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“You can’t possibly go to Stonehenge,” Dr. Willoughby told Ariel with a sad headshake. “There’s nothing to see! It used to be such a lovely site, and now it has a chain around it and you’re not even allowed to get close.” He arranged the handouts summarizing Ariel’s team’s last research effort and leaned back in a standard-issue conference room chair, the black padded kind which the conference room fairies sprinkled into every corporate headquarters the world over.
“But it’s Stonehenge,” Ariel persisted. “I’ve read all the articles on it.” Secretly he hoped that the iffy February weather, together with V-day, would keep people away for the weekend. He didn’t say he was thinking of maybe sneaking in so he could meditate in the middle of the whole thing.
Because why not?
“You apparently don’t realize how popular it has become to get handfasted on Valentine’s Day,” Chris said.
“Or at an old site people associate with the Druids, even though it’s much older than that,” Dr. Willoughby said, nodding along with Chris. “All the crazy people will be selling crystals and incense. If you want to see a stone circle, I’d recommend Avebury. It’s halfway across the country, of course, but not really far from here by American standards.”
Through the rest of his workday, Ariel had a hard time keeping his mind where it belonged. A trip to the stone circle at Avebury, the oldest and largest henge in England, would sort him out and banish his break-up V-day blues. He was as certain of it as he was of the fact that Valentine’s Day was a cursed, commercially contrived holiday, and that he’d be as likely to find love on the dreaded V-day as he’d sprout wings and fly.
After work, however, when his own report got properly hashed over and examined from all directions, Dr. Willoughby said, “Too bad you don’t work here all the time. Then you could visit all the ancient sites.” He tilted his graying head. “With your project management skills, you should consider putting in for one of the openings here at the corporate office.”
The idea wasn’t new, but Ariel had always resisted it. His ex would’ve never gotten a work visa in Britain.
But his ex was now, well, an ex.
“Think about it,” Dr. Willoughby said. Then he pulled out his phone and peered at it through his horn-rimmed glasses as he messed with it for a while. “I just sent you some links with nice places to see. If you’re spending a few days, make sure you make them worthwhile.”
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WHEN WADE PULLED INTO the parking slots by the church - which was, incidentally, one of the only decent places to park within walking distance of the White Rose Cottage, he sent a quiet thank-you to the weather deities.
Last weekend had been a bust when it came to getting decent images of fog. The heavy rain caused localized flooding around Cotswolds. What had been a bust for photography, however, had been a boon for spending time to go through aunt Rose’s old things. He had sorted the charity and the recycle piles. After a weekend of working hard enough to be barely able to move afterward, the cottage began to acquire that airy, streamlined feel it used to have when his aunt had been younger and able to run it as a proper bed-and-breakfast.
Wade hoisted his weekender bag and his backpack full of his photography equipment, and crossed the cobblestone street. He’d visit the small butcher shop and the bakery later for lunch fixings, as well as the grocery for a few basics to make his weekend pleasant. As he turned the corner and looked down what was now “his” street, the spectacle drove the air out of his lungs.
The cottage across the cobblestone street from his, also an AirBnB, was festooned with red, pink, and white heart garlands under the windows and over the arched doorway.
“Crap, V-day,” Wade mumbled to himself as he fought his gorge from rising. He’d never make his peace with Valentine’s day. Hell, he didn’t believe in love anymore anyhow. Not at his age, when many men dyed their hair to keep the encroaching tide of silver at bay.
And certainly not after that jerk Peter had left him standing at the altar.
V-Day was a cursed holiday. An artificial one, too. A stupid American import created by a greeting card company who had to find a way to dump an excess of red holiday card stock once Christmas was over.
He strode down the narrow street with his head held high. Then he turned his back on the garish display, unlocked his door, and entered a space he had to somehow claim as his dominion.
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ARIEL PACKED HIS SUITCASE and his carry-on, loaded his little rental car, and set out.
Flexibility was good. Being able to improvise on the fly was not only possible, but also welcome now that he was single again. Hotels and hostels were at his fingertips as long as his cell phone was charged, and the countryside was rife with good beer and proper English food.
He had never thought he’d like the food here, not with its old reputation for boiled beef and such, but as a casual Food Network fan he knew that the UK had taken a leading role in a food revolution some time ago, and that boring dishes were a thing of the past.
He set out southwest, toward Bath. Driving on the left side of the road scared him even though he had done it before. He had a tendency to stay in the right lane because that’s where slow drivers belonged back home - except what had held true in Atlanta threatened to earn the ire of the drivers here and turned him into a speed-bump. Ariel had to periodically remind himself that yes, being in the far left lane was more than just okay.
Even Manhattan driving had been easier than this.
He took his first off-ramp just to escape the busy road. In not too long he found an opportunity to pull into a food co-op parking lot with a petrol station, and took his phone out.
It was time to get off the too-fast, too-busy highway, and re-route. He reminded himself that he didn’t chicken out as much as he was taking the opportunity to see the English countryside using the scenic route. It was, after all, a pleasant afternoon. Even the drizzle had stopped, and while he had been stressing behind the wheel, the wind had contrived to arrange the low clouds into rows of dark-gray, fluffy sheep.
The blue line on his phone showed a projected route that zigged and zagged like a flustered rabbit, but it would him move in the direction of Bath.
He would find a place to sleep before setting out to see the old Roman ruins. The photos on the web looked dramatic and exciting. He could hardly wait.
Half an hour later he passed through a village of old, flag-festooned stone houses with shops on the street level. It was so small he had passed right through it before he could even decide whether or not to stop and explore.
The wide road narrowed. Ariel’s little rental car was surrounded by greenery, and that greenery began to rise, tall and flat, and soon he realized he was driving through a hedge maze.
He had to squeeze close to the wall of the tight-shorn branches to let the cars in the other direction pass - all of that while driving on what he still saw as the wrong side of the road.
His heart pounded in his throat.
The green canyon walls were closing in on him.
There was no pulling over, no turning around, no taking a different turn. He didn’t dare peek at his phone to see for how much longer this claustrophobic torture would continue.
By the time his fists were cramped and white from clutching the wheel and his shoulders congealed into grumpy piles of rock, Ariel was able to take a random left turn.
It didn’t have a name on it, but many roads around here lacked signs. At least the hedge was gone and he could see a green pasture with horses to the left and a scenic copse of woods on a hillock to the right.
“Rerouting,” his phone told him.
Two turns later he lost signal.