A lot had changed since I was a boy, but I’d occasionally recognize an old landmark. The building for the Chuck Wagon Restaurant where we’d get greasy burgers and strawberry malts was still there, but it was a laundromat now. The big rock and the flagpole still stood like sentinels outside the general store, and the baseball park with the broken backstop was still across the street. The road turned from blacktop to gravel just past the old iron bridge, and I knew I was getting close.

About three miles down the gravel road, I passed a row of mailboxes and turned down a two-track road that ran next to the old cemetery. There were two red brick columns on either side of the drive joined by an arch. Tucked in the weeds to the right of the drive was a Paradise Realty sign, and I was confident that I’d found Angel’s Gate. The road ran parallel to a low brick wall capped with concrete that had a black wrought-iron fence on top. The little two-track path was not well-traveled, and I crept along carefully, expecting to see the old cottage at any minute.

The rain had intensified, the road was in worse shape than I expected, and before I got ten yards in, I splashed through a huge puddle and found myself up to the running boards in mud. I was stuck and unable to move. If I had been in my Outback, this would just be a momentary inconvenience. With its all-wheel drive, I’d bounce right through this, but in Carol’s Bug, I knew I was in trouble. I tried my best to rock the car loose, but it was no use. The mud was a foot deep and as slippery as a wet goldfish. I thought about calling for a tow truck, but there were no signal bars on my cell phone. I tried again to rock the car loose, but I was stuck like a Dutchman with his finger in the dike. I finally turned off the ignition and watched the headlights slowly fade to black. I was hoping to see a light or some sign of life, but no. There was nothing I could do but wait until morning, so I cranked the seat back and closed my eyes, and eventually the rhythmic drumming of the rain drowned out my frustration and lulled me to sleep.

It had been a long time since I’d spent the night in a car, and in the morning my foot was asleep, my back was stiff, and my mouth tasted like night crawlers. I had only two choices: I could go back the way I came in, or I could continue to follow the two-track and hope it ended somewhere with a phone. It was a good five miles back to the laundromat, so I decided to walk where the road would take me. I took off my shoes, rolled up my pants, and sloshed my way through the mud.

As I walked, I noticed that what I had thought was a cemetery was really more of a botanical garden. There were flowers and fruit trees, blueberry bushes, ornamental grasses, and neatly trimmed shrubbery all placed in little clusters within a well-manicured lawn. Rocks, bricks, and scalloped metal edging encircled the clusters, and the more I looked at the garden’s beauty, the more a pattern began to emerge. Looking more closely, I could also see that vegetables of various kinds were scattered amidst the flowers and fruit trees, and the variegated heights and colors were very pleasing to the eye. If this was part of the Paradise Realty property, it lived up to its name!

About a half mile into my walk, I began to get little glimpses of the cottage peeking through the trees. It seemed bigger and newer than the place I was looking for, but I hoped that maybe they’d let me use their phone. As I got closer, I noticed that there was a gate in the fence reminiscent of the entrance to the cemetery that I saw last night. Two stone columns formed an arch over a heavy wooden gate. I tugged on the handle to the gate, but it was bolted and locked from the inside.

The road twisted its way down past the lake, so I walked out on someone’s dock, dangled my feet in the water, and washed the mud off myself. The sun was breaking over the tree line, and it cast a long silver reflection on the rippled water. It was going to be a beautiful day.

I sat there for a few minutes enjoying the view. When I stood and turned around, I realized that someone had opened the gate, and there was a sign that said “Paradise Realty Open House,” with Michael DeAngelo’s picture on it.

Before I could say anything, Michael came walking through the gate and caught me by surprise. His presence seemed to fill my space, so I took a step back. He was tall and thick and athletically built, with longish black hair that flowed back from his widow’s peak, like Tom Hanks in the movie The Da Vinci Code. There was a whisper of gray in his sideburns as well as his neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. There’s no need to be frightened. I’m Michael, and we’ve been expecting you.”