Virgin River (13 page)

Lilly Anderson brought them into her home—a simple house that spoke of the abundance of life. The floors and windows were shining from the housekeeping attention they received; there were folded quilts on the ends of sofas and draped over chairs, crewel pictures on the walls, the smell of freshly baked bread, a pie cooling on the counter and dozens of pictures of children, of family, a collection that spanned many years. A wicker bassinet stood ready for Chloe. Lilly made Mel tea and they sat at the kitchen table and talked while Jack went with Buck to the corral where his grown sons had begun the spring shearing.

“I’ll be honest with you, Lilly. I got pretty attached to her.”

Lilly reached across the table for her hand. “It’s perfectly understandable. You should come out here often, hold her, rock her. You should stay close.”

“I don’t want you to go through that—when someone finally comes for her.”

Lilly got tears in her eyes in sympathy with the tears Mel was showing. “You must be such a tender heart,”
Lilly said. “Don’t worry, Mel—now that I’m a grandma, lots of little ones pass through here and don’t stay. But while she’s here, promise you won’t be a stranger.”

“Thank you, Lilly. For understanding. My women and their babies—it’s what I live for.”

“It shows. We’re so lucky to have you with us.”

“But I’m not staying, you know….”

“You should think about that. This isn’t a bad place.”

“I’ll hang around long enough to be sure things are working out for Chloe. And I’ll try to make it a few days before I’m back to cuddle her,” Mel said.

“You come every day if you like. Twice a day.”

It wasn’t long before Mel joined Jack at the fence and stood watching the shearing. “You’ll have to come back for the lambing in a few weeks,” Buck said. “We like to shear before the lambing—it’s easier on the sheep.”

When they left the ranch, Jack drove around the hills of Virgin River. He didn’t say anything—he just let her see the beauty of the green fields, the high hills, grazing livestock. He took her for a little stretch along Highway 299 through a piece of the redwoods that, despite her morose mood, caused her to gasp in awe. The sky was still and blue, the breeze light and cool, but in the tallest trees it was dark except for those blinding flashes of bright sun that broke through. He could tell she was getting better, if slowly, quietly.

It was like this place was divided into two worlds—the dank and dark world of the deep forest where life was bleak and poor, the people desperate. And this world, the national forest of redwoods, the first-rate campgrounds,
the hills and valleys where the fields were lush and plentiful, where health and contentment abounded.

Jack drove down a tree-canopied road toward the widest curve in the Virgin River, pulled the truck up to the edge and parked. There were two men in the river, waders held by suspenders, wearing tan fishing vests with many pockets and wicker creels held by shoulder straps, casting out into the water. The arcs of their lines were like a ballet, so graceful, so rhythmic.

“What are we doing?” she asked.

“I wanted you to see a few things before you cut and run. This is where a lot of the town and visitors like to fish, where I mostly fish. When the winter rains come, we come out here to watch the salmon leap up over the natural waterfalls to return to their home creeks to spawn. It’s really something to see. Now that the baby is at the Andersons’, I’ll take you to the coast if you like. Pretty soon the whales will be migrating north to cooler waters for the summer. They’ll travel close to the coastline with their new calves and it’s incredible.”

She watched the fishermen cast and reel in, then there was a catch. A good-sized brown trout.

“During a good season, fish is the main staple on the menu at the bar,” he said.

“Most of it you catch yourself?” she asked.

“Me and Preacher and Ricky. The best way to make work into play. Mel,” he said, his voice soft. “Look downstream. There…”

She squinted and then sat back with a gasp. Poking their heads out of the brush at the side of the river on the other side was a mother bear and her cub.

“You were asking about the bear. Black bear. The cub looks young. They’re just giving birth and coming
out of hibernation. Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“Only on the Discovery Channel. The fishermen don’t see her?” she asked.

“I’m sure they see her. She won’t bother them and they won’t bother her. But they carry bear repellent just in case. And they’ll have a rifle in the truck—but if she gets too close they’ll just reel in their lines and sit in their trucks until she leaves.” He chuckled. “Watch while she eats their fish.”

She watched in fascination for a moment, then said, “Why’d you bring me here?”

“Sometimes, if something’s eating me up—I can come out here, or drive into the redwoods, or go up on the knoll where the sheep are grazing, or maybe out to a pasture where the cows roam, and just sit awhile. Just connect with the earth. Sometimes that’s all I have to do.”

One elbow sticking out of the window, wrist of the other hand balanced on the top of the steering wheel, Jack just watched the fishing—the men and the bear. The men were so intent on their sport that they had never even turned around at the sound of the truck pulling into the clearing.

They were quiet. Jack had no idea what she might be thinking, but he thought, don’t turn and run just because you got kissed. Things could be worse.

After about twenty minutes, he started the truck. “I have something to show you. You’re in no hurry, are you?”

“Doc’s in town,” she said. “I guess not.”

Jack eventually pulled into the clearing where Hope McCrea’s cabin sat. It was perfectly obvious he’d like her to reconsider leaving. But she never expected him
to do what he had done. As they pulled up to the cabin and parked, she looked at him in surprise.

“My God,” she said. “How did you do this?”

“Soap,” he said. “Wood. Paint. Nails.”

“You shouldn’t have, Jack. Because—”

“I know—because you’re not staying. I’ve heard that at least a hundred times over the past couple of weeks. That’s fine. You’ll do what you have to do. But this is what you were promised and I thought you ought to have the option.”

Straight ahead of her was the little A-frame cabin with a new, strong, wide porch, painted red. Two white Adirondack chairs sat on the deck and four white pots holding red geraniums sat on the porch rails in the corners. It was beautiful. She was afraid to go inside. Did this mean that if it were lovely, she’d be forced to stay? Because she knew it was going to be lovely.

Wordlessly, Mel got out of the truck. She slowly walked up the steps to the house, aware that Jack had not gotten out of the truck behind her. He was letting her go alone. She pushed open the door, which no longer stuck. Inside, the wood floors gleamed, the countertops sparkled. The windows, previously so grimy you couldn’t see out, were so clean it seemed possible there was no glass. The window that had been boarded up was replaced. The appliances were spotless, the furniture had been so vigorously vacuumed or shampooed that the colors were now bright because there was no dust. There was a new area rug on the floor.

She wandered into the bedroom. A new comforter replaced the old and she could tell without even checking under the covers that a fat, firm mattress had
been purchased and that the nasty soiled one was gone. The brightness of the sheets indicated these were not Hope’s hand-me-downs, but newly purchased linen. On the floor beside the bed, a wide, thick rug. In the bathroom, new towels and accessories. The shower glass had been completely replaced and the tiles had been scrubbed to such a high sheen that even the grout was immaculate. There was the faintest smell of bleach; not a spot or stain remained. She loved the bright towels, alternating red and white. The rugs were white; the trash can, glass and tissue dispenser were red.

There were two bedrooms downstairs and a small, open loft upstairs at the peak of the A-frame—only large enough for a bed and maybe a small dresser. Both of them had been scoured clean, but they were empty of furniture. Back in the living room, she saw the fire had been laid and a fresh pile of wood sat at the side of the hearth. The books in the bookcases were dust free, the trunk that could be used as a coffee table had been polished with lemon oil. The cupboards shone with oil, as well. She opened one of them and saw there were new ceramic dishes to replace the dingy Melmac that had been there before. Graying old plastic was replaced with glass. A wine rack on the counter held four bottles.

Inside the refrigerator, which also gleamed, there were a few staples. A bottle of white wine was chilling, a six-pack of good beer. There was milk, orange juice, butter, bread, lettuce and other salad items. Bacon and eggs. Sandwich items—lunch meat, cheese, mayo, mustard. On the kitchen table, which wore a pretty new tablecloth, sat a festive ceramic bowl holding fresh fruit. In the corner of the counter, a set of four thick, round white candles. She lowered her face and sniffed. Vanilla.

She left the house, pulling the door closed behind her and went back to the truck. It made her melancholy, all that he’d done. This was not what she’d expected, either. Mel had come to terms with the fact that she’d made a mistake. Now that she’d accepted that, she was ready to move on. As soon as they could spare her.

“Why did you do this?”

“It was promised to you,” he said. “You’re under no obligation.”

“But what did you hope?” she asked.

“The town needs you. Doc needs help, you can see that. I hoped you’d give it a chance. A few more weeks, maybe. Just to see if it worked for you. I think the Virgin River folks have already made it clear—it works for them.”

“Did you do this hoping it would force me to the terms of Hope’s one-year contract?” she asked him. “Because as the place was, we were at an impasse. She couldn’t hold me to it—she hadn’t met the terms.”

“She will not force that contract,” he said flatly.

“But yes, she will.”

“No. She will not hold you to that contract. Guaranteed. I’ll see to it. This is just for you—not leverage for Hope.”

She shook her head sadly. “You can see I don’t belong here,” she said softly.

“Aw. I don’t know, Mel. People belong wherever they feel good. It can be a lot of different places. For a lot of different reasons.”

“No, Jack, look. Look at me. I’m not a camper—I’m a shopper. I’m really not one of those homespun country midwives. I’m so citified, it’s scary. I feel so out of place here. It’s as if I’m not like anyone. They don’t make me feel that way, but I can’t help it. I shouldn’t be here, I should be at Nordstrom’s.”

“Come on,” he laughed.

She lowered her face into her hands and massaged her eyes. “You just don’t understand. It’s complicated, Jack. There’s more to this than you realize.”

“Tell me. You can trust me.”

“That’s just it—one of the reasons I agreed to come here is so I wouldn’t have to talk about it anymore. Let’s say I made a crazy decision. An insane decision. The
wrong
decision. This isn’t for me.”

“It wasn’t just burnout, was it?” he asked her.

“I got rid of everything that tied me to L.A. and ran for my life. It was a panicked, crazy, irrational decision,” she said. “I was hurting all over.”

“I assumed as much. A man, maybe. A heartache or something.”

“Close enough,” she said.

“Believe me, Mel. This is as good a place as any to work through a heartache.”

“You?” she asked him.

“Yeah, in a manner of speaking. But I didn’t come here in a panic. I was looking for a place like this. Good fishing and hunting. Remote. Uncomplicated. Clean air, decent values, hardworking people who help each other out. It serves.”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s going to work for me in the long term.”

“That’s okay—no one asked you to make a long-term commitment. Well, no one except Hope, but no one really takes her seriously. But you shouldn’t rush out of here with the same panic as you rushed in. It’s a healthy place. It’s a loving place. Who knows? You might find it helps you get through…whatever.”

“I’m sorry. I’m such a downer sometimes. I should be so thankful. Grateful. And instead—”

“Hey, easy,” he said, throwing the truck into gear to take her back to town. “I blindsided you. You had it in your head that you could use the excuse of having no decent housing. And now Chloe isn’t holding you here. But I figured, you don’t have to stay at Doc’s now, and if someone’s going to give birth in your bedroom there, maybe it’s time you have your own place. If you want it, that is.”

“Are there bears out here?” she asked.

“It might be best if you kept your trash indoors, and drive it into town to put in the Dumpster. Bears so like garbage.”

“Oh, for the love of God!”

“We haven’t had a bad bear scare in ages.” He reached across the console and squeezed her hand. “Just give yourself a break. Work on your particular heartache. And while you do, take the occasional temperature. Give a pill now and then. No one’s holding you hostage.”

She watched him as he drove. That strong profile. He had a solid square face, straight nose, high cheekbones, bristle of stubble on his cheeks. He was a hairy guy; she noticed that he shaved his neck down to the top of his chest and she found herself wondering what was under his shirt. She remembered Mark’s complaints of his receding hairline, which did nothing to detract from his boyish good looks. But this man, Jack, wasn’t boyish. He had the hard good looks of a woodsman. And, though his hair was cropped short in that military buzz, it was so thick that it looked as if it should be thinned.
The big hands on the steering wheel were calloused—he worked hard. The guy was dripping in testosterone.

What was this magnificent man doing locked away in a little town of six hundred, where there were no women for him? She wondered if he had the faintest clue about her—that she had no heart. He had just given so much and she had absolutely nothing to give. Nothing. She was hollow inside. If she weren’t, a man like Jack would appeal to her.