Seventh Wonder (8 page)

“Are they in any particular order?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he replied dismissively. “As long as they end up in the same box.”

He handed her the viewer and crouched behind her with one hand clutching the table on either side of her chair. Meg plucked out a slide from the middle of the row and popped it in the viewer. A photo of a turquoise waterfall surrounded by cliffs the color of crumbling brick flashed on the small screen.

“God, that’s beautiful,” she whispered. Twisting in her seat, she was taken aback by the proximity of John’s face to her own. “Where was this taken?” she asked.

“That’s Mooney Falls,” he said. “It’s about an eight mile hike down from the western rim, in Havasupai.” He picked another slide from the box and held it up to the light before handing it to her. Meg switched the slides and pressed the button to illuminate an image of another waterfall.

“That one is Beaver Falls,” he said. Pointing to one bench of the multitier falls, he added, “These are travertine pools. It’s this kind of limestone that forms when calcium carbonate mineralizes rapidly in the water.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “It’s pretty amazing, actually, because it means the creek is constantly changing. New formations are always being created, and it continually changes the flow of the water.”

Meg looked up at him.

“What?” John asked, catching the smile that touched her lips.

She gave a minute shake of her head. “Show me more.”

* * *

She wanted him to kiss her again.

They’d spent the last hour poring over photos and sketches. (John came more alive as he spoke - his sweeping gestures and the swinging cadence of his deep voice reminded Meg of a cartoon. Kaibab limestone, Hermit shale, Coconino sandstone: these were the words he spouted as he wove an elaborate tale of the canyon’s natural history. Never before had Meg found rocks so terribly captivating. Furthermore, she was surprised to find that her teacher’s exceptional attractiveness had remarkably little to do with her newfound fascination.)

He’d touched her as he talked. A squeeze of her hand, the graze of a knuckle against her cheek. But a serious dearth of kissing. They were lounging on his bed (on his bed!) with papers and slides scattered across the comforter: John stretched out on his side, Meg positioned cross-legged across from him.

“Are you hungry?”

John’s question interrupted her prurient thoughts.

“Yes, come to think of it.” She took hold of his arm, felt powerful with the way it tensed from her touch. She lifted his wrist to inspect the face of his watch: five past seven. The rain had stopped, and the sun was sliding toward the horizon.

There was strain in his face as he looked at her. “I don’t tend to cook much, since it’s just me.” He sat up. “I can see what I’ve got. Or we could, um...order in.”

Why did he seem so anxious about suggesting such a thing?

“I didn’t realize room service was an option,” she replied, smiling faintly as she gathered the slides into a loose pile.

“Only for local celebrities,” he said with a wink.

“Well then, I don’t see as I have a choice,” Meg said. “I ought to take advantage of your stardom while I’m able.”

John climbed off the bed and, taking his billfold from the bedside table, tucked it in his back pocket. “I’ll have to walk up to the lodge to put in our order. Any special requests?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m a dessert enthusiast.”

He grinned. “That makes two of us, then.”

She followed him to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob, and it was as if he was about to break a hermetic seal on the cloistered existence they’d contentedly shared. She could imagine him opening the door and letting the whole world rush in, the good and the ugly, and she was left feeling unexpectedly bereft.

Besides, she’d nearly forgotten she was dressed in only an oversized shirt.

John seemed to register her dishabille in roughly the same moment. He paused, letting his fingers slip from the knob as his eyes traveled the length of her body. Without speaking, he closed his arms around her waist and pulled her snugly against him. Meg’s blood surged and fired, pressing hotly against the bounds of her skin.

He lowered his face, angling it beneath her jaw line. She could feel his breath against her neck as his lips came within a hair’s breadth of her throat. “Can I ask you a favor?” he murmured.

As if she could deny him anything. “Yes.”

“Stay just like this until I get back.” He kissed her neck, and her eyes fluttered shut. When she exhaled, her breath was tinged with something that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

He stepped away and the door opened before Meg had had even a moment to negotiate her chaotic brain activity. “I’ll hurry,” he said.

Then he was gone.

Meg stumbled backward, not quite conscious of her own feet. She looked down, trying to see herself the way John might - as something to be desired.

Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as she ran into the bathroom. She switched on the tungsten light and peered into the mirror over the sink.

She touched her lips, softly at first, then pressing them against her teeth. She’d always disliked her mouth, feeling her bottom lip was too full to suitably match its counterpart. Now, however, under this light, in this cottage, freshly kissed by the only
man
she could remember caring for... Now her mouth possessed a certain allure she’d never noticed before. Her face, which she’d previously thought plain, had an enticing glow to it. Her hair had dried in soft, tumbling waves, and the overhead light gave her olive eyes an emerald cast.

Perhaps, she thought, she was even pretty - as John had intimated more than once.

She passed the time lying in his bed with a book of W.H. Auden poems, twirling her hair as a girl would as she slowly turned the pages.

When John returned, he tapped lightly on the door before entering. It seemed charming yet odd, considering this was his house. He tarried in the doorway a moment, looking at her on his bed, before lugging a paper sack over to the counter. Meg laid the book face down with the spine tented and went to help him.

Veal fricassee. Fingerling potatoes. Brown bread with compound butter. They moved silently: uncrating, stacking bowls, buttering bread. This time Meg accepted John’s offer of a beer, even though she’d never cared much for it. Everything else looked, smelled and sounded different - perhaps the beer would taste different. Perhaps it would be better.

They carried their plates to the bed without first discussing it, as if they’d simply planned it that way. Meg pushed the book aside and settled against the pillows; John crawled across her lap to sit beside her, propped up against the headboard.

“What were you reading?” he asked, lifting the book to inspect its cover.

“Auden,” she said. “I’m assuming you’ve read it? It was on your shelf.”

“Some of it.” He scooted down a bit, till the top of his head was even with Meg’s. “Read to me?”

She watched him a moment to verify he was serious. When he didn’t laugh, Meg picked up the book. She took a bite of her dinner before starting:

“Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total darkness sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.”

As she read, John inscribed feather light circles on the bare expanse of her leg. When she finished, he stilled.

“Do you feel that way?” he asked.

“What way?”

“‘If equal affection cannot be/Let the more loving one be me,’“ he quoted.

Meg replaced the book on the bed. She cast her eyes downward as she used her spoon to draw figure eights in her stew. “I think I’ve lived it,” she said softly. “It’s what I told myself at the time - that if there couldn’t be balance, I’d rather be the one to give more of myself. In the end... I’m not sure I liked feeling that way anymore.”

When she looked up, his gaze was attached to her face. “What happened?” His voice was quiet, like an indrawn breath.

“More than I should’ve stood for,” Meg admitted. “I ought to have seen it coming. He said he loved me, too, and I told myself he did - but now I’m not sure.” She chewed on a piece of bread, not quite able to meet John’s eyes. “Maybe there’s something noble in loving someone more than they love you - something humbling?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel good, though. Love... It’s supposed to make you feel good.” She flicked a sheepish glance at John. “At least I think.”

She hugged her knees to her chest, feeling naïve. No longer hungry.

John moved his bowl off his lap and grabbed up her hand. “To hell with first love,” he said. Shock held her still as if she’d been captured in the sizzling pop of a flashbulb, immortalized as a picture of incredulity. “They teach you something - that’s the point. You live it, you take a risk. It hurts like hell, and you move on.” He let go of her hand and picked up his food again, perhaps to temper the sudden glare of intensity. “Second loves are the ones worth celebrating.” He was more stoic now. The tip of his spoon scraped against the bottom of his bowl. “They’re the ones who teach you...it isn’t just your body that moves forward. Love goes on, too. Even when you’re convinced it never could again.”

Meg didn’t know how much time passed before she felt capable of breathing again.

“Are you speaking from experience?” she asked.

He turned his face to look at her full-on. “It’s more theory than fact at this point. But my instincts are telling me it’s true.”

In the space of a second, two dissonant heartbeats found a common rhythm, and both were stronger for it. Call it hope. Call it faith or respite or optimism. In that moment, all were true.

Meg’s smile was mirthful. “That was very poetic, Mr. Stovall.”

He shrugged. “Auden must’ve rubbed off on me.” He nudged her leg with his knee. “Or maybe it was Rilke.”

She giggled. “The bullheaded optimism reminds me more of Browning. Maybe Frost.”

“You would be the expert,” he conceded.

Seconds ticked by. Meg wanted to ask about his first love, but something stopped her, pinned her tongue against her teeth. Perhaps it was a feeling he should be the one to volunteer such information. Or perhaps she was delaying the imminent possibility that she should feel the need to compare herself to someone he had once loved. That was a fight she could never win - not as long as she fought it with herself.

“Your food is getting cold,” he pointed out.

Meg nodded once. She picked up her bowl and resumed eating, never tasting the food as it passed her lips. Her thoughts were too remote to lend themselves to something so menial.

John took her dish when she was finished. She watched as he walked both bowls to the sink and ran water in them. When he turned to approach the bed again, his expression had changed. He was no longer trapped in his thoughts: he was blasting them at her.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his body angled to face her. Meg sat up a little, clarifying he had her attention. When he cupped the side of her face, her breath left her in a soft whoosh.

“The first time I saw you” - he chuckled, shook his head slightly - “you were a vision in that ridiculous pink dress, traipsing through the forest like some kind of wood sprite.” His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his voice dropped in reverence. “Beautiful girl.”

Meg swallowed. So many thoughts swirled inside of her, she felt dizzy. Seeing the mess of emotions, she didn’t know which to pick up and examine first - which to feel. She couldn’t hold all of them.

“Kiss me,” she whispered finally, so softly she wasn’t sure any sound had come out.

His eyes blazed, and then he did. Submissive, trembling lips driven by the power of a man’s body, pushing mightily against hers. He kissed her in earnest, now with more of an edge. This time his tongue pried at the seam of her lips, and when they were fully committed, him unto her and her unto him, he groaned very slightly. Meg felt a rift open beneath her. She didn’t care whether she fell or not, so long as John fell with her.

They moved past the initial shock of it, and their hands began to move. Gliding, stroking, squeezing. John leaned into Meg, pressing her back against the mattress. Her knees fell to the side, allowing him space to move over her. He touched her face, her hair, her neck, her shoulders. His fingers mapped out the side of her ribs and the flare of her hip; his hand brushed over her stomach and grazed the underside of her breast.

Meg turned on her side, determined to maximize their conjoining surface area. She bent her top leg and hooked it over his hip - and at that he shuddered. His hands froze, one wrapped around the back of her neck and the other at her waist. His chest heaved against her as he breathed great, insatiable breaths.

Logic didn’t apply - at least not in the way one would normally think. There was no physics, no judgment. Those principles simply didn’t exist. It was a heady feeling, being free of them. Rather than bashful, Meg felt emboldened. She saw John’s hesitancy for what it was: not a sign of disinterest, but an indication of chivalry. He was frightened of pushing her too far.

Actions, not words. Meg covered his hand, the one resting at her waist, and pushed it downward, until his warm palm came in contact with her naked thigh. The shirt she wore had ridden up to her hip; it nearly crested her silk clad buttocks.

A little guidance was all it took. John’s misgiving was gone, replaced by palpable yearning. His movements were restive, bordering on reckless. His hand moved down and up and down her leg, growing more pyretic with each pass. His teeth lightly abraded her earlobe, while his lungs shoved heavy gusts of breath against her neck, just above where the shirt buttoned.