Clear to Lift (29 page)

“Well, I know it's not much consolation, but going forward, you
will
have that,” he says. “Jack thinks the world of you.”

A smile slips across my face.

“In fact, I can't wait to tell him. You know, about us.”

“Where does Jack live? From here, I mean.”

“Over the ridge, to the west.”

“So what's this lake then?” I ask, grateful that the snow is holding off long enough to allow a view like this. Although, it's grown steadily warmer this morning. If the clouds decided to let loose now, I suspect we'd get rain, not snow.

“That's Silver Lake. A little more tucked-away, just like this house.”

“
Why
aren't you living here?”

“I probably could, but we're still finishing up some things.” He turns, puts his arm around my shoulder, and leads me back inside.

“But you were going to leave … for months. How do you do this between trips?”

“My crew and I work on it, chunks at a time, on a not-to-interfere basis with our other jobs. This house has been a work in progress for over four years now.”

“Wait,” I say, turning to face him. “That's not going to change … is it?” I say it more as a statement than a question, a lump forming in my throat. “You're going to be leaving … on trips … antsy.”

He reaches forward, taking both of my hands in his. “Alison, about the antsy thing. I said that out of frustration. I said a lot of things out of frustration that day. I do take trips for the purposes of guiding, but I have a lot more leeway now. Our construction business does well enough that I don't
have
to leave. But, then again, I've never had a reason to stay.” He leans in, pressing his cheek to mine, a light kiss on the ear. “Until now, that is.”

 

32

“It's really getting warm,” I say, pulling the hood of my jacket up to shield my head from the rain.

“Can you grab that last bag?” Will asks. “I think we can make it one trip, then.”

I pull the last grocery bag from the back of my truck, and, arms full, shuffle through the entrance to Jack's guest cottage.

“Just set it there,” Will says, indicating the kitchen table.

I enter a breakfast nook surrounded by bay windows, and set the bags down. I'm treated to an intimate view of the forest, which slopes gently downward, eventually terminating on the shores of what I now know is June Lake's neighbor, Gull Lake.

“The thermometer's reading fifty-one,” he says. “How's that for a weather swing?”

We were up to our ears in snow last week, winter-storm warnings, roads closed, the whole Basin Mountain debacle—twelve new feet of snow in that storm alone—followed by three days of “warm” rain from the alien clouds. And when the first rainstorm passed on Friday night, it did so just in time for one of the final air wing exercises, the one that took Snoopy's life.

There will be a memorial, of course. There always is …

Too many friends lost. Too young. Too early. Peacetime. Wartime. In training. On deployment. Losses that remain with you, permanently woven into your soul, stretching your heart and mind to the breaking point, until you're left questioning everything, and believing nothing.

I stare out the windows, a steady patter of rain and slush sliding off the roof, landing with hollow
whumps
.

“I don't think I've ever experienced such crazy weather in my life,” I say, turning back to the table and joining Will in unpacking the food.

“I know. I always chalk it up to life in the high mountains, but I think I'd have to agree with you. This is unusual even for here.”

He moves to the refrigerator, opening it, and I pass him a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk—the basics. Will had emptied his refrigerator, thinking he'd be gone for several weeks, so we stopped at the general store and loaded up on supplies.

“I think pancakes are definitely in order,” he says, pointing to the box of Bisquick and a heaping carton of blueberries.

“Sounds perfect.” I remove the maple syrup from the last bag and set it on the counter. Behind me, the cupboards bang and glass clinks as Will removes bowls, pans, and spoons and begins his pancake preparations. “Would you like some help?” I ask.

“No, thanks. I've got this. But you're welcome to look around, if you like.”

From the kitchen, I move into the adjacent living room—yet another space built with a wall of glass. “This seems to be your signature design item,” I say, pointing to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The kitchen and living area here, unlike the ones in the house he built for Jack, are separated by a wall, bringing a far more intimate feeling to the cottage. Snug, and yet open, owing to the windows.

He peers around the corner. “Yeah, I can't bear to wall that off.” He looks reverently to the forest, touches of green now showing through the white. “Originally, the glass was Jack's idea, and once we tried it, well, now I can't do it any other way.”

I then look to the worn—but in a good way—leather couches encircling a wood-burning fireplace. Large, hard-backed picture books are stacked on an oversized square coffee table console in the middle. I pick up the hefty one on top, titled
The Mont Blanc Massif.
Leafing through the pages, I see it's written in French.

Replacing the book, I glance to the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room—the wall opposite the fireplace—with its built-in bookshelves, positively crammed with reading material. “You have
so
many books.”

“We get snowed in a lot, so yeah,” he says, calling from the kitchen. I hear the sizzle as the first dollop of pancake batter hits the griddle.

It's then that I notice that he doesn't have a television. Not in this room, anyway. I wonder if he has one at all.…

I wander into the master bedroom and flip on the light switch. Two lamps, placed on nightstands on either side of a quaint double bed, flicker on. A carved wooden headboard anchors the bed, which is covered in a forest-green quilted down comforter. With a mild hint of resin in the air, the room breathes life and warmth.

Draped at the foot of the bed, a crocheted red throw provides a splash of rustic color, and a matching wooden armoire and dresser complete the simple furnishings. Unlike the outside walls of the kitchen and living room, the outside wall here is solid, constructed with dense, sturdy wood and only a small curtained window to let in light. In the low glow of the lamps, the space is the definition of cozy.

I start when Will sneaks up behind me, sliding his hands around my waist. “Your pancakes are ready,” he says, nuzzling his face into my neck.

“This room…”

“What about it?”

“It's so … homey.”

He moves around to face me, placing his hands lightly on my waist. “More than the tent?” he asks, grinning.

I nod. “More than the tent.”

His eyes, dilated now in the relative dimness, settle on mine, and the grin slips from his face.

“What is it?”

“I was wondering if it's too early to say what I'm feeling for you. I've heard the ‘L' word can send women running for the hills.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Will.”

He reaches for my hand and pulls me to sit next to him on the bed.

“I've never said it to a woman before,” he says, looking at our hands, bringing them to rest on his leg. “And I always wondered if I would know. But there's no question of it.”

“This is going to sound awful, but I
have
said it. The only difference is I
didn't
know. Not until now.”

He continues looking down, but I see it when he flinches.

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“No, it's not that at all. How could I expect any different? You were engaged.…”

He looks up. “I never told you how it made me feel that day when we came off Basin Mountain. When we got to the airport, and he took you in his arms…” Will winces again, a glimpse of the very same anguish I saw that day in Bishop. “I've been physically hurt plenty of times in my life, but I've never felt pain like that. Ever. Like being sliced from the inside. And I knew I shouldn't feel that way. It wasn't my right. You had pledged yourself to him and—”

I reach my hand to his face, placing my palm against his cheek. “I love you, Will Cavanaugh. My heart only has room for one, and it's you. Only you.”

He covers my hand with his, drawing it over his chest, holding it there, his steady heartbeat reverberating through my fingers.

“I love you, Alison Malone,” he says, letting the words hang in the resin-scented air. “It feels good to say that out loud.” He presses my hand against his chest then curls his fingers around mine. “But even better is hearing it from you. That's what I realized, when I was standing at the airport in Bishop. It wouldn't have mattered what I was feeling for you if it wasn't reciprocated. And I didn't think it was at the time. It was a … despair—that's the only word for it—unlike anything I've ever experienced.”

I squeeze his hand, and lean forward, gently touching my lips to his. “You don't have to worry about that anymore. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

“So, um, how about those pancakes?”

The smile I was hoping for appears. “Coming right up.”

 

33

Will places the stack of pancakes on the kitchen table, and I follow with the butter dish and syrup. We make coffee, too—a complete breakfast—even though it's now approaching three in the afternoon.

The snow continues to melt, sloughing over the roof's edge, cascading in a slow-motion sort of quasi rain while the real rain falls steadily everywhere else. On the ground, the once-smooth layer of white is now pocked with deformations, narrow rivulets running through it like capillaries, carrying the snowmelt into the forest, and ultimately to Gull Lake below.

“Better late than never,” Will says, seating himself. “
Bon appétit!
”

We're just spreading the butter when we hear the knocks on the door.

“Excuse me,” he says, rising.

I can't see the front door from where I sit, but I hear a light swishing when it opens.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asks.

“Uh, change of plans,” Will says. “Come on in.”

A jacket is shrugged off, probably finding a place on one of the coat pegs that hang adjacent to the door. The voices grow louder as Jack and Will near the kitchen, preceded by the scuttle of paws against hardwood. Mojo races around the corner—a blur of wet fur—and practically tackles me in my chair.

“I didn't recognize the car in front,” Jack says, “so I thought I'd better come check—” They round the corner, and Jack jumps backward, running into Will.

“Well, I'll be…,” Jack says, once steady.

“Would you like to join us?” Will asks.

“Be happy to,” Jack says, pulling out a chair. “Mojo, give the girl some space.” He reaches for Mojo's collar and gives a gentle tug. The dog drops down, but remains staunchly beside me.

Jack sits, pivots to me, and stares with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Soooo, just stopping by or…?”

“That doesn't sound like your normal forward self,” I say.

“True enough. Let me rephrase that. Have you both pulled your heads out of your assess and realized you're in love with each other?” Jack picks up two pancakes from the main stack and drops them on his plate, then goes about his preparations, adding butter and syrup.

“There's the Jack we know and love,” Will says. “I probably would have put it a little more delicately than that, but that's the gist of it, yes.”

I place my hand over Jack's arm. “You were right,” I say softly.

He tries to hide it, but the emotion wells, and he looks away, joking and gesturing to cover it up. But I saw.

“So, I reckon you'll be staying put for a while then, William?”

“I will indeed,” Will says, seating himself.

“But what about the documentary?” I ask. “The magazine?”

“My heart wouldn't be into it. Not now. There'll be other opportunities, so don't worry about that.”

“He's right. You two need quality time,” Jack says, mouth close to full. “Damn, these pancakes are good! I should drop by more often.”

“You know you're always welcome,” Will says.

“Hey wait! That means you'll be here for Thanksgiving! Any plans yet?” Jack says, turning to me.

“We, uh, hadn't gotten around to discussing that,” I say.

“Let's not smother her, Jack. We just … well, you know.”

“I'm not smothering. I'm just asking if you two would like to join me for Thanksgiving, that's all.”

“Well,” I say, looking between the two. “I would love to, except that I've already made plans with my mother. She's driving over—”

“She's invited, too, of course,” Jack says.

“Alison, don't feel like you have to do this. Jack can be a little—”

“A little what, William?”

“It's fine, Will. I'm sure she'd love to come.”

As I say this, my brain makes the leap to planning mode, suddenly contemplating holiday logistics—dinner with one side of the family, dessert with the other—
those
kinds of logistics.
What am I doing?

I can't accept an invitation like this. I can't speak for my mom. And what about Celia?

But I want my mom to meet Will. To meet Will's family. And the lodge is only a little more than an hour's drive north of here, so …

Call it rushed, but since she's in the area, why not? It would be perfect. And I bet Celia would be game for it, too.

I look up. More rapping on the door.

“What the heck?” Will asks, rising again.