Seventh Wonder (3 page)

She cocked her head, biting her lip. “It’s Alice, isn’t it?”

His guilt-ridden grimace was answer enough. She tried on a synthetic smile, one that felt as if it fit rather poorly on her face. “I’m happy for you both, Rick. Really, I am. I wish you nothing but happiness.”

It was true. Alice, with her cool demeanor and apollonian good looks, was doubtlessly a better match for him. Besides, Meg vaguely recalled hearing that Alice had accepted a position as an English teacher somewhere in the Bay Area. Theirs was a relationship that might actually work.

Rick was visibly relieved. She’d as good as given him her blessing. Idly she wondered whether this was a sign of strength, or one of weakness.

* * *

The rain started just after lunch - gray, sheeting torrents of water that broke from the sky and rustled down the canyon’s eaves, along with thunder that rolled like far-off cannon. Their hike effectively canceled, the group bided their time in the common room of the lodge, playing board games, gossiping or, in Meg’s case, writing in her journal. She felt tense and jittery, anxious for the rain to end so she could be free of this place and the prying eyes of her travel companions. They seemed to have guessed what had happened between her and Rick, and their occasional, curious stares served only to deepen her sense of self-consciousness.

Mercifully, the storm dissipated as quickly as it had begun, and the sun returned, glancing off puddles and giving the smooth stone deck the appearance of being glazed in light.

“I’m going for a walk,” Meg announced to no one in particular as she stood from her chair and strode toward the door, her shoulder bag crossing her body.

Being outside was a comfort. A cool humidity clung to the air, making her wish she had her jacket. Without giving it any sentient thought, she moved in the direction of the trail she’d taken last night.

The overlook seemed like a different place entirely in the drab, muted light of day. Meg glanced unconsciously toward the stand of spruce. Of course, he wasn’t there. She wondered whether she would see him again, and whether she should be concerned about the twinge of disappointment she felt when she considered the possibility. Just what I need, she thought sardonically. Another hang-up on another
artist
.

Beneath the trees, from where John had materialized the night before, the ground was mercifully dry. Meg sat against a tree with her legs bent and pulled her shoulder bag into her lap. She withdrew a well-worn copy of Pasternak’s
Doctor Zhivago
. For some time she read, loving the weighted comfort of the book in her hands, the broken spine and soft, battered cover. She folded down the corner of her page, just as Yuri and his family were disembarking in Varykino, and leaned her head back against the tree’s knotted trunk. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze pass over her like a soothing hand, fluttering the pages of her book and ruffling the ends of her hair.

Sometime later, a gray and white goshawk swooped down from its invisible flight path and alit on one of the topmost branches, instigating an impromptu rain shower that doused her hair and spattered the pages of her book. For some inexplicable reason, this struck Meg as comical. She laughed quietly to herself as she shook the water off her book and tucked it back inside her bag, then stood and brushed off the back of her pants. A glance at her wristwatch indicated she’d been here two hours, which wasn’t surprising considering the lack of sensation in her hindquarters.

As she ambled back toward the lodge, she relished the warmth of the sun and wondered whether anyone had questioned her whereabouts. (In a part of her mind she wouldn’t quite allow herself to acknowledge, she also felt a familiar swell of regret at having spent the past two hours waiting for someone who hadn’t come.)

When she reached the cabin she shared with the other girls, Faye was curled up on her side in the bed next to Meg’s while Jefferson Airplane streamed from a transistor radio atop the nightstand. At first glance she appeared to be asleep, but as Meg quietly slipped free of her bag, Faye rolled over to face her. She crooked her elbow and propped her head up with her hand as she fixed Meg with a look of interest.

“Rick Iverson is a fucking asshole,” she said. Her expression failed to change as she spoke using the same inflection one would typically reserve for much more ordinary declarations.

Meg was baffled. She could hardly manage more than a perfunctory “Oh?”

“Don and I think it’s the pits that he’d make you ride all this way and then dump you the day after we get here. As if you could possibly enjoy your vacation after that.”

The ancient mattress next to Faye’s sagged as Meg lowered herself on top of it. “It’ll be all right,” she replied, striving to portray a sense of aloof detachment. “We weren’t exactly soul mates.”

Faye studied her with equal parts admiration and skepticism. “Good for you,” she said after a moment, though she still sounded doubtful.

Meg spent even more time than she had the prior evening preparing for dinner. She brushed out her hair and used a hot iron to press it into a smooth, flat curtain, then secured it on either side with matching barrettes. She also applied sparing amounts of rouge and mascara and dressed in a pale blue dress without ruffles or bows. She tried not to think about what her motivation might be for looking her best. Faye voiced her assumption that Meg simply meant to prove to all interested parties she was better off without Rick, and Meg let her believe it.

Dinner felt surreal. Paul and Mary Ann discussed shuttle schedules in preparation for the group’s planned excursion to the south rim; Don feigned interest in Alan’s monologue on the iniquity of the Nixon administration’s proposed draft lottery; and Faye spent a good deal of time glowering at Rick and Alice for their increasingly flirtatious behavior. Meg, for the most part, kept her eyes down. Only occasionally did she glance up, waiting to feel some pang of regret or jealousy as she beheld their constant whisperings; each time she was disconcerted by her lack of unease. Faye, certainly, was far more irate than she.

After dinner, they congregated on the back deck. The clouds had cleared, leaving behind a streaking orange torch of a sun that drizzled like viscous honey into the canyon.

They each staked their claim to a chair and commenced perusing leather bound cocktail menus as waiters bustled about with white aprons and oval trays. Meg was last to take her seat. It was then, as she glanced fleetingly outward to the rocks awash in color, that she noticed John Stovall standing farther along the railing. He clutched the long neck of a beer bottle as he watched her with thinly veiled interest.

Meg lost her surefootedness, nearly stumbling as she laid down the final steps toward her chair. Her blood thrummed in her veins, seeing how he lingered at the edge of her peripheral vision.

“Meg? Did you hear me?”

She blinked at the calling of her name; to her right, Paul watched her perplexedly, apparently having been the one to address her. John’s attentiveness to her was proving to be exceptionally distracting.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked.

“I asked if you want anything to drink.” He nodded toward an expectant waiter.

She swallowed the dryness in her throat. “Chardonnay, please. And an ice water if you don’t mind.” She was flustered, and this shamed her. The waiter left to fetch her drink, and Paul returned to his conversation with Faye. Meg chanced a stealthy peek at John; she sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to keep from smiling when he again glanced her way.

She felt his pull the way one feels gravity in plunging from a great height, during the transitory seconds before meeting the swell of the ground. Her friends’ banter continued in the background, but their lackadaisical efforts to include Meg went largely unnoticed.

Minutes passed before she at last marshaled the courage to stand. Feeling half numb, she went to lean against the balustrade. For long moments, she didn’t dare drag her eyes away from the sinking sun as it hauled a frayed mantle of shadows over the canyon’s tortuous and deeply gouged ravines. For a brief instant, her fear that he would find his way over to her was matched only by her fear that he wouldn’t.

Then he was there, beside her. She closed her eyes and simply breathed, her shoulders pushed back, small hands gripping the rail.

“How are you this evening, Miss Lowry?”

She turned her face to have a better look at him. “It’s Meg.”

That smile. “Meg.” He gave an approving nod. “Am I standing too close?”

“No?” She frowned in confusion, and he softly chuckled.

“I only meant that I hope your boyfriend won’t worry about your talking to a strange man.”

“Oh. No.” She ironed the wrinkle from her forehead. “We broke up.” Without conscious forethought, she claimed joint ownership of the decision to split. She couldn’t pretend to be the spurned lover while she felt equally as freed as Rick must.

A beat of silence passed before he responded. “I’m sorry.”

She expelled a breath and squared her shoulders, affecting an air of quiet dignity. “Don’t be. I’m not.”

“You’re not sorry?”

“No. It was right that it happened. He’s just...braver than I am.”

Together they gazed silently outward. John placed his hand on the railing beside hers, and Meg felt herself pass through that interim phase between diffidence and self-assurance. Her insecurities melted away, and for reasons unclear, she was able to stand up straighter.

Her newfound confidence seemed to have captured John’s attention. After a moment, she sensed his eyes on her again. “You look at me a lot,” she said carefully, watching intently as a golden eagle tipped its wings, gliding on an eddying draught of air.

“You’re very pretty,” he replied.

She envied his ability to express such an opinion without embarrassment or regret. Her mouth quivered as she suppressed a smile.

She let his statement hang in the air a moment before speaking. “I saw your artwork hanging in the lodge. You have a gift.”

If he was surprised by her revelation, he gave no indication. He bent at his lean waist and propped his elbows against the railing, his long fingers dangling. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“What does Artist-in-Residence mean?” she asked, recalling the title printed beneath his name.

“It means I’ve been granted the privilege of living here for twelve weeks, away from my usual commitments, to practice and reflect in an environment that isn’t my own.” He looked back at her; his eyes roamed over her face. “It’s a chance to live in partial seclusion - you know... Perfect my craft.”

“Withdraw from society?” she guessed. “Escape the bourgeois pigs?”

His lips cracked in a smile. “Exactly.”

“I hate to tell you” - Meg leaned in as if to share a secret and was momentarily sidetracked by the sandalwood-and-suede scent of him - “but you’re sort of surrounded by them.”

He cast a glance over his shoulder. “You’re right. I’ve been here five weeks, and this is only the second time I’ve ventured up for the dinner hour. Too many Philistines, I think... Don’t you?”

His tone was light, with an edge of mischief. Perhaps he was teasing, although she couldn’t be sure. Was his question a rhetorical one?

“Why did you come then?” she asked finally.

For half a second, he appeared to think it over. “I suppose I came because I was hoping to find you.”

She felt a blush climb up her ears and take hold of her jaw before filling in her cheeks. For a moment she wished she could turn away from him without seeming boorish.

Suddenly Rick (of all people) appeared beside her. “We’re heading inside, Meg.” He glanced between her and John, taking measure of the situation. “Everything all right?” he asked cautiously.

“Fine,” she replied flippantly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He seemed reluctant to walk away, but finally did when Alice called his name. The deck had mostly emptied with the coming of nightfall; those remaining were bathed in the sodium lamps’ topaz glow. Meg’s untouched glass of chardonnay perched on a side table in a pond of condensation.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said, turning back to the canyon. She wasn’t ready to leave him yet. “I keep having to remind myself it’s real - not just some picture hanging on a wall.”

“Have you been to Cape Royal yet?” he asked. Instead of the canyon, his eyes were on her. As if she held some allure the canyon didn’t.

“No. I haven’t done much exploring yet. I mean to, though.”

“The sunsets are spectacular,” he said. “There’s a cleft in the rock face called Angels Window where you can glimpse the Colorado River, and these stone formations that look like the ruins of an ancient city. I’m going there tomorrow, as a matter of fact, to work on some sketches for a series I’m considering. You could come if you like.”

Every part of her - every fiber of muscle and nerve - felt drawn tight. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind?” He seemed charmed by her question. Shaking his head, he replied, “Please come.”

“What time should I meet you then?”

“Sunset begins at quarter of eight, and the drive will take most of an hour. We’d better say half past six, just to be safe. You could meet me at my cottage, if that’s all right.” He stooped to level his line of sight with hers and pointed through the trees on the east side of the lodge, where the ridge of a tin roof peeked through the foliage.

Meg nodded, already thinking of what justification she might offer for missing dinner with her friends.

“Don’t worry about eating beforehand,” he said, picking the thought from her mind.

“All right,” she said, squeezing the words past her throat’s narrowing aperture. Her swallow was a feeble attempt to disgorge the lump in her esophagus.

“We’ll have to hike a bit.” His voice was guarded, as if he feared she might reconsider. “Not far, maybe half a mile - to the overlook and back.”

“So I shouldn’t wear these?” she asked, pointing down at her dainty high-heeled shoes.

He grinned, evidently relieved. “Perhaps if they weren’t white. I’d hate for them to get dirty.”

Her mellifluous laughter curled into the air. Still smiling, she let go of the railing. “Goodnight, John.”