Clear to Lift Read online

  I don’t know … maybe I should go back anyway. Happy memories there …

  Tapping on the iPad screen, I see that the second unread message is from none other than Celia.

  Call me when you get a chance. Dr. Grant didn’t tell me anything outright—she can’t, of course—but I get the feeling something’s happening in your mom’s therapy sessions. I’m not sure if I should be worried or excited.

  Oh, boy …

  I lift the apple cider pouch and set it to the side, bring the mug to my lips, and blow to cool the liquid.

  Something odd happened to my mom after her second husband died. There’s grieving, and then … well, there’s whatever this is. I don’t know what to call it. Even the resident expert, Celia—a psychiatrist—can’t figure it out. Mom has put on a good face for her real-estate business, but Celia and I know otherwise.

  We finally staged an “intervention.” We said, therapy or else. Of course, she didn’t go for it at first. Angry, hurt, it’s none of your business, all of that. But now she’s been seeing Dr. Grant—a referral from Celia—regularly for about seven months, and I think it’s been going okay. She hasn’t really opened up to me about her sessions, but I suppose it’s easy to see what you want to see. A spark. Some hope. Just … some life.

  I take several sips, the cider sliding warm down my throat, before touching the iPad screen to tap out a response. But I stop when the wallpaper emerges again.

  Rich and me. An engaged couple.

  Seven months …

  Seven months of therapy for my mom. Seven months until I become Mrs. Richard Gordon. Alison Gordon. Lieutenant Gordon. It all rolls off the tongue nicely enough.

  And then, forgoing the response to Celia—I’ll just call her tomorrow—I do something I swore I never would. On the back of a grocery list, I write it out. Alison Gordon. Magdalena Alison Gordon, using my full given name. Alison Gordon in cursive. Alison Gordon in print. All caps. No caps. Big letters, small. Initials. AG. MAG. The whole wacky bride-to-be exercise for the soon-to-be Alison Gordon.

  Alison Gordon … who will live in downtown San Diego in a high-rise loft condominium, a retirement portfolio in place, insured against every conceivable circumstance, including random acts of nature, who will enjoy a successful naval career, perhaps start a family, and live happily ever after.

  I reach across the table to drop the pen back in its cup holder, knocking my mug with my elbow.

  “Ow! Shit!” I push back and jump out of my chair at the same time, as hot tea splatters across my lap. Damn it.

  Standing in my wet pajamas, I survey the floor, the table, the chair, cider sprayed over all of them, including my signature page, now soaked.

  “Nice,” I mutter.

  I grab the sponge and wipe it all up, sweeping the remains of my ruined grocery list into my hand and tossing it into the garbage.

  4

  This is ridiculous. I climb into the airport manager’s dented black pickup truck, about to hitch a ride from the Bishop airport to Erick Schat’s Bakkerÿ. Yes, spelled with two “k”s. The Dutch bakery has won rave reviews from our crew, but really? We’re supposed to be searching for people, not baked goods.

  And, we’re sitting in the bed of a truck. Open air. No seat belts. No way this is legal.

  Boomer shakes his head as I voice my complaints. “You know, I seriously wonder about you, Malone.” The truck lurches as the driver pulls out of the tiny operations building. “Let me guess. Came home from prom on time? Never ditched school? Always drive the speed limit?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Boring!” he says, drawing out the first syllable. “With a capital ‘B’!”

  The truck rumbles over a rutted dirt road, and Boomer, Beanie, Hap, and I bump around in the back like giant Halloween pumpkins, clad in garishly bright flight suits colored rescue orange to match our helicopter. The orange suits do make our guys easier to spot once we’ve dropped them on-scene, and they wear their colors with rescue pride. I have no idea why Boomer, a pilot, who never sets foot outside the cockpit, would wear orange. But then again, I think he was born to wear an orange flight suit, one his extra-large self fills out a little too well. And leave it to Boomer to deem that the first order of business, when I checked into the squadron, was to exchange my drab—his words—olive-green flight suit for a more respectable orange.

  After about fifty yards of jumping, bumping, jarring, and jerking, the tires finally find the smooth asphalt of the main road, and with a quiet swish, we’re off. I exhale.

  I also breathe more easily due to the change in weather. The cold front that had me shivering yesterday has moved on, replaced with a practically balmy day, temperatures now well over fifty degrees.

  “And then college,” Boomer continues. “Let me guess.…” He stops, waiting for me to confirm.

  “I went to the Naval Acad—”

  “Of course you did.”

  The crewmen smile, content to watch Boomer play his little game.

  “And then flight school and then H-Sixties. Ughh. Did you actually pick that airframe? Tell me you didn’t pick that.”

  “It’s not like I had a lot of choice in the matter. That’s pretty much all there is now. But I would have picked them anyway.”

  I shift my position over the wheel well as the driver turns down Bishop’s Main Street, bringing my hands to the sides of my face to push my hair out of my eyes. It used to be in a neat bun.

  I fidget, frustrated, as I try to put my hair back in place, while the crewmen point and smile. “Dude, there’s that fly-fishin’ shop I told you about!” “And we have to hit Wilson’s Eastside Sports!” “Nah, man, the movie theater!” I see that the movie theater comprises just one screen. No surprise in this out-of-the-way town of Bishop, population just over three thousand.

  “I hesitate to ask,” Boomer says. “Favorite ice cream?”

  With one look, he knows.

  “Vanilla? Are you serious?”

  I nod.

  “Beanie, favorite ice cream,” Boomer says.

  “Rocky Road, sir.”

  “Hap?”

  “Mint chocolate chip. You, sir?”

  “Jamoca almond fudge.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” I say. “Lots of people like vanilla.”

  “Insurance salesmen, financial advisers, bankers, vanilla, vanilla, vanilla,” Boomer says.

  I look down at my feet. Rich’s favorite ice cream is vanilla. We order it at our favorite shop, MooTime Creamery, on Coronado Island, where they make their ice cream from scratch. Granted, we’re always asked by the folks behind the counter what we want to mix with it—candy, nuts, cookies, fruit—receiving curious looks when we answer that no, we’re good with just vanilla, thank you.

  Ouch! Bump! Pothole. I’m lifted and bounced on the wheel well, and I scrabble to grab the sides of the truck. Bump! Another one. Bump! Ow! Stupid truck.

  Boomer grins, his face glowing, just as it did when we flew in to the airport. His attention has shifted now to the mountains, and begrudgingly I can see why he would smile at this. The Sierra Nevada on one side, the White Mountains on the other, Bishop sits smack in the middle of the Owens River Valley with a perfect view to both.

  The change in scenery from Fallon to this place—located thirty miles southeast of Mount Morrison, where we did our rescue yesterday—is striking. The vertical relief of the Sierra Nevada stuns, peaks rising ten thousand feet above the valley floor. Only the steepest, craggiest formations of black granite poke out from the creamy layer of new snow that now coats the range—a spectacular sight in anyone’s book.

  The local Chamber of Commerce boasts that Bishop is a “small town with a big backyard.” That just about sums it up, although in the mountaineering community, it’s a world-renowned backyard. Climbers, skiers, and mountaineers travel from across the globe to play in the mountains near Bishop, which is one of the reasons our search and rescue unit keeps so busy.

  But today�
��s flight isn’t about searching or rescuing. Rather, we fly to return accumulated rescue gear—that’s Boomer’s excuse, anyway—to the Mono County SAR Team. And, oh, we just happen to be meeting them at one of their favorite hangouts.

  “Behold,” Boomer says with a flourish. “Schat’s Bakkerÿ!”

  The driver pulls into the parking lot next to a building with a Dutch/Swiss façade, brick walls, and a steeply slanted roof, checked in blue and gray. Our crew tumbles out the back of the truck, and Boomer strides ahead. On the way to the front door, we pass floor-to-ceiling glass windows displaying a bounty of souvenirs that would give any gift shop in the Netherlands a run for its money. Shelves upon shelves of Dutch kitsch—most of it Delft pottery, the signature Dutch blue-and-white earthenware—featuring cows and windmills, clocks and kettles, coffee mugs, and kissing-couple figurines.

  Boomer holds the door open for me and the rest of our crew as we enter the establishment that has won the hearts and minds of Longhorn crew members for as long as the squadron has been in existence.

  Mr. Schat, you had me at hello.

  I stop in the doorway, bombarded with the mouthwatering smells of freshly baked bread, pastries, rolls, assorted cookies, candies, and cakes. To my left, an entire room—almost as big as my apartment—devoted entirely to bread. Dozens of baker’s racks, crammed side by side, showcase hundreds of hot-out-of-the-oven loaves. In front of me, happy coffee-drinking, pastry-eating patrons crowd the central seating area. And surrounding this, more baker’s racks, these stuffed with pound cakes, homemade Dutch candies, preserves, and honey. Along the back wall, a long countertop with glass display cabinets houses strudel, cinnamon buns, and a bazillion varieties of doughnuts. Even the ceiling is crowded, hung with Dutch wooden clogs of all sizes and colors.

  The shop hums, workers moving racks into position on the floor, bakers shuttling dough into the back ovens, customers massing near the counters, and engaged diners partaking of thick glazed doughnuts that look so light and fresh they could float.

  The Mono County SAR crew gives us a wave, motioning us over to their spot in the far corner. We squeeze through the packed dining area to get to them, and one man puts out his hand, a hand coated in confectioner’s sugar, to Boomer, giving a firm handshake.

  “How are you, Jack?” Boomer says.

  “Just looking forward to our Morrison debrief,” Jack says with a wink.

  “Ah, good man. A consummate professional. We’ll take care of that debrief here in just a moment. But, strudel comes first.”

  “Would this be Lieutenant Malone?” Jack asks, standing.

  “It is, sir,” I say, offering my hand. “And it’s just Alison. Nice to finally meet you in person.”

  And it is nice. Jack’s one of those people you instantly like, but you’re not sure why. He’s the head of the Mono County Search and Rescue Team, but also one of Boomer’s best friends. I’ve never met the fifty-something man personally, only having heard his voice on the radio, but from what I understand, he possesses a legendary mountaineering résumé.

  I jump, startled, when a dog with cream-colored fur and golden, floppy ears pokes out from his hiding place under the table. I’m still shaking Jack’s hand when the dog begins to sniff my fingers, before offering a warm lick.

  “Well, hello there,” I say, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears.

  “His name is Mojo,” Jack says.

  I smile, remembering my own Labrador retriever, a gift for my fifth birthday. My mom thought he’d be good company for me after my dad left. Protect me. Maybe even help to heal a broken heart. I bring my other hand to Mojo’s head and give him a thorough pet while Boomer continues his greetings.

  “Walt,” Boomer says, offering his hand to Walt Hillerman, Mono County’s assistant SAR coordinator. “You’re lookin’ good, my friend.”

  Walt is the oldest member of the team—in his early seventies—and as hearty as they come. Tall and wiry, just like Beanie and Hap, he wears faded jeans, nicked-up cowboy boots, and a red-checked flannel shirt.

  “And you, sir,” Walt says. “Did you bring the gear?”

  “It’s waiting for you at the airport.”

  “’Bout time you returned that,” Jack says.

  “You know the drill. I needed to collect enough so I’d have an excuse to fly out here.”

  “Well, go grab some food, and then get back here,” Jack says. “We need some serious conversation about how the Kings obliterated the Lakers on Friday.”

  “Preseason, sir. Preseason,” Boomer says.

  “Oh, no. The home team is on this year!”

  “The home team might not be the home team anymore!”

  “No way. The good people of Sacramento would never let it happen,” Jack says.

  “Just sayin’,” Boomer says. He looks back to us. “Okay, we need food.”

  I give Mojo one last pet before he ducks under the table and curls at Jack’s feet.

  Boomer takes the lead, moving between multiple display stands to the far back counter, Hap and Beanie in his wake. I linger behind, looking up and down the baker’s racks, knowing we’ll have plenty of room in the aircraft if I want to purchase a few things to take with me. I remember the handheld shopping baskets stacked at the entry and turn to score one.

  “Oh!” I say, bumping into a customer leaving the bread room. The man wields two brown-paper shopping bags held high, one cradled in each arm. “Excuse me! I’m sorr—”

  He lowers his arms, and a smile broadens across his tanned face, weather lines radiating above his ruddy cheeks.

  Good god but he’s handsome.

  Keen blue eyes, framed by slightly ruffled, surfer blond hair, regard me curiously … studiously … knowingly.

  “Rescue Seven, by chance?” he says.

  What? How would he—? Oh! Tall, broad-shouldered, lean, early thirties … and wearing a bright yellow North Face jacket.

  “Whiskey One?”

  The smile that was wide to start stretches further, his eyes crystalline, shiny. His hand shoots out from underneath a shopping bag. “Will Cavanaugh.”

  Strong handshake. No surprise.

  “Alison Malone.”

  He nods, releasing my hand, and I straighten, trying to absorb the energy that surrounds this man. A lot of energy …

  “Was that you on the controls yesterday?” he asks.

  “It was. And you were the one looking like Spiderman?”

  “I don’t know about Spiderman. Just had to get to them quickly, you know?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like that in my life,” I say.

  “Guess that makes two of us.”

  “What?”

  “You. Your flying. I’ve never seen a pilot hold a hover that still. I don’t think you moved an inch.”

  “Well, we were pretty lucky with the winds yesterday.”

  “Uh … I think it was more than that.”

  “Will!” Boomer says, retracing his steps down the row of baker’s racks. He puts out his chubby hand, which Will shakes. “I see you’ve met my protégé here.”

  “Indeed,” Will says. “Obviously Boomer-trained.”

  “Obviously. She’s got the stick and rudder skills, no doubt about it. Still working on her head, though,” he says, pointing to his temple.

  I roll my eyes. Damn. I’ve got to stop doing that.

  “So when’d you get back?” Boomer asks.

  “Just a week ago.”

  “What was it this time? Ama Dablam? K2?”

  “Annapurna.”

  “Big?”

  “Yeah, pretty big.”

  “I’m sure it was epic. All your trips are. But man, you’ve lost weight.”

  Will shrugs.

  “Well, it just so happens that we’re debriefing here today,” Boomer says, pointing to the group.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” Will says. “That and some bread.” He motions to the bags he carries.

  “Seriously, dude, you
need some nourishment,” Boomer says. “Add some doughnuts to that bread order, will ya?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Boomer slaps Will on the shoulder before dodging and weaving through a throng of customers to return to the pastry counter.

  “So you just flew in, then?” Will asks.

  “Yeah, we’re supposedly here to return your gear.”

  He laughs. A hearty laugh. “I think Boomer owns stock in this place. He usually schemes some way to get here. A lot of cross-country navigation flights, from what I understand.”

  That’s exactly what Boomer would do. He’s taken me on several cross-country navigation flights, crucial flights for my training and familiarization with the area, that always seem to arrive at a time coinciding with breakfast, lunch, or dinner, and in places like Tahoe City, South Lake Tahoe, Carson City, Reno.… He would never get away with this in the H-60 community. Never.

  “So first time here?” Will says.

  “Yeah. The selection is sort of overwhelming.”

  “I’d be happy to help, if you like.”

  “I think I’ll take you up on that. Let me just grab a basket.”

  When I return, we move down the aisle toward the back counter, and Will points out his favorites. My hand reaches out at almost every suggestion—Dutch crumb coffee cake, artichoke spread, sheepherder bread, butter brickle, blueberry preserves …

  “Ooh, this is Rich’s favorite,” I say, holding up a clear sack of plain dinner rolls, tied in cube-like knots.

  “Rich?” Will asks.

  “My fiancé. These dinner rolls are his favorite.”

  “Oh, congratulations. When’s the big day?”

  “May twentieth,” I say, placing the rolls carefully in the basket. “Uh, Will, we’re not even halfway, and this is already full.”

  “Well, you know you’ll be back, especially if you’re flying with that character,” he says, inclining his head to Boomer. “Why don’t you buy what you’ve got in the basket and take that home for later. And then, for breakfast, you should follow me to the doughnuts.” He motions to the back counter, a substantial line of customers now between the doughnuts and us.