing up in hotels.
I smiled at my reflection. “Hi, I’m Amy Price.”
I offered a hand to shake. “Hi. Amy. Nice to meet you.”
I didn’t like it; it sounded wrong. Like a pen name I hadn’t chosen for myself.
I’ll be Jo for Evan, I decided. I’ll always be his Jo.
I got an early start the next morning and made it to Page, Arizona before noon. The desert sand was the exact color I pictured it in my mind: a pale, burnt-orange that made the waters of Lake Powell vibrant, almost explosively blue.
Page was a small tourist city, its businesses geared toward the lake and the nearby Grand Canyon. Here, I set about constructing a life.
I’d planned to rent an apartment in the little town, or maybe find my dream lake cabin. But one day when I drove past Antelope Point Marina, with its rows of bobbing houseboats, I changed my mind.
Or maybe it was changed for me.
Evan would love a houseboat.
A home on the lake. Not by the water but on it. We’d fall asleep every night, rocked in its arms.
I found a houseboat realtor, Nick Burton, a rotund man with a sunburned face. He showed me around his inventory. Most were too big—two-story behemoths I couldn’t drive, let alone afford. Then Nick showed me his smallest houseboat: twenty-four feet long, white with blue trim. It had one bathroom, one bedroom, a tiny living area and an outside deck with just enough room for two chairs. The kitchen and bath were outdated as hell—Nick said the boat was built in 1994.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty-five hundred.”
I gaped. “That’s it? Are you sure?”
Nick smiled. “I’d love to play poker with you sometime, Miss Price.”
My cheeks reddened. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”
But I couldn’t actually take it since I was still very much unemployed. But I had five hundred dollars of my prize money to slap down as down payment, and that made Nick a little flexible. In his office overlooking the marina, he and I worked out a plan to let me rent the boat—and move in immediately—and then conclude the purchase after I could prove some source of income. He’s also gave me a bunch of info on houseboat ownership and how to maneuver a vessel that size.
“Can I keep her docked here until I get the hang of it?” I asked as Nick walked me to the door.
“I’d recommend it. Slip fees are reasonable. And best to keep her here in the winter, for sure. But the rest of the year, take her out anywhere near the point. Lots of little swimming holes and coves. Fact it, soon as our deal is wrapped up, you can take her anywhere you’d like. She’ll be all yours.”
Mine and Evan’s, I amended silently. Our home.
Living arrangements made, I set about finding work. It was June and the tourist season was in full swing. I quickly got a job running the register at a place called Lakeside Rentals. They dealt in kayaks, paddleboats and canoes. It wasn’t the most enthralling job in the world but Marjorie Tate, the owner, was a sweet, boisterous gal in her mid-fifties with a silver braid down her back and a perpetual smile on her face. She was a far cry from Patty Stevenson and went out of her way to make me feel welcome. Though I felt her curious eyes on my face, she didn’t ask me once about my scar.
“I had an accident,” I finally said. “A long time ago.”