Clear to Lift (15 page)

Tawny reaches out and gives me another fist bump.

“Hey, guys,” I say, flustered.

“So what'd you think of the hot springs?” Kelly asks.

Besides having my insides turned to liquid, because I was sitting next to Will?
“They were great. Really great.”

I start a bit when Will moves to my side, nudging me as he proffers a bottle of Corona. I take it, trying to ignore the all-over body buzz when he doesn't move away, his arm lightly touching mine.

I have to focus hard to remember what Kelly and I were just talking about. Were we talking about anything? Oh yes, hot springs.

“We go there a lot after climbing,” Kelly says.

“Those springs, in particular, are the best, because only the locals know about them,” Tawny adds.

“Kelly and Tawny are two of the best climbers around here,” Will says. “Freakily good, actually.”

“I don't doubt it,” I say, eyeing their toned arms.

“Have you shown her around yet?” Kelly asks Will. “The views are to die for,” she says, turning to me.

“I haven't,” Will says. “But perhaps we should go rectify that.”

Again, the touch is gentle, to the small of my back, as we move forward. His hand is there, and then it's gone, but the sensation lingers.

Arriving at a sliding glass door in the corner, he reaches around me to open it, and we step out to the balcony, to a stunning panoramic view.

“This is … utterly breathtaking.”

He looks down at me, beaming. “You like it?”

“How could I not?” I say, walking along the railing. I stop, pointing to a mountain that looks as if it tipped over and spilled, while still in liquid form, before hardening suddenly. “What's that peak?”

“That's Carson Peak.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember seeing it on the map when we flew by here. And what's that cabin right there?” I motion to a partially cleared area downslope of the house—a small cottage, tucked away in the back.

“That's Jack's guesthouse. I'm staying there now.”

I raise my bottle, taking another drink, letting my gaze drift over the cottage before shifting it to Carson Peak and the surrounding forest draped in white. “How long have you lived in June Lake?”

“About five years now, on and off.”

“On and off?”

“Yeah, finding a place to settle—actually, just settling, in general—is tough for me.”

“Do you think you'll stay? Like is this the place you'll be twenty years from now?”

He takes a long draw from his drink, licking his lips when finishing. “Truthfully, I don't know where I'll be in twenty years. I don't even know where I'll be
next
year. Hell, I could be dead tomorrow.”

My hand flies to my heart. “Please, don't…”

We need something else to talk about. I look side to side. “What about the lake?” I ask. “Can you see it from here?”

“From the other side of the house you can. We just have to walk back the way we came.”

He turns, leading me the other way, past the glass door and to the balcony area that wraps around the house to the east. It's only quick glances here and there, but I notice the smooth finish on the railing, the intricately carved eaves above us, the way the door sealed as Will closed it on the way out. Vast attention to detail, solidly built, quality all the way. I've only seen a portion of the house, but it had to have cost Jack a fortune.

“There it is!” I say.

Because the sun is angled low, June Lake throws off colors of burnt orange and rust. And the clarity … clear as crystal. I think back to the first time I saw the lake, now almost three weeks ago, a view from a helicopter.

“It's nice to look at the lake while stationary,” I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

“I mean, seeing it from the air is great and all, but this way, you get to savor it.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

I would have bet money that nothing could have drawn my attention from the lake, but Will's eyes burn into the side of my face. I raise my eyes to his, held here, out of view of the rest of the partygoers.

“I'm glad you could make it,” he says, his voice low.

“Me, too.”

He takes a sip from his bottle, his last. A long look follows.

“This isn't going to come out right,” Will says finally. “In fact, it's rude as hell, but fuck it, I'm gonna say it anyway. I'm not sorry Rich had to cancel.”

I lower my eyes, looking intently at the Corona label and those little yellow dragons, or whatever they are, fanning their wings.

“I, uh…” What the heck do I say? But then I think of what Will and I have been through together in the little time we've known each other, and there just isn't room for coy behavior. For communication barriers.

I return my gaze to him, taking an extra deep breath in the process. “Will, I'm confused. I'm really confused right now. This thing … this…” I move my hand back and forth between us. “I don't know what this is or if it's a thing at all or—”

His eyes remain on mine as he reaches out, slowly, and gently touches my hand. Tremors roll through me as his fingers travel lightly over mine, but then—I suck in my breath—his fingers move through mine, our hands lacing together. He brushes his thumb delicately against my palm.

“Do you feel that?” he asks.

“I feel it everywhere,” I say, my voice shaking just that bit.

“I do, too. I don't know what it is either, but…”

I swallow. “It's so strong.”

“Yeah. It is.” Slowly, he releases his fingers and slides them out of my grasp.

I look down at my hand, invisible sparks shooting hither and thither.

“Would you like to head inside?” he asks. “I think I need another beer.”

I tip my bottle back, draining it. “I think I do, too.”

 

17

Will pulls two more beers from the refrigerator, hands one to me, and gives my bottle a soft clink.

I take a good swallow, composing myself, looking around the room in the process. “Will, I can't believe I haven't asked you this yet, but where's Jack? And Boomer, for that matter? I saw his truck when I walked in.”

“They're all downstairs.”

“There's a downstairs? You mean there's more than this?”

“Yeah. The house is built on a slope, so you can't see it from the driveway. Under the balcony are two more levels. My guess is they're playing pool. Jack's nuts about it. Wanna go check?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Off to the side, in an alcove I hadn't noticed before, a stairwell drops to the lower level. I pass several framed photos—spectacular landscapes, Will and Jack standing in the foreground of most of them.

I stop mid-landing. “Is this Jack?” I point to a photo where Will poses with a man sporting a deeply tanned face, and raccoon eyes—the white circles that form around your eyes when you get sunburned wearing ski goggles.

“Yeah, that's him.”

I don't know why I stop. Maybe it's just this photo. Maybe it's all of them collectively. Will and Jack out in the world. In nature. Tanned. Or sunburned, in Jack's case.

“This is the mirror opposite of my upbringing—of my life, in general,” I say, pointing to the photos.

“How so?”

“I was
the
indoor girl.”

“
You?
Really?”

“Yeah. My mom shuttled me from one indoor activity to another, no sunscreen, glasses, or goggles required.”

Although I did have a pair of old ski goggles once, when I was in kindergarten. I don't remember how I got them, but I figure I must have nabbed them from a girlfriend's house on a playdate. I didn't know what they were for, until I asked my mother, who told me, then promptly took them away. She seemed pretty upset at the time, and now I understand why. I can only imagine her embarrassment, having to return the property her daughter had lifted. Anyhow, that was the closest I ever got to skiing.

“Pretty bizarre that I rescue skiers and climbers now, when I could never have even fathomed skiing or climbing period.”

“Is that you, Vanilla?” I hear Boomer, uh, boom.

We turn down the stairs and drop into a rec room of sorts, smaller than the living room, but with the same windowed walls—ones that now frame a brilliant sunset, the clouds turning all shades of cotton-candy pink and crimson. A billiard table occupies the far back corner of the room, around which Boomer, Jack, and Beanie hover, pool sticks in hand. Mojo is curled near a smaller fireplace, lifting his head only for a moment before nuzzling it back under his leg.

“Ah, so it is!” Boomer says loudly. “Here she is, Jack.”

Jack leans his stick against the table and walks, gingerly, to me. His head has been shaved, clearing the way for a row of stitches—make that staples—across the left side of his scalp.

“Alison!” he says, moving past the hand I've offered and wrapping me in an embrace.

“Jack, good to see you, again.”

“Well, finally!” He pulls back, hands on my shoulders. “I owe you a helluva thank-you!”

“You're welcome. Beanie helped, too, of course,” I say with a nod to my lanky crew chief.

“Oh, yes. I've heard about everything. Thanked him, too!”

Rough scratches mark Jack's face, the left side having gotten the worst of it. His skin glows red on that side, like a horrible case of road rash. I point to the staples. “Nice souvenir you've got there.”

“I think I could have done without it, but yes,” he says, grinning.

“Nah, he looks better that way,” Boomer says, laughing far too hard at his own joke.

Jack ignores him. “You guys keep playing. I need to speak to this one.” He turns to me. “Mind if we sit down? I'm recovering well and all that, but standing for long periods is still a bit of a chore.”

He leads Will and me to a couch and chairs positioned against one of the windows. Mojo rises from his spot, checks in with his owner with a quick brush against the leg, then reassumes his position near the fireplace. Jack sits on one end of the couch while I take the other. Will sits in the chair next to me.

“Alison,” he says, “the docs told me in no uncertain terms that if you hadn't airlifted me out of there, I wouldn't be alive today. So, thanks. Needless to say, I owe you one.”

“You don't—” I start to respond, but he appears to have moved on, as he looks me over in a studious way.

“You know what Will said to me that day I met you in Schat's Bakkerÿ?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Later that night, he said to me, ‘She's beautiful, don't you think?'” Jack lets his gaze slide to Will for a moment before returning it to me. “But I don't know. I think he was understating the matter.”

Will's tanned face flushes cherry red.

“You said that?” I ask, embarrassed, flattered, shaken, all of the above.

“Well, I may have mentioned it.” He then looks to Jack. “Thanks a lot.”

“You know you can count on me, my friend.”

“Hey, Will!” The shout comes from above. Kevin pokes his head over the stair banister. “Man, you have any more of the Jägermeister?”

“I do,” Will says. “It's in the storeroom.” He puts his beer on the coffee table as he stands. “Excuse me,” he says, before bounding up the stairs.

“So what do you think of him?” Jack says.

“Uh…” The question catches me completely off guard.

“He told me you're engaged. Is that right?”

“I am. But he did? He told you that?”

“Well, he talks about you so damn much, I asked why he hadn't asked you out yet.”

“He talks about me?”

“Never heard anything like it from him. I've known him for a long time, too.”

“Sixteen years,” I say. “He told me.”

“So what do you think of him? You never answered that.”

“You never gave me a chance.”

“Ah, you're right. I don't think I did. But I'm giving you the chance now,” he says with a smile.

“Well … he's…,” I say, rubbing my now sweaty hands together. “I've never met anyone like him.”

“And…”

“And … I like being with him. I'm in a very good place when I'm with him.”

“But you're engaged.”

I nod.

“Bit of a pickle, isn't it?”

Normally, I'd think a conversation like this might be a tad out of line. Heck,
I'm
not even sure what's going on, let alone discussing it with a stranger. But oddly, he doesn't feel like a stranger at all.

“It is.” I start to take a drink from my beer bottle, but notice Jack doesn't have anything. “I'm sorry. Can I get you anything? Something to drink? Some water, maybe?”

“No, I'm good, thanks,” he says, sinking back into the couch. He wears the same weathered lines as Will, but they sag a bit more, the skin around his eyes puffy, his body clearly exhausted. “Considerate of you to ask.”

“Tired?” I say.

“Perceptive, too.” He goes into study mode again, and I imagine him ticking off a list of personality traits, wondering when he'll hit on the not-so-good ones. Maybe I should just go ahead and tell him to get that part over with.

“And stubborn,” I say. “Really stubborn.”

Jack breaks into a wide smile, his beautifully straight, white teeth lighting up his olive-skinned yet wrecked face. “Stubborn, huh?”

“And I'm a terrible swimmer. A lousy bowler. A bit obsessive. Actually, a lot obsessive. And a control freak. That goes with the obsessive part. And, Jack,” I say, leaning forward. “I'm a horrible, deceptive, rotten fiancée.”

“How so?”

“How so?” I place my bottle on the table next to Will's. “Because I'm engaged and … and I shouldn't be feeling what I'm feeling … with Will, I mean.”