On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (15 page)

Baskia scrolled through her mind
to when this might have happened. It must have been during Trace’s second visit
when she was out with Wes. She’d forgotten her phone in her haste to get out
the door. She shifted uncomfortably. “What else did he say?”

“Well, that the three of you had
been discussing majors and career paths all weekend. He assured me your future
is promising. I’ve been trying to place his parents. He’d mentioned his father,
Augustine Wolfe; though I don’t recognize the name. Well, anyway, I guess I’m
just wondering what happened between then and now? It’s not too late. You can
get back on track.”

Baskia wanted to shout that Trace
happened, that’s what. And
that
gentleman
had her more confused
than ever. Something thumped and fired in her chest. She wanted to run to
Trace’s arms, to feel his lips on hers, alone, and away from the world, in the
secluded cabin.

“It’s unfortunate you’ll take a
stranger’s word that my future is promising. If you’d just listen to me, you’d
know that already. I’m not wasting my life. I’m taking it in my hands, away
from you who’d shape me in her image, away from the leaches who are just in it
to be seen and chase an ever-elusive high. I assure you, my life is going to be
great.” Baskia rushed to her room and packed her things. She grabbed a few
books from the shelf, a box of old photos, and her camera.

With thoughts of Trace and solace
ahead of her, and Manhattan and London behind her, Baskia drove north.

Chapter Fifteen

“Can you believe it?” Baskia
said, leaning into the window of Wes’s truck. He’d just plowed the driveway to
the cabin after the first major snowfall. Baskia ignored her frozen toes. “It
took her three days to call, and she didn’t even apologize. I just don’t
understand her—she’s so frustrating.”

Wes looked on sympathetically.
“Have you told her exactly how you feel?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s the
thing—never mind. I don’t even know why I’m boring you with this. Thanks for
coming up and plowing.”

“That’s what you hired me for.”

“Yeah, and not to listen to me
rant about my mother.” Baskia wasn’t sure why she suddenly opened up to Wes. It
may have been the kind smile and the crinkle in his eyes that made them sparkle
that morning as he squinted against the bright blanket of fresh snow. Or it may
have been that he seemed like a good listener (more so than a talker.) She’d
been boiling with irritation for days, and cooped up in the house with no one
to talk to made her gripes just pour out to the first person she met. Or it
could have been a combination of all three, which was often the case. It rarely
was as simple as just one thing.

After Wes pulled away, her phone
beeped with a message. It was her mother again. “What, did you realize you
meant to say sorry?” she said aloud. Baskia needed to restock the cupboards,
and despite not wanting to talk to her mother, she clung to the possibility an
apology waited in the message the spotty cell service wasn’t letting her hear.

As Baskia drove down the driveway
toward the mountain road, the BMW skidded and fishtailed. Her knuckles blanched
as she gripped the steering wheel. “This isn’t fun.” She let off the brake to
see what would happen. The car coasted. She avoided mounds of slush and stayed
in Wes’s tracks.

Finally, at the base of the
mountain, Baskia took a deep breath, relieved she’d made it. Fear of driving up
and down the winding hill for the next few months prompted her to second-guess
the plan to see through the winter in Vermont. Then, when a remix of a song
came through the car’s speakers reminding her of the late nights and bright
lights in the City, and the declaration she’d made to her mother to make good
use of her life, her resolve strengthened.

 She pulled directly into the
garage Wes had brought the BMW to when the alternator died. The small office
reeked of motor oil. Grease smudged the wooden door leading to the repair bay.
A stout woman with short, curly grey hair stood ready behind the sales counter.

“Can I help you, miss?”

“I came in to find out about
getting snow tires put on my BMW.”

“Curtis is towing someone out of
a ditch. He’ll be able to tell you when he can get them ordered better than I
can. But that’s a smart idea; let me tell you. He has some nasty stories about
people going off the road. Drive slow, don’t brake suddenly, and have good
tires, and four-wheel drive. Or me, I usually just stay home. Except today. I
have a meeting in an hour, and he asked me to hold down the fort. Jim’s here,
but he’s,” she leaned in to whisper, “not real good with customers. Every other
word is followed by a cuss. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

Baskia intended to listen to her
mother’s message and browse on her phone, but the woman behind the counter
rattled on about the weather, winter supplies, and her grandchildren. Within a
half hour, Curtis, an older man with grease-black hair, going white around the
temples, appeared and informed Baskia he’d have the tires by the end of the
week.

Before popping into the market,
she pressed listen on her mother’s message.

“Hello, Baskia dear. I hoped to
speak to you directly, but your father and I decided we’re coming up to the
cabin to celebrate Christmas this year. By the sounds of it, we’ll have a white
one with all that snow. I think your brother will visit too, so please do get
everything ready. Call me back soon. Bu-bye.”

Baskia sunk back into the seat,
her chin falling toward her chest. It was one thing to go it alone up there
with her books, magazines, online shopping, movies, and lousy microwave
dinners. It was another to entertain her parents. She’d taken to thinking of
the cabin as her place, a space to rest, restore, and figure things out, not
that she’d gotten very far. Her parents’ visit felt like an intrusion. “Get
everything ready?” she asked no one in particular. The basement was still in
rough shape; could she hire someone to get it fixed up? Where did she start? In
addition, there was the matter of food and Christmas dinner. How long were they
going to stay? Baskia sighed then stepped into the slushy street, the cold
slapping her in the face.

The mousy girl stood idly behind
the cash register in the market. Her face looked fuller, her hair not as
stringy. Maybe she’d eaten a pie for Thanksgiving after all.

Unloading her groceries onto the
counter, Baskia asked, “Do you have a Christmas menu?”

“Huh?” the girl asked.

“Do you cater?”

“Um. I don’t know.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I can’t
cook. I’m lucky I haven’t wasted away. For real. There aren’t any decent
restaurants around here, and no one’s going to trust me behind the stove so I
need to come up with a meal for four.”

“Just four?” The girl’s eyes
glazed over with disinterest as if it shouldn’t be a big deal.

“I can cover appetizers, but
salad, the main course, and dessert—I have to leave it to the professionals. I
have plenty of wine—”

The girl looked bored.

“What’s your name?”

“Daniella,” she answered shortly.

“Well, Daniella, do you understand
my question? Do you hear the desperation in my voice?”

“Yeah, sure, I’m trying to think
of someone around here that could help you. My mom is an awful cook; at least
my step-dad thinks so. Um, hey, how about the pie lady?” She handed Baskia a
card from the Thanksgiving delivery.

“Right,” she said, doubting the
woman’s ability to create a meal to meet her mother’s standards.

“Or you know, you could just
learn to cook,” Daniella said, stating the obvious.

Baskia snorted. “Thanks, but I
don’t think an apron would look good on me.”

On the way back to the cabin,
Baskia stopped off at Wes’s, hoping to catch him at home. The truck wasn’t in
the driveway, but she knocked on the door to the log cabin anyway. There was no
answer. She peered through the window, but the house looked quiet and hazy,
almost uninhabited.

She dug through her purse for a
paper to leave a note. Just as she signed her name, the pickup pulled in.

Wes approached, nervousness
pinching his features. “Hi, what are you doing here?”

“Is something the matter?” Baskia
asked.

“No, uh, I just didn’t expect
you.”

She wondered if that was a
problem, but went on, “I need your help. Again.”

He stuffed his hands in his
pockets against the cold, waiting for her to continue.

“Are you going to invite me in?
It’s freezing,” she said with a shiver.

He shifted uneasily. His boots
crunched in the snow. “We better not. Um, my um. My—”

Baskia leaned in, waiting for him
to finish.

“Why don’t I meet you up at your
place in an hour?” He glanced at his watch. “No, make that an hour and a half.
I just came back to grab something.”

Baskia looked at him carefully.
His eyes darted around, avoiding her gaze.

“That’s fine, I guess. I’m not
looking forward to driving up the mountain, but if you don’t care…”

“I passed your car parked outside
Curtis’s. Did you order tires?”

Baskia nodded. “See you in a
little while.”

The drive back up the mountain
was nearly as terrifying as the way down. It didn’t look like anyone, plows
included, had passed that way while Baskia was in town. 

She had less than two weeks to
prepare to entertain her parents. In the past, she would have said screw it,
but she sensed the challenge in her mother’s voice. If she was going to prove
she was grown up, she wanted everything to be perfect.

After unloading the groceries,
she searched online for a catering service that would fit her parents’ tastes.
Their palate was refined, specific, and they wouldn’t accept anything less than
the finest ingredients. Based on the choices in town—the greasy diner, Din’s,
and the market—gourmet anything was in short supply. There were several
restaurants and caterers listed that might meet her criteria, but they were all
at least an hour or two away. She wasn’t eager to drive more than was necessary
on the icy roads. She turned the pie lady’s card over in her hand, but then Wes
knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called. The door
didn’t open. “Come in,” she repeated. There was no answer except for a scraping
and whooshing sound from the front deck. Baskia pulled the door open to find Wes
shoveling. “You don’t have to do that,” she called to him.

After a few more swipes, he
stomped off his boots. “How were you going to get to your wood pile?”

“I figured I’d flatten a path
with my boots.” She pranced around in her bulky winter boots, as if
demonstrating.

“It’s going to snow again. Then
again. And again. And—”

“Okay, I get it. I’ll just add
that to my cold weather to-do list: wood, plowing, snow tires, extra food,
supplies, shovel—there must be one around here somewhere.”

“I’ll leave that one for you. I
have a bunch.”

“You’re too kind. But I actually
have another item to add to the ever-growing list of winter essentials. My
basement.”

“Huh?”

“I need to get it ready for
guests or more specifically, my brother and me. And who knows, before she’s
through she might invite half of Manhattan up here for Christmas.”

“I don’t follow.”

“My mother decided to spend the
holidays here. In this cabin. In my oasis. And I doubt she’ll sleep on a bunk
downstairs and there was a problem…”

“Gotcha. Let’s have a look.”

Standing in the water-damaged
basement, Wes shrugged. “Seems straightforward enough. My, uh, there are
carpenters in my family. I think we can get this figured out.”

“Great. You’ve done so much for
me. I wanted someone that came on recommendation, someone I can trust. I didn’t
want to hire some schlub to—”

A sad smile lifted Wes’s cheeks
as if the memory was bitter and sweet. “Those carpenters live in Nebraska and
Maryland.”

“How soon can they get out here?
My mom and dad will be here on Christmas Eve.”

As if he couldn’t help himself, Wes’s
smile turned into a chuckle.

“What’s funny?” Baskia asked,
confused.

“We’re going to do this. You and
me.”

“No. I mean. Huh? Are you handy?”

“Handy enough.” He straightened
up and drew a deep breath. “My father was a carpenter. He built our house. He
helped build this cabin years ago, before he had his own crew, actually.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“About my father or this place?”

“Both. You should have him come
up. I bet he’d love to see how it turned out. Can’t he help? Or is he in
Nebraska? I mean, of course I’d pay. He probably knows this place like the back
of his hand.”

Just as easily as Wes had smiled,
his face crumbled. He steadied himself on the rail of the bunk bed. “I’m
sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. Did I say
something?” Then it struck her, the log cabin looked empty, because it was.
“Did you lose him?” she asked quietly.

Baskia had only seen two men cry
in real life. One was her brother, when their grandfather died, tears she’d
shared. And the other guy was one of her friends, Russ. She’d gotten used to,
even expected his tears—happy or sad. They’d cry together over rom-coms and
cute puppies. Wes’s tears, private, mournful, and agonizing, was a different
experience altogether. 

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated,
then gingerly pulled him into a hug. 

He sniffled, pulled away, and
wiped his eyes. “It usually doesn’t hit me like this anymore,” he said in a
quiet voice. “Maybe it’s because I know that he was here once.”

“I’m sorry. If it’s too hard. I
understand. I mean, I don’t of course. But—” There were no right words to be
said.

“No, I think it would be good
actually.”

“Are you sure?”

Wes nodded. “We’ll make a list of
what we need and hit the hardware store tomorrow as long as it doesn’t snow again;
if that’s the case, I’ll have to get out early to plow beforehand.”

As Baskia watched the pickup
rumble down the driveway, the pieces fell together; Wes was adrift and hanging
on to the memory of his parents for dear life.