Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “Are you absolutely certain marriage to me is what you want again? That you’ve had enough time consider the ramifications?” Translation: this isn’t a hallmark “hasty Kaye” move that you’ll regret down the road?

  “I’m the one who asked, Sam. Of course I’m certain.”

  “Our life won’t be easy.”

  My breath lazily lingered over his collarbone, the edge of his tee shirt. I inhaled his heady cardamom scent. “I know.” I didn’t need to remind him just now what a trip his manic episode in Boston had been.

  “We probably won’t have children. I mean, we can explore adoption, but…Kaye,” he breathed when I leaned in and nipped his salty skin.

  “Mmm. We can explore it. And if it’s a no, we’ll hold each other and grieve, and deal with it.” I couldn’t bring myself to traverse that path of heartbreak, not yet. My lips left his collarbone and found that delicious spot beneath his chin. His scruffy skin set them tingling. “But right now, I don’t want to think about that. I just want to be with you.” My fingertips deftly trailed down his stomach to the waistband of his flannel pants. “Will you let me be with you?”

  He caught my hand and dragged it to the safety of his chest, and nodded to the occupants on the other side of the beaded curtain.

  “May I propose something different, yet equally rash?” I liked his playful tone.

  “Will you marry me this weekend?”

  I gasped. I barely saw the corners of his mouth tug up in the dark.

  “I could give you that Elvis ceremony in Vegas you’ve always dreamed of.”

  “Why…why so soon?”

  He chuckled. “Soon? Oh Kaye, this is seven years too long.”

  My hand clung to his. I pressed our tangle of fingers to the tears welling in my eyes and nodded. “No Vegas ceremony. But yes, I’ll marry you this weekend.”

  “My wife. I can call you that again,” he murmured into our joined hands.

  “Yours. Always yours.”

  Chapter 2

  Trad Climbing

  When a climber undertakes a mountain face with no pre-bolted slopes, the climb becomes not only a physical challenge, but a mental challenge. Such a climb is ironically termed “traditional climbing” because there is no fixed route.

  Boulder, Colorado

  November, three years earlier

  My head pounded with the need for a deep sleep just beyond my grasp. My muscles were still sore days after our climb, but my mind was restless. I flopped over and patted around for another pillow. In those quiet hours after dark, just two days before to my wedding, I buried my head and prayed for peace.

  Until now, my whirlwind workload had kept my doubts and fears waitlisted. Gearing up for Samuel’s book-to-movie adaptation had been new and thrilling and, because of his status as a world-famous (and now infamous) writer, he moved in elite circles that were as foreign to me as Tibetan temples. It had also exposed me to a world of backbiting (you couldn’t pay me to book that trip again). But once I’d transitioned the last of Samuel’s publicity to Patrick and Nat O’Malley—Celeb PR royalty in Los Angeles—I didn’t know what to do with myself.

  I kicked free from the sweaty sheet and plodded through the pitch-black hallway to the kitchen. I flipped on a light switch and instantly regretted it when my aching brain tried to judo-kick its way out of my skull. Water trickled through my fingers until it was ice-cold. I chugged down a glass, wiped my mouth, and stumbled back to bed.

  The Boom Boom Room. Fenway Park. Samuel’s arrest and hospitalization. They left a storm of unresolved emotions churning above my head, a storm I’d avoided for the sake of survival. Top that twister off with the Longs Peak climb…the avalanche, the woman I hadn’t been able to save…it was too much. For the first time in a long time, I desired to see my thirtieth birthday more than I desired adrenaline rushes.

  I hadn’t even known her name. But Longs Peak was my next-door neighbor and word of her death spread, even before it headlined the evening news. Daughter. Sister. Girlfriend. Her family’s grief-stricken images were captured and captioned, another titillating tragedy that most would shake their heads over and forget.

  What if I’d been the one to die in that avalanche? What had I done with my life?

  Later that morning, in the quiet of my TrilbyJones office, I stared at my online banking statement. I’d saved millions. Artisan lights blurred into the ceiling, and I laid my head on my arms and cried as grief crashed like a cold front.

  Weathering grief is an odd experience. It will drive you under the nearest tree, then lift long enough to let you believe it has finally passed. But the most random thing will bring on a second front of mourning. For me, it was scanning my savings account and realizing that, for years, I’d turned my alimony stockpile into a shrine for an absent love. I’d seen the exorbitant balance of my bank account before. I just never really saw it—gilded and obtrusive, collecting dust. What a waste.

  I didn’t hear my office door creak open. But Samuel crouched next to me, gathered me in his arms. He frowned at my online banking statement, puzzled. Then his face cleared.

  “The alimony? Spend it. Let it go.”

  “How?” I sniffed into the folds of his Henley. He pinched a tissue from the container on my desk and handed it to me.

  “That’s your choice. Though…can I make a suggestion? If you want to make the mental health benefit concert an annual event, you’ll need to establish a fund. I’ll have my accountant help you, if you like.”

  I nodded, names already taking shape in my mind. The Rachel Caulfield Cabral Foundation, after Samuel’s deceased mother? Or maybe just the Cabral Foundation?

  “I also think you should consider seeing a therapist.” Samuel peered at me, eyes soft and cautious. I gave a noncommittal hum. “I’m serious, firecracker. Counseling isn’t some New Age thing of your father’s. You’ve collected quite a pile of traumatic experiences and talking to someone might help.”

  I swallowed. “I’ll ask around.”

  His blue gaze still held mine. Cripes, here it comes after all. He’s going to call off the wedding. “If you want to wait to get married, if this is too much—”

  “No! I want to get married Friday.” I shook his hands from my shoulders, closed my online banking profile, and threw myself into a radio ad for the Boulder Bookstore. Samuel opened his laptop on a small worktable across from my desk, but now and then, I felt blue eyes upon me.

  Working on the mental health benefit concert filled Samuel with an unadulterated joy I hadn’t seen since he’d made his little league team’s starting line-up. When Molly and I first tossed around the idea, Samuel had been supportive but cautious. Fundraising for mental health issues was not as widely successful as, say, cancer charities. Sadly, being lumped with “crazies” was a deterrent for sponsors. But in the past weeks, since his spectacularly public ‘coming out’ during a manic episode, Samuel had whole-heartedly thrown himself into awareness work.

  Several national magazines, including The New Yorker, were clubbing each other over the heads for rights to a mental illness feature. After checking out of Massachusetts General Hospital, there’d been whispers among media insiders that Samuel had ‘gone Garbo.’ So Primetime television journalist Belinda Walker made a secret trip to Boulder for an exclusive interview—the first he’d agreed to since his YouTube-worthy arrest in Boston. (That wretched video had gone viral. Last time Angel checked, it had fifteen million hits.) Patrick O’Malley prepped him to discuss his bipolar disorder, but Samuel hadn’t needed it. “It’s actually easier to respond to questions when my answers are truthful.” It was a home run for Ms. Walker, and would hopefully put to rest rampant speculation when it aired tonight.

  The flipside was, the heavy media attention would make pulling off our courthouse elopement as complicated as a Vegas magic spectacular.

  Samuel grunted in surprise. “The Tripping Marys agreed to play our benefit concert next year.”

  My head shot up. No. Freaking. Way.
“But they’re retired.”

  “I told them we learned to play guitars because of them. Remember? After seeing them in their Planet Bluegrass gig?”

  “I remember.”

  “I told them they’re legends.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I also told them if they played the benefit, it would get me laid for months to come.”

  “Really?” My spirit shot up like a sunflower. Frustratingly, the physical aspect of our relationship had been on hold since his release from Mass General.

  He fidgeted. “That was a poor joke.” Rats. “But,” he rose from his worktable and knelt beside me. “I miss you, Kaye. You’re it for me. And I wonder if, perhaps…”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps we’ve been overly careful. And we are remarrying in three days.” Are we? Yes we are…he won’t back out. “No sex would make for a lousy honeymoon.” His sensitive mouth quirked. “And I really, really want to have sex with you.”

  I traced his sharp jawline. “I don’t think we’re made to handle each other with kid gloves.”

  “We’re too passionate for them.” His lips brushed my neck and I shuddered as his eyelashes tickled my skin, the tenderness of it telling me he would be there Friday, and he would marry me.

  “Perhaps you want to try Friday night? If it doesn’t…um…work, that’s okay,” I added quickly. “I understand, with the meds.”

  “Perhaps,” he answered, his voice muffled and gravelly. Samuel’s medication change had been a fire extinguisher blast to his sex drive, but my lusty boy was coming around.

  “I really wish I could be there, flower.”

  “It’s okay, Dad.” I shuffled my phone and my mug, careful not to slosh hot coffee on my hand. Samuel would be here soon, but I’d wanted to call my dad before he and Audrey left for the weekend.

  “It’s just so last minute. Audrey and I booked this Sacred Sexuality retreat in Black Forest ages ago.”

  “Dad really, it’s fine. We’ll have a small reception later, maybe a Christmas party. You and Audrey go on, and…erm…enjoy your weekend.” I spilled coffee anyway. With a hiss, I set the cup on the kitchen counter and thrust my hand under a stream of cold water. I grabbed the nearest dishcloth and wrapped it around my hand, hoping the skin around my ring finger wouldn’t blister. (Bride priorities.)

  “You know, you and Sam could head on down for the retreat after the wedding. Nothing says ‘honeymoon’ like engaging in tantric acts of self-realization so blissful, you experience a full-body—”

  “La-la-la-la! Totally fine, we’re all fine there, or will be, where we’re going—or not going. Whatever Samuel has planned, which might just be heading up to Estes Park or down to Denver for the night. Anyway, we’re covered-up. Er, covered.” I tossed the dishcloth and hunted for first aid cream.

  Tom Trilby’s barking laugh echoed through the receiver. “Oh Aspen Kaye, you never disappoint. Congratulations, flower, and I’ll shake my son-in-law’s hand when we get back. After I’ve washed off all the Eros oil, of course.”

  Like a verbal filter charging in on a white horse, Samuel’s entrance through the door saved me. He planned to take me on an afternoon outing under the auspices of relieving pre-wedding jitters, but truthfully, I think he wanted to be sure we were on the same page about remarrying. My eyes flitted over my fiancé, casual in Colorado flannel. With a wave, he yanked his stocking cap from his head and revealed a head of matted brown hair, so different from what I liked to call his polished “executive” coif. I wrapped a bag of frozen peas around my hand and beckoned him over. “Dad, gotta go. Sam’s here. You and Audrey have a safe drive, okay?”

  “Sure thing, baby girl. Best of luck to you kids.”

  Samuel hooked a finger in the belt loop of my jeans and tugged me in for a hello kiss. He turned his lips to the blistering inlet of my thumb. “Coffee burn?”

  I sighed. “That predictable?”

  “Mmm. How is your father?”

  “He and Audrey have a sex thing in Black Forest and won’t be there tomorrow.”

  “Are you okay with this?”

  “The sex thing? In my opinion, the less info, the better.” Samuel fixed me with a withering look. “Hey, we’re eloping. By definition, we’re supposed to avoid the parents. Seriously, I’m fine. Dad is Dad and, honestly, going to all these retreats with Audrey might be the biggest sign of commitment I’ve seen from him.”

  I knew that was unfair and Samuel did, too. But I did wonder how much longer Audrey would stick around. My father and Audrey Wexler had lived together for nearly twelve years, and dated since I was fifteen. In all that time, he’d never call Audrey his wife, though she’d hinted more than once about a common law marriage. If you asked my dad, Audrey’s house was “her house.” If you asked Audrey, it was “their home.”

  My father believed formal contracts (such as a marriage contract, hint hint) were trappings of society and ‘blackened the prana..’ Still, he tried to be a good father. He was there for me when I needed to blow off steam or wanted a bit of levity in my life. I knew he loved me.

  I put my hands on my hips in a nerdy gesture similar to a superhero’s and scanned the room. “What do I need?”

  “Just your fleece and Tevas, maybe a hat. It’s warmer this morning.”

  Samuel took the curves of the blacktop a little too fast as we weaved up into the mountains, before the stray photogs who tailed us found the hidden turn-off into the park. He’d swapped his impractical BMW convertible for a dark blue Subaru—I teased him about purchasing a “backcountry starter kit.” All he needed was a full beard and he’d be set. Judging by the boyish gleam in his eyes, the car was a solid purchase. We crossed into the Rocky Mountain National Park at a less trafficked entrance, completely off the grid to the paparazzi who subscribed to Alan Murphy’s “Cabral Hometown Haunts” blog.

  Home free, the Subaru rumbled over a rutted dirt road into a soaring forest of ponderosas. Hector and I often used this route for backcountry snowshoeing in the winter. Through my window, Longs Peak winked between the trees. Its knobby top was as familiar to me as tracking the pale moon in the sky, but it no longer filled my heart with peace. I closed my eyes and grounded myself in the smell of new upholstery, soft leather under my fingertips instead of the scrape of rock.

  Samuel pulled into a nearly empty lot at the Wild Basin Trailhead near the ranger station. He started to leave the car but saw that my hand still white-knuckled the passenger seat cushion.

  He eased his fingers over mine and gently unwrapped them. “We’re not climbing anything today, firecracker. Just an easy walk up to the waterfalls.”

  My heart eased its frantic pace. For a moment I’d believed Samuel would try to force me up a mountainside as some sort of therapeutic measure, but we were only hiking along the St. Vrain, the steady creek we’d played in as children, where we’d created our fairytales that inspired Samuel’s books. The trail carried us into a haze of gray, the air thick with water and icicles. As we climbed the slick rocks and ice that ran beside the falls, I told him about the chapters I’d written for our ‘autobiography’ while he was hospitalized in Boston.

  “You did what?”

  “I wrote for you while you were sick,” I yelled above the roar. “Wrote for us.”

  His eyes widened. His hiking boot froze as he braced himself mid-hoist on a craggy ridge.

  Since our return to Colorado, I hadn’t broached our memoir—Hydraulic Level Five—or the fact I’d taken us to the collapse of our marriage. Writing the story had been an unhealthy obsession for him during our time in New York and I hadn’t wanted to jinx his recovery. But now, his cheeks were ruddy and healthy. Strong lungs puffed froths of frozen mountain air between us. Flecks of snow clung to his eyelashes and he swiped at them with his glove. Seeing him, robust and clutching at rocks alongside me with the same, lithe athleticism he exhibited when swinging a baseball bat? Oh my, he was breathtaking.

  “Incredible,” Samuel said when we reac
hed the top of the deafening falls, cascading down the slope like a bridal veil. We took in the wind, the peaks, our home below our hiking shoes.

  I reached over and tugged a tuft of coffee-colored hair sticking out beneath his knit cap. “You’re backcountry through and through. Don’t hide it—you can don flannel and dodge bison with the best of us.”

  “Mmm, I’m not denying it. But I wasn’t just talking about Colorado.” His mouth hovered near my good ear so there’d be no mistaking what he said. “I’m amazed by you, all over again. You actually worked on our book while I was in the hospital? My beautiful wife.”

  Granted, I was all about moving on as adults, but Samuel still made my heart as fluttery as a starry-eyed teenager’s. Wife. Yes, that’s what I’d be again, because he would be there. I needed to have a little faith.

  When we returned from the falls and swathed ourselves in blankets beside my apartment fireplace, I presented him with the chapters I’d written. He pored over them while I changed clothes. He’d already moved some of his belongings into my—our—bedroom in anticipation of tomorrow’s marriage. Among them was an ancient Lyons baseball jersey, well-worn and well-loved. I pulled it over my head, my hair crackling with static. It wasn’t lost on me that the back of the jersey read ‘Cabral’ in big block letters, and I felt that familiar fluttering again. I smoothed static from my hair and pulled an overnight bag from the closet to pack for our weekend.

  Sadly, my excavation of the depths of my underwear drawers in search of something sexy for a wedding night yielded few treasures. Seven years ago, in anger, I’d trashed every single piece of negligee I’d worn for Samuel. My handful of one-night-stands hadn’t given me cause to replace them, so my stash of lust-inducing lingerie was woefully small. I held up the black lace slip I planned to wear beneath my “wedding dress,” and squinted at my reflection in the mirror.