Seventh Wonder (17 page)

When they reached the long row of cabins, Meg drove straight past hers. Evidently the others were indeed back - there were packs on the front porch and myriad articles of clothing draped over the banister as if to dry.

“Can you stay?” John asked once they were parked safely in front of his cottage.

“I’d better go,” she replied. “I left a note - they’ll be expecting me.”

He nodded as if this was the answer he had expected. “I’ll walk with you.”

Meg thought of declining his offer, but then shrugged in agreement. What harm was there in her friends seeing them together? They’d been gallivanting freely, holding hands, kissing in public, for three days now. Hiding their relationship, however short-lived, seemed not only demeaning but pointless.

He shouldered her backpack for her, left the rest of the bags and other supplies behind the rear seat of the Jeep. They walked the first part of the way side by side, only an inch of space between them, but they did not touch. Then when the line of guest cottages came into view, they grabbed for one another’s hands at precisely the same time, creating a welter of awkward motion that caused Meg to laugh and John to smile at her laughter. It was as if they’d never properly mastered such a simple task as holding hands.

Her breath hitched when she saw Faye walk out onto the porch. She did a double take when she glimpsed Meg, and a triple take when she noticed her hand entwined in John’s. Meg squeezed tighter, and John returned the pressure.

“Margaret Lowry,” Faye drawled as soon as they were within comfortable hearing distance. She drew out the first syllable like Meg’s mother had when she was young and in trouble. They stopped at the bottom of the first step.

“I got your note,” said Faye. She looked smug, which would have worried Meg had it been anyone else. Then again, maybe she was just stoned.

“Faye, this is John Stovall,” said Meg. “John, Faye Annenberg. We went to Berkeley together.”

Faye’s hand hung like a wilted flower from her proffered wrist, as if she expected John to kiss it. Meg sucked her lips into her mouth to keep from giggling when he gave it a clumsy shake instead.

“Good to meet you,” said John.

“
Enchanté
,” Faye agreed.

John gave her his best debonair smile, then cleared his throat and took a step back. “Will I see you later?” he asked quietly so only Meg could hear.

“I’ll try, later tonight. Before you’re asleep.”

This was the part where he should have kissed her. Meg could see Faye lingering in her peripheral vision, and she knew John could sense her continued presence as well. She saw the conflict in his eyes and wished she could just pull the trigger and put them both out of their misery.

Finally he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Till tonight, then,” he said. Meg nodded slightly and gave him the most reassuring smile she could muster.

“Take care, Faye,” John called, waving as he walked away.

“Wow,” said Faye. Meg turned slowly to face her roommate. “That was some serious sexual tension just now. Please tell me you’ve already balled him.”

Meg only just managed to suppress an eye roll. “No comment,” she replied, breezing past Faye to carry her bag into their room. Unfortunately, the other woman was right on her heels.

“Meg, this is outstanding,” she said, falling heavily onto the squeaky excuse for a mattress. “I can’t believe you fucked him!” Faye’s voice was that of a giddy adolescent. Clapping her hands, she said, “Right on, girl. Seriously, well done - he’s a god among men. Only about fifty million times better looking than Rick Fucking Iverson.”

Meg sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn’t sure what to make of Faye’s relentless cheerleading. She was generally so mellow - it wasn’t like her to act so high-strung. (Just one more reason to believe she’s on something, Meg concluded.)

“Contrary to what you may assume, John isn’t just some twisted way of getting my revenge on Rick. Rick can have his happiness, and he can leave me to mine.”

* * *

Instead of a sit down dinner, this evening the lodge was serving burgers and hot dogs on its massive veranda. Meg walked with Faye and Mary Ann to load up their plates before joining the others at a picnic table they’d staked claim to in the woods. Meg’s heart beat marginally faster when she realized they were in the same spot Rick had broken up with her five days prior. How long ago it seemed, now.

Faye went to join Don; he grumbled good-naturedly as she lowered herself into his lap, effectively blocking his view of the game of five-card stud he was playing (and apparently winning) against Alan. Farther along the table, Paul sat with a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his pursed lips, shuffling a second deck of cards. Rick was seated across from him with Alice leaning into his side, twirling a strand of her flaxen hair around one finger. Mary Ann made her way over to them without giving Meg a backward glance, leaving her to stand solo, her hands full of food she hardly felt like eating.

Meg gazed longingly through the trees as she took the vacant seat next to Alan. She couldn’t see John’s cabin from here, but she would have sworn she could feel its pull. She’d agreed to dinner with the group, not wanting to appear overly misanthropic, but she told herself she would go there straightaway once she was finished eating.

“Hey Meg.” Her head jerked up at the sound of her name to find Don holding up a flask. “Whiskey?” he asked.

“Give me that,” said Faye, snatching it from him to pour a little in her lemonade.

“No thank you,” Meg replied.

“Come on,” said Faye, “it’ll help you loosen up.” She thrust the flask at Meg but overshot, causing the sloshing metal container to careen near the edge of the table. Meg made a fumbling grab for it to prevent it from toppling over.

“I’ve got it,” said Alan, usurping the flask before Meg could grasp it. She blinked at him in surprise: quick reflexes were the last thing she expected from someone like him, especially given his current state of intoxication. Daydreaming though she may have been, she hadn’t missed the plastic bag full of freshly rolled joints he’d been passing around earlier (and even if she had, the acrid-sweet smell of pot smoke would’ve tipped off anybody who passed within twenty paces of their table).

Bewildered as she was by the sudden flurry of activity, she forgot to pay attention as Alan tipped some measure of whiskey into her cup. When she took a sip from it moments later, she nearly gagged.

“You OK?” asked Alan, glancing over his shoulder at her with an amused smile that, under the circumstances, she found irritating.

“How much did you put in here?” sputtered Meg, her eyes watering.

His laugh was an affable one. “Just the right amount, trust me.”

She was actively considering pushing the drink away and finding a new one just on principle when she felt a tap on the back of her shoulder. Seeing Rick behind her with an unreadable expression on his face, she quickly changed her mind about abandoning her drink.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

Why does he sound so serious? Meg wondered. What can we possibly have to talk about?

She nodded her assent, then collected her spiked lemonade as she rose to her feet. She tried but failed to shrug off Alice’s curious stare as she followed Rick farther into the darkening forest.

“Was Faye telling the truth?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the others. “You ditched us so you could go camping with somebody else?”

“Faye said that?” she asked. His observation wasn’t entirely without basis, but still she found it hard to believe Faye could be so duplicitous as to portray her actions in such a way - in particular to a person she deigned to care so little for.

“Well, not exactly like that,” he admitted. She could smell the whiskey on his breath; idly she wondered how much he’d had to drink.

Which reminds me, she thought to herself as she raised her cup to take another swill of the concoction therein. She had a feeling she’d need it to make it through the rest of this conversation.

“Were you with that man?” he asked next. He crossed his arms and peered down at her sternly, like she was a child in need of a scolding.

“What man?” Meg asked, feigning ignorance. Acting had never been her forte.

“The man from the lodge last week,” he answered impatiently. “The old guy.”

Meg bristled at his words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

This display of petulance was entirely out of character for her, and it showed in the surprised look on Rick’s face. After he’d had a moment to process, however, he inched closer. “I brought you here,” he said, his voice hard-edged and bitter. “I’m responsible for your safety.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Christ, Meg, do you have any idea how stupid it is to run off and spend the night with some guy you met less than a week ago? Let alone one who’s probably twice your age.”

A tempest of emotion swirled above them, heavy with rain yet unsure of where to land. Meg couldn’t decide which angered her more: his utter disregard for the man she so implicitly cared for and trusted, or this astounding boldness that appeared to stem from the inflated ego he bore even when sober.

She opened her mouth, but as she was picking which words to hurl at him first, she perceived something else in his eyes and the set of his jaw: something she hadn’t noticed until she’d had a moment to sift past his hurtful words and autocratic tone. It looked a lot like concern, she decided.

And suddenly her ire was mostly (if not entirely) defused.

“Rick, look.” She wet her lips with her tongue (what was it about whiskey that always made her mouth feel dry?). “I appreciate your concern. I understand that you’re just trying to be a good friend, and I respect you for that - I really do.” She laid a comforting hand on his forearm, and some of the heat seemed to dissipate from his eyes.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said, her voice lowered to just above a whisper. When he didn’t respond she added, “I’m a smart girl, and I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need you or anyone else to be my babysitter. Understand?”

The steel in his eyes turned liquid, the embers all but extinguished. The transformation was rather startling: in a matter of seconds, he’d gone from enraged to positively remorseful. This wasn’t a phenomenon with which Meg was unfamiliar. It hadn’t been all that long ago that she’d witnessed Michael’s radical, drug-induced mood swings.

She started to walk away, but Rick caught her wrist. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. Hanging his head: “I should never have let you go.”

Meg reminded herself not to read too much into his declaration, which was unexpected to say the least. He probably wouldn’t even remember it in the morning, after all.

She slipped her hand gently from his grasp, then turned to walk away.

* * *

John had filled his afternoon with work. He finished a comp of the Little Colorado River from Roosevelt Point, put the top layer of charcoal on a drawing of a lone ponderosa at Walhalla Overlook, and inked an outline of Paria Canyon. He spent the remaining daylight hours putting finishing touches on the sketch he’d started of Meg.

He appreciated all of these undertakings for what they truly were: a distraction. Losing himself in a world of charcoal, lead and ink, a world in which he felt at home, had very aptly diverted his attention and made the hours spent waiting for Meg almost bearable.

Still, there were times when certain noises from outside would interrupt his focus and commandeer his thoughts - like the sounds of running or youthful laughter, for instance. He wondered if Meg was out there, perhaps not so very distant from where he presently sat, enjoying the evening with her friends. If he was ten years younger, perhaps he’d be out there with them.

Several times he tried to insinuate himself as part of the mental image he’d created, although with varying degrees of success. Mostly he envisioned himself as an outlier, someone who lingered at the picture’s edge without fitting in as a part of the whole.

For brief moments, he allowed himself to conceive of a world where Meg could be his, and still he had trouble visualizing where he’d fit within the confines of her social structure. But then he would imagine the two of them sitting at a picnic table, surrounded by others her age perhaps, but with Meg tucked contentedly into his side. These were the times when the rest of it became immaterial, evaporating into the murky ether of Things That Don’t Matter.

By nine o’clock he was lounging in bed, reading lamp on,
The Power and the Glory
resting on his bare chest; the light outside had long since faded. A knock at the door prompted him to snap the book shut, his page left unmarked. He took long strides toward the door and slipped the chain before throwing it open. Meg stood in the dim porch light; a smile illuminated her face at the sight of him, plumping her cheeks and slitting her eyes. The radiance of it caused John’s heart to pause for the length of two beats as he pulled her inside and shut the door behind them.

He didn’t waste any time kissing her; the taste of whiskey on her tongue surprised and intrigued him. Pulling away, he asked, “Have you been drinking?”

She shrugged. “A little.”

“You aren’t drunk though?”

“I don’t think so.”

He kissed her forehead. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I’d want you here regardless.”

Again she grinned. “I’m glad.”

“Can I fix you anything?” asked John as he walked toward the cupboard. “Are you hungry?”

“Not at all, no.”

“Something to drink then?” He opened the cabinet above the fridge, extracted a bottle. “I’ve got bourbon.”

Biting her lip, she seemed to consider. Finally: “I’d better not. You go ahead though.”

John splashed a couple of fingers in a glass and carried it over to the bed, where Meg had curled up against the headboard, surrounded by pillows. She had a far-off look on her face, like her mind had drifted somewhere beyond the four walls of this room.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked. He stretched out beside her and laid his arm along the top of the headboard behind her. Meg’s head leaned instinctively into the crook between his neck and shoulder.