Clear to Lift Page 11

  Needed most …

  My mom married Nick just eighteen months later.…

  “I … I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t…”

  I can almost see her standing taller, pulling back her shoulders. “You’re making too big an issue about Rich. Taking it too personally. He’s just doing what he needs to do. Nothing more.”

  “Um … yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

  “I have to go, Ali.”

  I choke down the sob that swells in my throat.

  “Remember, honey, I love you. More than anything in this world, I love you.”

  Somehow, I manage an “I love you” in return, before she hangs up.

  No! We were just getting started!

  I slump down to the couch, my head pounding, beyond frustrated. Finally, my mom opened up, talking about what I’ve so desperately wanted to discuss since forever, and then wham, she shut it down.

  My fault for pushing it, though. Damn it.

  But then … Whoa.

  It dawns on me that I’ve just witnessed an unmistakable breakthrough. Maybe the therapy’s working after all, because this is the most my mom has ever opened up about my father.

  I place my hands on the sides of my head, holding it still, while her revelations ping against the sides of my skull.

  She loved my father. Loves him still. And this good man loved her.

  I don’t understand. I don’t understand it at all.

  He’s just doing what he needs to do. Nothing more.

  My mother’s words re-form in my mind, communicating a message—perhaps intended, perhaps not. I did what I had to do. Nothing more.

  And then I start to see things—stalks of larkspur growing up through the carpeting and peeking through cracks in the walls. Me, sitting, just like my mom …

  And just like that, I’m dressed and driving to June Lake. To Jack’s house.

  16

  I drive past June Mountain Ski Resort, then turn off the main road, and follow a twisty, snowy lane upward. I’m ushered along by rows of stick-bare aspen, bony sentinels directing me forward, every turn bringing another house into view, cabins quietly tucked into the mountainside forest and invisible from the main street. I move at a crawl, looking for mailboxes, searching for the right address, while passing trucks rigged with snowplow shovels on their bumpers, all jammed into the slimmest of pullouts.

  Finally, I emerge into an open cul-de-sac, where at least twenty cars are parked front-to-back. A nearly hidden driveway leads downward through the trees and out of view. The airport manager’s truck we used in Bishop is parked here, too. Yep, right place.

  I park, step out, then follow tire tracks down the meandering drive, the snow crunching softly under my feet. Heavy-laden boughs of pine arch overhead, pencil-thin icicles dangling from the branches. I shove my hands deeper in my jacket pockets as I drop out of view of the street.

  Low rumbles of laughter break the silence as I round the last corner. Here the driveway widens, revealing a nestled log cabin, the windows glowing a warm and welcoming gold. It’s so embedded and tucked in, the house looks as if it’s part of the forest itself. Exactly the home I would have pictured for Jack. Will’s truck is parked outside the garage, right next to cars I recognize as belonging to Boomer and Hap.

  I turn down the front walkway, one that has been shoveled, snow piled high to either side, to the entry alcove, which is dominated by oversized wooden double doors. The heavy brass knocker resonates with a deep bass thud.

  I clench and unclench my fists in my pockets, wondering for the hundredth time if I should have come here. The correct answer is no.

  I mean, what are you doing, Alison? Like, what is this? Would you have come to this party if Will wasn’t going to be here? No, you would have given it a miss, because you were feeling lousy and not in the mood to see anyone. But you did come, and you know the reason why.…

  The door opens with a whump. Will stands in the entryway, beer in hand, wearing a startled yet genuinely pleased expression. It’s something I have to latch on to, though, before he slides down an invisible shield. Whump. Just like the door.

  “Alison…? I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I wanted to call, but I didn’t have your number.” I look up, down, around, anywhere but into his eyes, nerves running helter-skelter. “So anyway, is it still okay?”

  “Of course,” he says, looking discreetly over my shoulder and then to the sides. “So, where’s Rich?” he asks breezily.

  “He … he had to cancel his trip.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  The silence stretches. And stretches.

  “Um … so may I come in?”

  He jumps slightly, putting out his hand. “Oh, god! Sorry! Yes!” he says, stepping back to let me walk through the entry. He snaps to, moving past the awkwardness. “Can I take your jacket?”

  I shrug out of my jacket and hand it to him. As he opens the entryway closet, my head turns upward to the triangular-shaped ceiling, ribbed with good old-fashioned cedar logs, a framed skylight in the center.

  A whirl of fur circles my legs, and Mojo gives a healthy yip as his tail beats the air. I crouch, taking his head in my hands. “Hey, boy, how are you? Didn’t recognize you without your vest!”

  He answers with a quick lick to my face before bounding away.

  I rise to face Will, who stands, arms crossed, a look of wonder on his face. “That’s new,” he says.

  “What’s new?”

  “Mojo coming to greet someone at the door tonight. He’s been sticking like glue to Jack since the accident and hasn’t left his side since the party started. Interesting that he felt your arrival important enough to merit a personal welcome.”

  “Maybe it’s that I used to have a Lab, too. Probably senses it. Anyway, I want to apologize for not letting you know I was coming ahead of time. For just showing up on your doorstep like this.”

  “Nonsense, I invited you. But may I give you my number? You know, just so you have it … for something like tonight, I mean.”

  I add Will’s number to my phone, but when I look up, my breath catches. In front of me, a recessed central living room, one easily as large as my entire apartment, walled on all sides by glass. I turn to look behind me—modest entryway—then back to something not so modest. Is there such a thing as a log mansion? My god. That’s what this is. All of it hidden.

  Beyond the glass walls, a balcony sweeps on all sides. I spot some of my squadron mates outside, drinking and laughing with the Mono County guys. They don’t appear to be fazed by the cold, although it does look like heating lamps are spaced across the balcony at intervals. I do a quick scan of the living room—close to thirty people here. Many in standing groups, some sitting on the rust-colored leather couches, and a few lounging by the hearth next to the oversized fireplace.

  To the left is a large open kitchen with a granite countertop running about fifteen feet long, every barstool along its length occupied. A potluck feast stretches across the counter—a mishmash of offerings—and a large stockpot steams on the stove, hot chili spilling down the sides.

  Country music plays lightly in the background from unseen speakers. I scrunch up my brow, trying to recollect. I know this voice.…

  “What is it?” Will asks.

  I point to the air. “This song. Who sings this?”

  “This? You mean Randy Travis?”

  I nod.

  “You don’t know Randy Travis?”

  “No. I mean, yes. Sort of … well, no.”

  His cheeks move like he wants to smile, but he stops before you could officially call it one.

  “‘Better Class of Losers’ is one of the more well-known country tunes out there.”

  “I’ve heard it before. I have. Really. I just didn’t know who sang it.”

  It is true. I have heard this song before. In our aircraft—grrr—but also at the Safeway grocery store in Fallon. Country music is the only thing they play, and in the few short months I’ve been
here, I’ve learned many of the songs, singing along—which, of course, I would never admit to Boomer—but never knowing the artists. And now that I know who it is, I certainly recognize Randy Travis’s voice.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “I mean country music. In general.”

  “Well … I’m kind of new to it.”

  “Ah. Well, it grows on you,” he says, his eyes lingering. The invisible shield cracks just a bit, and something flares deep in my stomach.

  Thankfully, he blinks. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He places his hand lightly on my back, steering me to the left, in the direction of the kitchen. It’s only for a moment, his touch, but my back goes tingly, a sensation that quickly spreads—arms, legs, hands, feet.

  We walk down three wooden steps, each at least ten feet in length, running across the breadth of the entryway to the level of the living room. And by the time we step off the bottom stair, a span of maybe four seconds top to bottom, the invisible shield is gone.

  “What would you like?” he asks as we enter the kitchen.

  “How about what you’re having?”

  “Coming up.”

  He opens the door to the refrigerator side of the wide stainless-steel refrigerator-freezer just as Thomas walks up behind him. “Any ice cream left, bro?”

  “I knew you’d be coming, so yeah, I stocked up,” Will says. He opens the door to the freezer side, pulling out one of several half-gallon containers of ice cream, this one butter pecan.

  “Your favorite, right?” I say to Thomas.

  “You know it!” he says, spinning away.

  I peer into the voluminous freezer, spying at least ten other containers.

  “Chocolate chip?” I say, motioning to the one, two, three, four containers of the flavor.

  He grins. “Yes…?”

  “That’s your favorite, isn’t it.”

  “Used to be,” he says, grinning.

  He closes the freezer door and pokes his head into the refrigerator side.

  “Hey, our favorite pilot!” I turn to see Tawny sitting at the kitchen counter. Kelly is next to her—

  And then it registers. What did he just say?

  Tawny reaches out and gives me another fist bump.

  “Hey, guys,” I say, flustered.

  “So what’d you think of the hot springs?” Kelly asks.

  Besides having my insides turned to liquid, because I was sitting next to Will? “They were great. Really great.”

  I start a bit when Will moves to my side, nudging me as he proffers a bottle of Corona. I take it, trying to ignore the all-over body buzz when he doesn’t move away, his arm lightly touching mine.

  I have to focus hard to remember what Kelly and I were just talking about. Were we talking about anything? Oh yes, hot springs.

  “We go there a lot after climbing,” Kelly says.

  “Those springs, in particular, are the best, because only the locals know about them,” Tawny adds.

  “Kelly and Tawny are two of the best climbers around here,” Will says. “Freakily good, actually.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I say, eyeing their toned arms.

  “Have you shown her around yet?” Kelly asks Will. “The views are to die for,” she says, turning to me.

  “I haven’t,” Will says. “But perhaps we should go rectify that.”

  Again, the touch is gentle, to the small of my back, as we move forward. His hand is there, and then it’s gone, but the sensation lingers.

  Arriving at a sliding glass door in the corner, he reaches around me to open it, and we step out to the balcony, to a stunning panoramic view.

  “This is … utterly breathtaking.”

  He looks down at me, beaming. “You like it?”

  “How could I not?” I say, walking along the railing. I stop, pointing to a mountain that looks as if it tipped over and spilled, while still in liquid form, before hardening suddenly. “What’s that peak?”

  “That’s Carson Peak.”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember seeing it on the map when we flew by here. And what’s that cabin right there?” I motion to a partially cleared area downslope of the house—a small cottage, tucked away in the back.

  “That’s Jack’s guesthouse. I’m staying there now.”

  I raise my bottle, taking another drink, letting my gaze drift over the cottage before shifting it to Carson Peak and the surrounding forest draped in white. “How long have you lived in June Lake?”

  “About five years now, on and off.”

  “On and off?”

  “Yeah, finding a place to settle—actually, just settling, in general—is tough for me.”

  “Do you think you’ll stay? Like is this the place you’ll be twenty years from now?”

  He takes a long draw from his drink, licking his lips when finishing. “Truthfully, I don’t know where I’ll be in twenty years. I don’t even know where I’ll be next year. Hell, I could be dead tomorrow.”

  My hand flies to my heart. “Please, don’t…”

  We need something else to talk about. I look side to side. “What about the lake?” I ask. “Can you see it from here?”

  “From the other side of the house you can. We just have to walk back the way we came.”

  He turns, leading me the other way, past the glass door and to the balcony area that wraps around the house to the east. It’s only quick glances here and there, but I notice the smooth finish on the railing, the intricately carved eaves above us, the way the door sealed as Will closed it on the way out. Vast attention to detail, solidly built, quality all the way. I’ve only seen a portion of the house, but it had to have cost Jack a fortune.

  “There it is!” I say.

  Because the sun is angled low, June Lake throws off colors of burnt orange and rust. And the clarity … clear as crystal. I think back to the first time I saw the lake, now almost three weeks ago, a view from a helicopter.

  “It’s nice to look at the lake while stationary,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  “I mean, seeing it from the air is great and all, but this way, you get to savor it.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  I would have bet money that nothing could have drawn my attention from the lake, but Will’s eyes burn into the side of my face. I raise my eyes to his, held here, out of view of the rest of the partygoers.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” he says, his voice low.

  “Me, too.”

  He takes a sip from his bottle, his last. A long look follows.

  “This isn’t going to come out right,” Will says finally. “In fact, it’s rude as hell, but fuck it, I’m gonna say it anyway. I’m not sorry Rich had to cancel.”

  I lower my eyes, looking intently at the Corona label and those little yellow dragons, or whatever they are, fanning their wings.

  “I, uh…” What the heck do I say? But then I think of what Will and I have been through together in the little time we’ve known each other, and there just isn’t room for coy behavior. For communication barriers.

  I return my gaze to him, taking an extra deep breath in the process. “Will, I’m confused. I’m really confused right now. This thing … this…” I move my hand back and forth between us. “I don’t know what this is or if it’s a thing at all or—”

  His eyes remain on mine as he reaches out, slowly, and gently touches my hand. Tremors roll through me as his fingers travel lightly over mine, but then—I suck in my breath—his fingers move through mine, our hands lacing together. He brushes his thumb delicately against my palm.

  “Do you feel that?” he asks.

  “I feel it everywhere,” I say, my voice shaking just that bit.

  “I do, too. I don’t know what it is either, but…”

  I swallow. “It’s so strong.”

  “Yeah. It is.” Slowly, he releases his fingers and slides them
out of my grasp.

  I look down at my hand, invisible sparks shooting hither and thither.

  “Would you like to head inside?” he asks. “I think I need another beer.”

  I tip my bottle back, draining it. “I think I do, too.”

  17

  Will pulls two more beers from the refrigerator, hands one to me, and gives my bottle a soft clink.

  I take a good swallow, composing myself, looking around the room in the process. “Will, I can’t believe I haven’t asked you this yet, but where’s Jack? And Boomer, for that matter? I saw his truck when I walked in.”

  “They’re all downstairs.”

  “There’s a downstairs? You mean there’s more than this?”

  “Yeah. The house is built on a slope, so you can’t see it from the driveway. Under the balcony are two more levels. My guess is they’re playing pool. Jack’s nuts about it. Wanna go check?”

  “Yeah, definitely.”

  Off to the side, in an alcove I hadn’t noticed before, a stairwell drops to the lower level. I pass several framed photos—spectacular landscapes, Will and Jack standing in the foreground of most of them.

  I stop mid-landing. “Is this Jack?” I point to a photo where Will poses with a man sporting a deeply tanned face, and raccoon eyes—the white circles that form around your eyes when you get sunburned wearing ski goggles.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  I don’t know why I stop. Maybe it’s just this photo. Maybe it’s all of them collectively. Will and Jack out in the world. In nature. Tanned. Or sunburned, in Jack’s case.

  “This is the mirror opposite of my upbringing—of my life, in general,” I say, pointing to the photos.

  “How so?”

  “I was the indoor girl.”

  “You? Really?”

  “Yeah. My mom shuttled me from one indoor activity to another, no sunscreen, glasses, or goggles required.”

  Although I did have a pair of old ski goggles once, when I was in kindergarten. I don’t remember how I got them, but I figure I must have nabbed them from a girlfriend’s house on a playdate. I didn’t know what they were for, until I asked my mother, who told me, then promptly took them away. She seemed pretty upset at the time, and now I understand why. I can only imagine her embarrassment, having to return the property her daughter had lifted. Anyhow, that was the closest I ever got to skiing.