“Get into the right lane,” I interrupted him, seeing the sign for Louisville a little late, and hoping Roger would be able to make it.

“What, now?” Roger asked, already starting to cross lanes of traffic.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry.” I looked down at the map. “Okay, so I think we stay on this and go past Louisville, and then Hummingbird Valley should be a ways outside it—maybe half an hour.”

“Loo-vulle,” Roger said.

“What?”

“You said Lou-ee-ville. But it’s pronounced Loo-vulle. Believe me, I got quite the education.”

“Loo-vulle,” I repeated. “That it?”

“Beautiful,” he said.

We were now driving past downtown Loo-vulle; the highway was on an overpass above the city. It was nearing eight, and the sun had just set, leaving a blue, shadowy light over everything. It was lovely; it just made sightseeing harder. But I could see a big stadium outside my window: Slugger Field.

About twenty minutes outside Louisville, I saw the sign for Hummingbird Valley. I directed Roger off the interstate, and soon it was like we’d turned into an entirely different world. There seemed to be nothing but green rolling hills on either side of us, and everything was dark and quiet and fresh scented. Kentucky smelled great—like fresh grass. Like summer. I rolled down my window and breathed in, and realized with a little bit of a shock that it was summer. A new season had begun without my noticing.

I looked out the window but I wasn’t seeing any houses; there just seemed to be long stretches of green land broken by occasional white fences. “What is this?” I asked, turning to Roger. “Is it a town?”

“It is,” Roger said. “It’s a town with only about two hundred people in it.”

I turned away from what I could still see of the hills and looked at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing a little uncomfortably. “Welcome to the wealthiest town in Kentucky. One of the wealthiest in the United States.”

“But I don’t even see any houses,” I said, peering outside.

“They’re back there, from what I understand,” said Roger, gesturing to the side of the road. “Way back.” He squinted out the window. “I don’t think these are properly called houses. I think they’re actually estates.”

“God,” I said, looking outside, suddenly feeling nervous myself. “Something tells me we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“You did not just say that.”

I scrolled through Roger’s phone, found Hadley’s address—1205 Westerly Road—and pointed Roger in what I hoped was that direction. When we found the street, which was getting harder the darker it got, Roger slowed so we could start looking at the house numbers. But there weren’t any house numbers. There were just endless white fences and the occasional gated entrance with a plaque with the house’s—or estate’s—name on it.

“Look,” Roger said, slowing even more and pointing to his side of the road. “Do you see that?”

I looked. They would have been hard to miss. Animal-shaped topiaries stood on an expanse of lawn. But they were bigger and more detailed than any I had ever seen. Two bears, probably to scale, stood on their hind legs, raising paws in greeting to the passing cars. Below them, a fox waved a paw cheerfully. “Wow,” I murmured. Roger rolled the car on slowly, and I turned back for a last look at them before they vanished from view. In the rapidly fading light, they somehow looked almost like sculptures, or enchanted creatures. Less and less like shaped shrubbery, at any rate. “Is that it?” I asked, catching sight of a sign outside a pair of gates. “On the left?”

The gates were wrought iron, and huge, and connected to two brick pillars on either side. ARMSTRONG FARMS ESTATES was carved on a silver plaque on the pillar on the left. HUMMINGBIRD VALLEY, KENTUCKY was carved on a plaque on the right. The whole setup was intimidating. But lucky for us, the gates were open. “I think so,” he said. Roger looked more nervous than I’d ever seen him. I watched as he clenched and unclenched his hands on the steering wheel and drove through.

True to his speculation, we did not reach the house for a long, long time. We drove up a gently winding driveway surrounded by green rolling hills. But I felt that at some point, this could not still be called a driveway. After this long, logically, it would seem to become a road again. As we drove, I thought suddenly with a pang about my house back in California, the Realtor’s sign on the lawn and the driveway that had taken me, at most, ten seconds to cross.

We made another turn in the driveway, and then suddenly it was before us: huge and imposing and what immediately sprang to mind when you pictured a Southern mansion. It was large and white, with columns, dark green shutters on the windows, and side buildings that sloped down from the main house. There was a circular drive in front, but there were no cars parked around it. In the light that was still left, I could see beautifully landscaped flowers and white porcelain pots filled with blooms lining the steps. From what I could see along the side of the house, it looked like there was an expanse of manicured grounds in the back.

“Wow,” I said, taking it all in.

“Yeah,” said Roger, looking around as well. “I’d gotten the description, but I see now that she was downplaying it a bit.” He put the car in park and killed the engine.

I turned away from the house and toward Roger. “So?” I asked. “Game plan? Are you just going to ring the bell?”

“I guess so,” he said. “I hadn’t really thought about this part. I’d thought about getting here, and what I’d say when I saw her, but not the bridge between the two.” Roger cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles. “Okay,” he said. “I’m going to go for it.” He ran his hands through his hair again, making it stand up in all directions. Which was probably not the look he was going for, if he wanted to impress Hadley.

“Good,” I said as encouragingly as possible. “But—if I could just do one thing …” I leaned forward, closing the space between us in the car, and reached over to him. I placed my hands firmly on his head, feeling the spring and softness of his brown hair against my hands, how on his left side it was warmer, from driving in the sun all day. I had an impulse to run my fingers through it, but pushed it away immediately. Instead I smoothed my hands forward over the cowlick in the back, flattening it down. “There,” I said. “Better.” I smiled at him quickly, then retreated to my side of the car.