Clear to Lift (23 page)

“Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

I look over my shoulder, intending to tell Rich who it was that searched for me and ensured my safety, but my heart shudders when I meet Will's gaze.

His face is a mask of anguish. I only get a quick glimpse before he turns and starts jogging back to his truck.

“Will, wait!” I say, calling after him. “Rich, that's Will Cavanaugh. He's the one who found me and stayed with me.”

Rich leaves my side and runs after Will, meeting him at the door of his truck. From a distance, I can't hear what's being said, but I see it when Rich, who stands several inches shy of Will's height, extends his hand.

Will takes it, but then suddenly, violently, Will pulls his hand back. I let out a strangled gasp, shocked at his reaction. Based on body language alone—Will's hands move in a flurry—the words they speak are far from friendly. Will ends the “conversation” by jumping in his car and slamming the door shut. Ignition on. Gun the engine. Wheels slipping and spinning, he jerks the truck around, finds traction, and screams out of the parking lot.

Rich throws up his hands and stalks back to me.

“Ungrateful son of a bitch!” Rich says.

“What? How is he—? What happened?”

“That was a one-hundred-dollar bill for Christ's sake!” he says, pointing a shaking finger at the snow being kicked up in Will's wake. “That fucker tore up a one-hundred-dollar bill!”

My body turns to stone. “Wait a minute.… You gave him … you gave him
money?
”

“Most guides would appreciate a tip. Jesus Christ! What the hell is his problem!”

In all the time I've known him, I've never seen Rich lose his cool. But what he just did to Will … Like a hired hand. He couldn't have delivered a more degrading insult.

“I can't believe you did that,” I say, backing away.

Rich's face goes white. “Wait, Alison, what is it?”

“How could you do that?”

“Do what? Ali, I thought it was the right thing,” he says, scrambling. “I was just trying to show my appreciation.” He looks up, suddenly aware of the growing number of sheriff's personnel and navy aircrewmen who observe his display with grim expressions. Kelly and Tawny, in particular, issue glares of disapproval.

“Ali, please, I'm sorry. You have no idea how worried I've been. I showed up at the airport, and you weren't there. I called your cell. No answer. I called the base, and oh yes, your fiancée is trapped in the high mountains in a blinding snowstorm, and we can't get to her. Jesus God, I didn't know what to do! So I'm calling the commanding officer, the sheriff, your squadron, anyone I can think of to mobilize and get you back. Please,” he says, reaching out his hands to me. “I'll call Will back. I'll apologize. I'll do whatever you want.”

Jack stands rigid, fuming. Next to him, Boomer mirrors Jack's stance, hands set firmly on his hips. Both stare daggers at Rich.

“Let's just go,” I say.

I give a quick thanks to Walt, Jack, Boomer, and company, promising to debrief later. For now, I just want to escape the awkwardness. Rich points out his rental car on the opposite end of the parking lot, so I turn and sprint-walk, anxious to just get there and go. I realize I've left Rich behind when I hear him breathing hard, jogging to catch up.

When he reaches me, he takes my hand, but I find myself looking over my shoulder at the dusty white plume that obscures Will's truck as he accelerates away.

 

25

We decided to start over.

Yesterday was a wash. Rich drove me back to Fallon, and we spent the rest of the afternoon and evening in my apartment. Which is unfortunate. The only thing I'd wanted to do with him, since he told me he was coming to visit, was show him around the area. But yesterday, I didn't have the heart for it, trying as I was to reconcile his behavior. In the end, we agreed that he didn't handle it well. It was due not only to the worry he carried for me, but also the fact that he felt so helpless, something foreign to him.

He was humbled, no doubt about it, and sincere in his apologies. So, new day, new start. I decided to drive to the hot springs first, thinking I might as well begin with the best thing.

My spirits lift when I see that Rich has turned his head sideways, to the Sierra, as we drive farther south, the highway affording a spectacular view of the range. At the base of the foothills, snow-covered pastures spread for miles, cattle rummaging for grass, horses clustered for warmth.

“You know, I still don't get it,” he says.

“What's that?”

“The climbing thing. I mean, these mountains are fantastic and all, but I just don't get the allure of climbing up a vertical face.”

My heart sinks. I stretch my hands on the steering wheel, still scratched and scarred from the rocks at Donner Summit.…

“I went rock climbing,” I say.

“What?”

His phone vibrates and he retrieves it from the chest pocket of his pullover fleece jacket.

“I climbed last week for SAR training. It was actually fun.”

He pulls his eyes from his phone to look at me. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“Hmm,” he says, looking down again. “Oh, good, my car's gonna be ready on Monday.”

“Is something wrong with your car?”

“No, I bought a new one. I was gonna surprise you. I dropped some serious nickel for a Lexus, and it has
everything.
Like even a roadside-assistance plan. If you ever get a flat, or you're stranded
anywhere,
they'll come out and get you. It's an incredible deal.”

“Yeah … that sounds pretty good.”

“
Pretty
good? Ali, come one, it's
awesome!
”

“Okay, awesome.”

“But you wanna know the
really
great news?”

“What's that?”

“I'm this close to closing a deal for a bigger condo for us. Same building, but penthouse this time.” He turns to me proudly.

“Penthouse?”

“The views are … To. Die. For.”

“But the place you have now is fine. And what about the contractors, all the work you're having done?”

“Oh, they'll still complete the work. I'll just sell it when they're finished. And anyway, it's a great investment,” he says, tapping away at his phone again.

“Rich—”

“Ho … Hold on,” he says, raising his finger. His phone vibrates again and he looks at the screen. “Let me just answer this one quick.”

I reach over and switch on the radio. Hitting the scanner, my finger hovers over the preselect button. The channels scroll through … classical, jazz, alternative rock … There! I press the button for three seconds, ensuring the channel is now permanently programmed.

Rich looks over to me during his conversation, turning his hands up and mouthing, “What's this?” And his expression? Like he just drank sour milk.

“It's country music.”

“Since when do you listen to country music?” he asks, holding his hand over the phone.

“Since … I don't know. Just since I've been here.”

He gives me a funny look before returning his focus to his phone call. And me? I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling when the next song starts. Who else but Randy Travis, singing the song I heard at Jack's house, “Better Class of Losers.” I listen to the lyrics closely, vaguely aware that I'm nodding. Randy begins his lament about socializing with the uppity-ups in the penthouse suite, before making the choice to hang out with more down-to-earth folks.

Rich's hand shoots out to grasp the handle above the passenger door, as I turn onto the four-wheel-drive-only road, my 4Runner bumping and jumping.

“Whoa!” he shouts. “What? No, dude, not you. Listen, I'll call you back. Right. Yeah later.”

He fumbles to stuff his phone back in his pocket, but finally gets it in.

“Are you sure you know where you're going?” he asks, now hanging on to the handle with both hands.

“Yes. I've been here before. And trust me, it's worth it.”

As I navigate to the springs, I revel in the sight of fresh snow from Monday's storm, blanketing the rocks, the sage, and a weathered wooden fence. Other than a few animal tracks—tiny paw prints disappearing into unknown hiding places—there's no indication that anything has moved out here since Monday.

But the sky is unsettled. Today—unlike yesterday, which carried that post-storm stillness and a clear sky—the clouds have moved in again. And they look different somehow. Alien. Horse-tailed, iron gray, and thick. But the disquieting thing is their speed. Slow and methodical, this new weather system crosses the Sierra like a storm god pulling a veil over the Owens River Valley.

I push away the ominous feelings, berating myself for being so melodramatic, and focus on the hot springs instead. “See! You can see them there.”

“How did you ever learn about this?”

“A local,” I say, clearing my throat, “showed us. Our entire crew came, along with the search-and-rescue guys from Mono County.”

Rich looks ahead and to the sides. “Where are the … I don't see any buildings or facilities.”

“There aren't any. These are just natural springs. It makes it better, too.”

I glance at Rich, observing him taking in his new surroundings, filled with a strange exuberance, something I haven't felt in what seems like forever with him. Finally,
finally,
he will understand.

I pull to the side of the road, thrilled that it's just the two of us. I had worried we might have company.

“So this is it!” I say, opening my door, and stepping out.

I meet Rich on his side. “What do you think?”

“Well, I've never seen anything like this before.” He pulls his jacket tighter around him.

“You have a choice,” I say, removing my jacket, and lifting my fleece sweater, then shirt, over my head. “One hundred five degrees here or one hundred degrees over there.”

“How are you doing that? It's flippin' freezing out here!”

“No, it's not that bad, really. Especially once you get in,” I say, removing my boots, followed by my mountaineering pants. I stand now, clothed in only my swimsuit, next to Rich, who hasn't moved.

“Well, I'm not waiting. I'm going to the one-hundred-degree pool.” I open the back hatch of the truck, throw my clothes in, and make a beeline for the spring.

I was shocked by the cold two weeks ago, so it seems natural for Rich to react the same way when he finally takes his shirt off. I hear him, though I can't see him, from behind the snow-covered mounds of earth. “Shit, that's cold!”

His voice grows louder as he nears. “Shit! Ow!” The rocks rumble as they move beneath him. “Shit, shit, shit, this is cold!” he says, rounding the bend.

I smile as he approaches, unsteady in his bare feet, knowing his grimace will morph into a relaxed smile once he slides into the water.

“Almost there,” I say. “The water is
so
nice!”

“Do they treat it out here or anything?” he asks, head down, stepping carefully here, cautiously there.

“Do they what?”

“You know, treat the water? For whatever, bacteria?”

“Uh, no, I don't think so. These are natural, so … But it's fine. Look,” I say, ducking under.

“If you say so,” he says, before finally stepping in. “Oh … that
is
nice.”

“Told you,” I say, proudly.

Rich slips lower, the water rising to his neck as he leans back against the rock. We sit across from each other, so it's easy to observe him. Just like last night, I feel like I'm getting to know him all over again. Fine black hair, trimmed neatly, slightly rounded face, smooth, pale skin—a victim of far too many office hours indoors—wide-set brown/black eyes, and a jaw that sits just this side of an underbite. Most would say he's nice-looking, but I'd have to add that it all seems to work better when he's in a suit. He just has that put-together look when he's well dressed.

“What do you think?” I raise my arms in the air and motion to the view. “Is this place incredible or what?”

“It's nice, yeah,” he says with not quite the amount of enthusiasm I was hoping for.

“Soooo, this is it.” I sweep my arms around in a wide arc. “This is where we fly all the time. Remember the rescue on Mount Morrison? You can see it from here,” I say, pointing. “And then, Palisade Glacier, well, you can't see it from here. It's further south. And there's—”

He finds my hand underwater, pulls me toward him, and his mouth is on mine. It happens so fast—my head was turned—I never saw it coming. Our lips move together in an odd way—this getting-reacquainted period that feels a little off—but it's more aggressive on his end, and I find myself leaning back.

“Whoa,” I say, pulling away for air.

“I have definitely missed that,” he says.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, smoothing back my hair.

Last night, it was the same. This weirdness, going through the motions, like sharing a bed with a stranger. It was familiar, yet it was mechanical … I guess. But then, I don't know how it's supposed to feel when you haven't seen someone in so long.

When I was gone for my long deployments overseas, I hadn't met Rich yet. No one to miss or come home to. These last ten weeks have been the longest stretch so far for us, and I'll be the first to admit that this readjustment period is lasting longer than I would have thought. But of course, with what happened yesterday morning …

“Did you know on Bimini Island—you know, in the Bahamas—they have a natural spring?” he says. “It's not hot like this, but they advertise it as
the
Fountain of Youth,
and
it's totally gorgeous. I've already hired a guide to take us there—in kayaks! It's gonna be great.”