The Blonde One and I are collaborating on a book so we dashed off to Highlands, North Carolina to work on it. With my old dog and her older cat.
As we careened down the rocky, half-mile driveway down to a friend’s house (estate is more like it), the absolute darkness gave Hollis the spooks. “This is where you intend to fillet me like something out of an episode of Dexter, aren’t you?” she asked looking out the window, grasping the door handle, seriously thinking of doing a Duck, Drop & Roll out of the car.
“No,” I said. “I hate getting blood under my fingernails.” The deeper we got into the woods the more scared she got. Between the mist, my speed and the near-blind darkness, the car almost slipped into a ravine. “Sweet Jesus,” she said, “We’re going to spend the night clutching our pets for warmth!”
Relax, I tell her. We’re almost there. Suddenly, my friend’s house loomed out of the darkness. Hollis gasps. Because there’ll be no clutching of pets or because the place is so beautiful?
We walk up to the door. It’s pitch black. “Hollis,” I say, trying to scare her. “What if there’s a rapist in there?”
She grabs my hand and says, “Let’s hope he’s gay.”