Free The Divide by Nicholas Evans Page B

funeral home, she had been shocked, not at the sight of the body, so prettily, so ridiculously prepared, but at her own sense of detachment. She had been expecting it to be the moment when the bolted floodgates of her grief would at last open. But it had been like watching herself in a movie or through thick plate glass, through which no emotion seemed able to pass. She had put on the sunglasses, which still she hadn’t removed, not because her eyes were ravaged by tears but because they weren’t. She felt like an impostor. And that was probably why she had so cruelly shunned Benjamin’s embrace afterward. She saw—and not without pity—how much it hurt him.
    Poor, wretched Benjamin. She took a sideways look at him now, sitting across the aisle. The flight was less than half-full and the seats had arms that could be hoisted out of the way. At Sarah’s suggestion, to give themselves more space, they had each occupied an empty row. He was staring out at the mountains, lost in thought. In his mournful way, he was still a handsome man, though the longer hair made him seem to be trying too hard to look young. He wasn’t as gaunt as the last time she had seen him and the extra weight suited him. She was glad she could assess him like this now, almost objectively, without yearning for him to come back. She didn’t really even hate him anymore.
    He must have felt her gaze, for he turned to look at her, cautiously. To mask her thoughts, Sarah smiled and, like a whipped dog sensing forgiveness, he smiled back. He got up from his seat and crossed the aisle to sit next to her. Sarah moved her purse to make space.
    “We just flew over the Divide,” he said. There was more than one meaning to what he had said and he quickly tried to clarify. “I mean, the Continental Divide.”
    Sarah glanced briefly out of her window.
    “Well,” she said. “The other Divide must be somewhere pretty close then.”
    “No. It’s some way south and west of here.”
    “Oh.”
    It was the place where it all began. Or began to end. The Divide guest ranch where they had come summer after summer and had the best vacations of their lives. The place where Abbie had fallen in love with Montana and become so determined to go to college there. And where, six years but what now seemed like a lifetime ago, Benjamin had fallen in love (or whatever it was) with Eve Kinsella and set about the destruction of their marriage.
    For a while neither of them spoke. The flight attendant was wheeling a wagon of drinks and snacks toward them along the aisle. They both asked for water. The piped air of the cabin was cold and smelled fake and antiseptic.
    “Talk to me,” he said quietly.
    “What?”
    “Please, Sarah. Can’t we just talk a little? About Abbie?”
    She shrugged.
    “If you like. What is there to say?”
    “I don’t know. I just think that if we talked about it, we might be able to . . . give each other a little comfort, I suppose.”
    “Oh.”
    “Sarah, you know, we mustn’t blame ourselves—”
    “Blame ourselves?”
    “No, I don’t mean—”
    “Benjamin, I don’t blame myself at all. Not at all.”
    “I know, I just—”
    “I blame you. You and you alone . . .” She broke off and smiled. There was that woman too, of course. She could see in his eyes that he read the thought. “Well, maybe not quite alone.”
    “Sarah, how can you say that?”
    “Because it’s true. Abbie didn’t die because she fell or jumped or got pushed off a cliff or whatever it was. She died, Benjamin, because of what you did to us all.”

TWO

SIX
    T he Divide was a place that seemed to want to keep itself secret. It perched concealed at the head of a split and tortuous valley that descended to another far grander where a highway followed the curves of the Yellowstone River. Beside this highway, for those who could spot and decipher it, there was a sign of sorts. But the gnarled cottonwood to which it had long ago been nailed had all but consumed it and