Frost (18 page)

“There’s this thing called the Internet,” Logan said. “You ever hear of it? And phones: they’re mobile now. You can take them with you, even on that big air-o-plane you’ll be on.” Logan was on a roll. Hilary tittered into her cupped hand.

“Did you guys hear about the dogsleds?” I asked in a subject-changing ploy.

Not everyone had, and Jack was way more comfortable with this topic. He described the plans for their Iditarod-like portion of the trip. It was evidence of our respective distractions that even I hadn’t known that though he would basically be a passenger on the sled of an experienced musher, part of his recent training included basic dog-handling skills. I had not known that
hike
was the more commonly used command for go, not
mush.
Right was
gee
and left was
haw.
And
leave it
was the command for the dog to stop sniffing at an item, animal, or other temptation.

Speaking of temptations, I decided it was dessert time. My mom had gone to the trouble of ordering a chocolate-on-chocolate sheet cake with a big fat loopy
Bon voyage
scrolled across the top; a red, white, and blue map of the United States in the bottom left corner; a green map of Greenland in the top right; and a little plastic plane flying between them on a broken-line trajectory. I set the cake on the island and was fishing forks and spoons out of a drawer. Penny, Tina, Matthew, and the others were bunched up at one end of the island downloading pictures from Tina’s camera phone onto Matthew’s Facebook page.

“I smell coffee,” Brigid said, stepping into the room.

She had removed the long jacket she’d worn earlier, revealing a low-cut, tight-fitting sweater. A new silver snowflake necklace wasn’t the only thing it showed off.

“I just wanted to congratulate you all on a wonderful performance.”

We’d been upgraded from “good” to “wonderful.” Whoop-de-do. More to the point, I wondered who was putting on the show.

A chorus of “thanks” echoed through the small kitchen. Matthew and Logan, I noticed, went from baritones to altos.

“The coffee’s not quite ready yet,” I said, “but I’ll bring it into the family room with the cake.”

“Sounds perfect,” Brigid said with a parting wave.

“Did you guys get a look at that body?” Logan asked. “
Hello!
You are one lucky dog, Jack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, looking for a cake server in our utensil drawer.

“You got room in your suitcase for me?” He punched Jack in the shoulder. “Because she is smokin’ hot.”

Jack didn’t reply, lucky for him. Unlucky for Logan, I opted to go with our largest knife in lieu of the wimpy cake server.

“Logan,” I said, holding the knife in front of me. “I hardly think —”

Logan cut me off. “What’s the bunk assignment like? Did they teach you about shared body heat in your survival training? ’Cause a guy would warm up nicely cozying up between her —”

“Logan,” I said in a tone that conveyed everything; the slash of my knife through the air was probably unnecessary.

Matthew and Jack choked back laughter in some kind of bro-spiracy.

“Easy there,” Jack said. His eyes dropped to the knife.

Like I would really use it. Like I needed anyone — Jack in particular — telling me “Easy there.” It was condescending and insulting. And Logan
had
been inappropriate.

“What if she hears you guys?” I said in a sulk.

“She didn’t hear anything,” Jack said.

“Which makes it OK?” I asked, dumping cake slices onto plates. I deliberately served Jack the piece that was upside down and misshapen. I then carried a tray out to the adults in the front room. When I returned, Jack had his coat on.

“Tomorrow’s an early morning,” he said. “I should be going.”

I found my own parka in the pileup of belongings and followed him toward the foyer. He briefly mumbled a “Good night and thank you” to my mom, but overall his departure was abrupt and kind of rude.

“Wait up,” I said, stumbling behind him down the porch steps.

He paused at the driver’s-side door to his truck, which was parked in the driveway, but didn’t say anything.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

“I’m fine.”

“It just seemed like —”

“I said I’m fine.”

His tone definitely implied otherwise.

“So why are you taking off, then? We didn’t even get any time alone.”

“I’m not done packing.”

“Are you sure you’re all right? Is it the flying thing?”

“No. Though I really don’t appreciate my lack of travel experience being thrown in my face.”

“Thrown in your face? It’s not like I said you were scared.”

“I’m not scared.” His voice was gruff.

“I never said you were. And maybe I don’t appreciate you drooling over Brigid with a pig like Logan.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I am not,” I said.

“Yes, you are.”

The front door opened, and Brigid stepped onto the porch. Her timing couldn’t have been worse. Jack kissed me quickly on the lips and pulled away. Honestly, I’d been kissed by a dolphin at SeaWorld with more passion.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, pulling at the truck’s door handle.

“I will,” I stammered, too stunned to properly react.
Take care of yourself?
What the hell did that mean?

Brigid approached us and stopped.

“Katla,” she said, using my full name for the first time, “it has been a pleasure to know you.” She shook my hand with gloved fingers. “And, Jack, I will see you tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said, his eyes bright and eager.

Though he gave me another brief kiss — on the friggin’ forehead — his gaze seemed to follow Brigid as she walked down the driveway and out to her street-parked car.

Before I knew it, Jack was behind the wheel and backing down the driveway. My eyes chased between Jack’s truck and Brigid’s rental, and I remembered the dog-mushing command Jack had taught us.

Leave it,
I thought with a snarl.

Following our last show, the curtain dropped and the stage exploded in hugs, tears, whistles, and cheers. I made the rounds, going through the motions, but I was not one of the revelers. My matinee and Saturday night performances went fine — just fine — not great. I didn’t fall or screw up, but I didn’t dance like I had on Friday, either.

The problem was Jack. I missed him. I had expected to, but it was more than that. Our good-bye had been distant and cold. First cousins in a fair number of states could legally display more affection. Worse, I honestly didn’t know where we stood. “Take care of yourself”? It sounded more like a kiss-off than an accompaniment to a see-you-soon kiss.

I kept trying to convince myself that it was just nerves. His fear of flying getting the best of him as takeoff loomed. But the way he had laughed at Logan’s remarks — I’d never seen that side of Jack before.

Penny practically tackled me with her post-Gerda hug. “Are you coming to the Kountry Kettle?” she asked, her cheeks wet with happy tears.

“I can’t. You know Afi and I start our trek to Iceland bright and early.”

“Speaking of treks, what about Jack? Did you talk to him before his flight?”

“No. I didn’t get a chance.” Because he hadn’t called me. Prior to boarding, Stanley had called my mom briefly, but Jack, he said, had wandered off.

“Are you sure you don’t have even a half hour to come out and celebrate with us?” Penny asked.

I shook my head no, but, in truth, it wasn’t the time I lacked, more like the right frame of mind.

My mood was no better the next morning as I threw the last bits and pieces into my suitcase. I scooped a brush, a pocket English-Icelandic dictionary, and my makeup case from my dresser top, when a small black velvet pouch caught my eye: the runes from Jack’s grandmother. The sack sat where I’d dropped it the morning after returning from the blizzard fiasco, in a lopsided pottery bowl I’d made in seventh grade. Somehow, their association with my horrible blunder had prevented me from researching the moonstone rocks and their engraved symbols, or even handling them. My hand hovered over the crude bowl. Sure, I expected Iceland to be a little backwater, but an ancient alphabet carved into small stones — what did I think I’d trade them for, a handful of magic beans? I hardly knew, but my greedy fingers — ignoring the TSA baggage restrictions running like a news banner at the bottom of my thoughts — snatched up the pouch and tossed it into my suitcase. Next came a good-bye to my teary mom. She, at least, had pregnancy hormones and cabin fever to blame for her crazy emotions.

“Now, remember,” she said, her voice thin, “call me, for any reason. Don’t worry about the expense.”

“OK.”

“And take care of Afi. Make sure he eats right. He’s been looking so thin.”

“I will.”

“Give me a hug, then.”

Despite the big tummy bulge, she seemed small and weak as I leaned over her bed. Taking care of her, I knew, was a big job. I just hoped Ofelia was up to it. Ofelia. Just thinking about her gave me an uneasy feeling.

“How’re we doing in here?” Ofelia said, appearing suddenly in the doorway to my mom’s bedroom. The uneasy feeling grew. Dang, her mind-reading thing was creepy.

“I’m just about ready to head out,” I said. “Afi’s probably sitting on his suitcase in his driveway.”

“No, he’s not,” Ofelia said.

My mom gave her a quizzical look; the look I gave her required a stronger adjective.

“He seems way too smart a fellow to sit in the cold,” Ofelia said, trying to cover her tracks.

“OK, Mom,” I said, lingering in the doorway. “It’s just a week. We’ll be back before you know it.”

“Love you,” my mom called out to me.

“Love you back,” I said, backing into the hallway.

Ofelia followed me downstairs.

“Don’t worry about your mother,” she said. “I’ll take care of her.”

Take care of,
I rolled it around my mouth like a marble. It sounded like something Tony Soprano would say. And definitely not helping my overall mood.

“Thank you,” I said, wheeling my suitcase toward the back door.

“Katla,” she said, “there is something I feel needs saying.”

Kind of a long-way-round
listen up,
but it got my attention.

“What is it?”

Ofelia squinted and lowered her head. “I had not realized the strength of your calling. It is . . . What I mean to say . . . I would never forgive myself were I not to —”

“Ofelia, just tell me.”

“A warning,” she said in a gravelly voice. “You are more than a deliverer of souls, and more than a summoner of souls.”

Again, Ofelia hesitated, giving me time to ponder the difference. So she suspected what I had done for Jacob. What I hoped I had done. There still had been no news on that front.

“OK,” I said.

“Special ones may appear to you.” Ofelia gripped my shoulder. “Be careful. A pact once made cannot be broken.”

Oh, boy. And great.
Because I needed one more thing to add to my load.

“No need to worry,” I said, tucking my heaviest parka under my arm. “I’m on vacation, remember?”

I couldn’t believe I was in Iceland. It had been a long, hellish journey. Afi had been so slow we almost missed our connecting flight in Boston, and we hit some scary turbulence over the Atlantic, but we were here. Iceland. Even its name was formidable. One of my favorite things about flying was the bird’s-eye view it afforded. Unfortunately, I barely got a peek at the terrain as we descended from clouds into an early-morning fog so thick it would make a pretty decent packing material. Once through customs and baggage claim, we hopped a bus for the transfer from the international airport to the regional airport some thirty miles away. It was a cold, rain-soaked day. From the bus windows, I looked out onto a barren volcanic landscape. It was not the happy little village scene I’d expected. Soon, though, we came into the downtown area of Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital and largest city. I was surprised at the number of modern buildings — again, not the Iceland I’d expected. Finally, we arrived at the regional airport and soon began the business of check-in and boarding; the allure of travel had long since lost its appeal. At least this last flight was short.