More Than Words Can Say (26 page)

It had all started when he had shown up at her door early that morning, gleefully holding a wicker picnic basket in one hand. “We’re leaving,” he had told her, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. In the end, Brooke had agreed. Not because she had been eager to make an exhausting slog, but as a way to be close to him. Her guilt had yet again haunted her heart as she made ready to go but she pushed it aside, telling herself that there was in fact nothing wrong with two friends merely going for a walk. But his unexpected invitation meant far more than that for her, and in her heart she knew it.

After a short drive in Greg’s Packard, they had pulled off Schuyler Lane and driven another one hundred yards or so up an even more desolate dirt road. On stopping the car before a barbed wire fence that bore an ominous
NO TRESPASSING
sign, Greg forced open a ramshackle gate and bade Brooke through it. They then walked across an adjoining field until they reached the base of a small mountain and began climbing upward. Greg had a large-caliber Browning pistol stuck in his belt, and when Brooke asked him why, his one-word answer had been, “Bears.”

That had been an hour ago, and Brooke was tiring. So far, the climb had produced few memorable vistas, given that the entire mountainside was heavily laden with trees. Nor could she know how much longer it might take to reach their destination. Plus, the climb had made her tired, and she had been scratched by the brambles. Despite being with Greg, she was nearing the end of her patience.

“How much farther?” Brooke shouted up at him.

Greg laughed. “Just another ten minutes or so,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Are you doing okay? I promise that it’ll be worth it.”

“Ten more minutes I can do,” Brooke answered. “But any more than that, and you might have a mutiny on your hands.”

“Impossible . . .” Greg laughed. “You forget, my dear, that I’m the one with the gun!”

In the end, Greg’s promise proved true. Soon the terrain leveled out, and they were standing at the edge of the woods. Hand in hand, they walked out onto a flat, grassy meadow.

The deep-green field perched atop the little mountain was lovely. Surrounded on three sides by dense forest, the clear side opposite Brooke and Greg looked north and ended in a vertical cliff. As they neared it, Brooke became ever more impressed by the beauty of this place. At last they reached the cliff’s edge, where, still hand in hand, they gazed at the sprawling terrain that stretched out below them.

From where they stood, they could see the silvery ribbon that was the Saint Lawrence River, flowing northeasterly to the sea. Just beyond it lay the green patchwork that was Quebec. It was a dazzling sight, and Brooke realized that Greg had been right—it was indeed worth the climb.

“Is there a name for this place?” Brooke asked.

Greg put down his gun and picnic basket, then he lit a cigarette. “Yes,” he answered. “It’s called Red Rock Mountain.”

“Why ‘Red Rock’?” Brooke asked.

Greg smiled at her. “Look around,” he answered.

While still standing at the edge of the cliff, Brooke turned and took a closer look at the meadow. She now noticed obscured outcroppings of reddish stone here and there, as if they were hiding in the grass. She had also seen some during her climb. The lovely and unusual rocks seemed familiar, but she couldn’t grasp why.

“Still don’t understand?” Greg asked.

“I see the pinkish rocks,” she answered. “And I recognize them from someplace, but I can’t remember where.”

Before answering, Greg smiled and sat down on the grass, then bade Brooke to do the same. “In your very own cottage, that’s where,” he answered.

“Huh?”

“Your
fireplace,
” he answered. “The hearth is made of rose quartz. There’s a lot of it around here. I suspect that when your father had your cottage built, the contractor suggested it.”

While smiling at the realization, Brooke gathered her arms about her knees. “Thank you for this,” she said. “As far as I know, I’m the first in our family to come here.”

Greg opened the picnic basket and removed a small tablecloth, which he spread out on the grass. He then produced a serving dish, a bottle of red wine, a large chunk of cheese, a loaf of fresh bread, and two wineglasses. Using the knife from his belt sheath, he cut the bread and cheese, then arranged the pieces on the plate. He opened the wine, poured two glassfuls, and handed one to Brooke.

Brooke smiled. “It seems that you’ve thought of everything,” she said.

“The least I could do,” he answered, “considering the way I kidnapped you this morning. And besides,” he added, “the best things in life are often the simplest.” Smiling, he raised his glass. “Here’s to ‘a jug of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou’ . . .”

Brooke smiled and also took a sip of wine. “Another quote from your father?” she asked.

Greg took a final drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the grass. “Nope,” he answered. “Omar Khayyám.”

They ate and drank in silence for a time as the wind waved the grass to and fro and the clouds raced across the sky. The clouds seemed to travel faster up here, Brooke realized, just as the past two weeks had seemingly done, since her epiphany about Greg. Then she looked at him, thinking.

It was true after all, she realized, as she watched him sitting there in the grass. She did still love him. She had feared that with the passage of time she might not feel the same about him, as if some spell had been cast upon her from which she would suddenly awaken. But that had not happened. She loved this man, and there could be no going back. But she must never consummate her love for Greg, for doing so would forever seal her betrayal and take her heart to a place from which it would likely never return. So far, all of her time spent with Greg could be explained away—at least to her own satisfaction. But if the unthinkable happened, she knew that it would forever tarnish her conscience.

Even so, another part of her wanted it to happen, wanted to willingly give herself over to whatever his eager body might demand from her. She had thought about it over and over again, in the short space of time since her feelings for him had fully burst forth. How he might take her, how she would respond to him, and the illicit, secret favors they would grant to one another. Bill was the only man she had ever been with. But Bill had been gone for a long time, and her body yearned for satisfaction—so much so that the temptation of lying with Greg was nearly more than she could resist. And she knew something else, too. Trying to deny these feelings now, as she sat beside him atop this windblown mountain, would be a monumental lie.

My heart has come to a dreadful place,
she thought.
A place so foreign yet familiar. So wrong and yet so exhilarating. So tempting yet so dangerous . . .

She then watched as Greg again rummaged around in the wicker basket for a few moments. On finding what he wanted, he removed it from the basket and he handed it to Brooke.

It was a copy of Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass.
The book’s front and rear covers were made from green buckram boards, giving one the impression of grass. Brooke opened it to see that it also included some striking illustrations, in both color and black-and-white. She then thumbed back to the inside cover, where she saw something that Greg had written. It said:

August 5, 1942

For Brooke. May this book bring you

as much pleasure as it has brought me.

Fondly, Gregory Butler

Brooke looked at him and smiled. “I love it,” she said. “But you didn’t have to do this. I can tell that you’ve owned it for a while.”

Greg nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “It’s the 1940 edition. And yes, I have enjoyed it very much, but I now want you to have it.”

While assigning this moment to her memory, Brooke smiled and rubbed her palms over the surface of the book.

“Thank you, Greg,” she said. “I’ll always treasure it.”

“You’re welcome,” he answered. “Just as I will always treasure the moment I gave it to you.”

Greg then lay back on the grass and laced his long fingers beneath his head. The clouds were high and light, and he too noticed that they seemed to cross the sky faster up here. He was wearing the same clothes today as when Brooke had first met him: a tan work shirt, matching pants, and work boots. As he fished around in one pocket for another cigarette, his face took on a look of mild surprise.

“What is it?” Brooke asked.

Greg removed his hand from his pocket and opened it. In his palm there lay a small gathering of coneflower seeds, some of the same group that he had been planting when he first met Brooke.

Greg smiled. “More seeds,” he answered. “I’d forgotten that I hadn’t planted them all. The ones back at my cottage have already started coming up.”

But as he began to replace them in his pocket, Brooke stopped him. “Let’s plant them here,” she said.

Greg thought for a moment. “But this land isn’t ours,” he answered, “and we’re already trespassing, as it is. I’m not sure that we should—”

“But you said that some of the locals also come here, right?” she protested. “So how is anyone to know who did it?”

Greg grinned. “Why, Mrs. Bartlett,” he said. “I never knew that you were so devious.”

As Brooke lay down beside him, she grinned in return. “Well, Mr. Butler,” she said, “I suppose that’s what I get for keeping company with a rogue like you.”

But there was more to her request, Brooke knew. Given her unsettled relationship with Greg, she couldn’t be entirely sure whether she would ever return to Lake Evergreen, much less to this remote and beautiful spot. And because of that she wanted to mark the place somehow, to tell the world that someone had been here and had planted coneflower seeds where they would likely never reach on their own. And that if those seeds should grow, and the resulting flowers return every spring, then perhaps a part of her time with Greg would go on living here year after year, even if her love for him did not.

As if he had grasped the deeper meaning of her request, he nodded. On sitting up, he dug out a small area of fresh earth with his knife, carefully planted the seeds, and then covered them again. Saying nothing, he then gazed deeply into her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” he answered quietly.

And then, as Brooke watched, his expression changed yet again. This time it became one of hunger, a yearning, a need to have something within him satisfied. To Brooke’s surprise, he reached out with both hands and gently pinned her to the grass. And then, before she knew it, his mouth was on hers, his arms around her, his body tight alongside her own.

At first she wanted to resist him. But as his kisses deepened and her physical ardor for him was unleashed, she fully responded in kind, holding him, wanting him, running her hands through the blond highlights in his hair. Suddenly there was just the two of them in the world and nothing else. She was becoming lost in him, she knew, but what would happen next? Would he try to possess her right here and now? And if she fought him, would he then force himself upon her, here in a secluded place where there was no one to save her? And perhaps worse yet, was that what she really wanted? Had she become such a stranger to the workings of her own heart that she did not know the answer?

Suddenly, something inside her rebelled and she reluctantly pushed him away. As she did, he did not fight her. Angry and confused, she quickly stood and walked to the edge of the cliff.

My God,
she thought.
It’s actually happening! And I let it go on . . . What is to become of me?

At once she began to cry. Not so much out of shame this time, she realized, but confusion. She wanted this man, and yet she didn’t. She had loved being in his arms, but at the same time she knew she had just crossed the line, the same forbidden boundary that she had sworn to never traverse. Just then she sensed Greg standing beside her. When she turned to look at him, his expression was contrite. Reaching into a pants pocket, he produced a handkerchief and handed it to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said as she dabbed at her eyes. “I just . . . well, you see . . .”

Brooke turned to him. “I know,” she answered. “Because I feel it, too. But it must end here, Greg, atop this mountain. I simply cannot betray Bill. With God’s grace, he may survive this war. If he does, this will already be hard enough to live with. And much more so if it goes any farther.”

“I understand,” Greg said. “I really do. And please also realize that this was not my reason for bringing you here. Even so, there’s something else that you must know, Brooke.”

Then the gaze coming from his gray eyes returned to one of longing, and he was forced to wipe away a tear.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I have since the night that I sketched you. But despite the pain it will cause me to be near you, I will abide by your wishes.”

Brooke nodded. “Thank you,” she answered. “And please know, my forbidden darling, that I love you, too. But all that can happen in this regard has already taken place on this mountaintop. This may be where our physical ardor began, but it must also be where it ends. So if you truly love me, then promise me, Greg. Promise me that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

Although his heart too was breaking, Greg nodded. “If that’s what you want,” he answered, “then yes, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” she answered.

On their return to the picnic area, Greg began repacking the basket. As he did, Brooke looked at the recently turned earth beneath which lay Greg’s coneflower seeds.

Will they one day burst through the soil?
Brooke wondered.
Although I don’t know, one thing is for certain. If they do, they’ll be the only sign of what just happened here . . .

“
A
ND SO, DEAR
diary
,” Brandon read,
“that is the story of what happened today. My heart is now even more heavily burdened, my physical need for him even stronger after being nearly taken by him, and my guilt now overpowering. And yet, I cannot help but look down the beach and search out his cottage in the moonlight, the light coming from behind his windows telling me that he, too, is home alone. Does he still yearn for me as I do him? And if so, will that short stretch of sand be enough to keep our souls separate, as we have promised one another? I do not know. I only know that I am in the grips of the most grievous emotional pain I have ever experienced and that I am totally uncertain of what my future holds.”