Signs of Life

by Sloane Reynard

  When they were close enough to the helicopter to be whipped by the snow flung about from the force of the rotating blade, they stopped. Wyatt’s hair was tossed every which way, a gorgeous tangle of chocolate strands gleaming in the sun, and his cheeks bore little pink patches from the cold. He looked positively edible and Corinne thought wistfully of that rumpled bed, barely stifling the urge to just grab him and run back inside and ravish him one last time.

  “You should have worn a coat!” Corinne scolded in a shout over the noise, instead.

  “I’m fine!” Wyatt shouted back. He took her hand and shoved the scrap of paper into it. “Call me when you’re home, so I know you got there alright.”

  Corinne shoved it in her pocket and swallowed heavily against the thick knot in her throat. “O-okay.”

  They stared at each other a long, tense moment. He looked absolutely miserable, almost as awful as she felt. She crouched and jogged to the helicopter, yanking on the door until it swung open and handing her suitcase in to Brock, who was waiting none too patiently for her.

  She lifted a foot to climb inside, but Wyatt grabbed her arm, spun her around, pressed her against the helicopter. His lips were on hers before she realized what was happening, but her instincts— finely attuned to him after over a week— were immediate in responding. Hands in his hair, mouth slanted open over his, tongue sliding against his, she kissed him with everything she had while trying to memorize every single detail.

  The heat of his breath, the satin lining of his cheek, the prickle of his bearded chin… all were fixed in Corinne’s mind when she finally drew back. She permitted herself a last observation of his face, an indulgence to think about how dear it had become to her.

  I can’t do this, she thought, and then, I have to do this.

  She climbed up into the helicopter and slammed the door shut before she could change her mind and reach for Wyatt again. He backed up until he was safely away from the spinning blades. Leo bounded to his side and Wyatt dropped a hand on the dog’s head. They both watched, unmoving, as Brock expertly guided his craft vertically into the air.

  Then he made it take a sharp turn to the left, abruptly severing Corinne’s view of Wyatt, Leo, the cabin, all of it— before them stretched an endless expanse of white, disturbed only by snowy treetops breaking through the colorless mass blanketing it.

  A flash of silver caught her eye; there was a big rectangle of it below, and she realized it was her rental car— all that remained visible was the roof.

  I’ll have to try calling them again, she thought, glad to have something to distract her from the urge she felt to cry. She’d tried contacting the rental agency a few times but without success— they’d likely gotten snowed in and were unable to make it to the office. It was fine. Everything was fine.

  Everything was fine.

  She’d just keep telling herself that until she believed it.

  Chapter 11

  Wyatt didn’t go back inside right away. He wandered around the perimeter of the clearing for a while— he didn’t know how long— and then to Corinne’s rental car, though it was devoid of anything but the standard rental-car presence, until his temper calmed. Once he was fairly certain he’d be able to keep from saying anything irreparably furious to his brother, he returned to the cabin and picked up the phone.

  To his credit, Tyler let him rant for a solid five minutes before speaking.

  “Wyatt,” he said when his brother wound down, “you cannot tell me you seriously thought she’d quit her job and abandon her home to remain with you in a remote cabin on top of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Listen to yourself.”

  Wyatt was listening to himself, and he knew how ridiculous it sounded, but…

  “You don’t understand,” he said tiredly. “It’s— we have— there’s something there, between us, Tyler. It has been right from the start.”

  “Chemistry,” Tyler scoffed.

  “Yes, chemistry, but also more. It’s not only about sex.”

  “So she’s fun. That doesn’t mean—”

  “She not fun,” Wyatt interrupted. “Of the two of us, I’m the fun one. I have to coax her to smile. I can count on one hand the number of times she’s laughed. Life has been hard on her— people have been hard on her— but in spite of it…”

  He raked a hand through his hand and slumped down onto the couch, waiting for Tyler to interject, but for once, his brother was quiet, waiting for him to finish.

  “In spite of it, she’s so damned sweet. Decent, too, and strong. More than just liking her… I admire her. She has every quality I’ve ever respected. I feel like a better person just being near her.” He barked out a harsh laugh. “When was the last time I felt anything like that? When was the last time you felt anything like that?”

  Then he sucked in a hasty breath. How could he have forgotten?

  “Oh, God, Tyler, I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s fine,” Tyler said flatly, all the life and teasing gone from his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” Wyatt tried again.

  “Wyatt.” Tyler sounded infinitely weary. “I know who to blame for Mira. I know it was Dad’s doing.”

  Wyatt could almost hear a portcullis slam down between them.

  “Alright,” he said softly. Then, once more, “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are.” Tyler paused. “And I’m sorry if I screwed up anything between you and your plain giantess.” He laughed into Wyatt’s fuming silence.

  “Why did you send Brock, then?”

  Tyler sighed. “Believe it or not, but I love you, and while I don’t think your hiding in a mountaintop cloister is the best reaction to everything our delightful family has put you through, I’m glad you have somewhere you feel happy. Or at least not-unhappy. I worried that you were rushing into this with Corinne, and would end up with your heart broken. That you’d come to hate the cabin, as well, and then where would you go? I can see you fucking off to the far reaches of Timbuktu, trying to find somewhere far enough away, and different enough from the States, to never be reminded of us ever again.”

  Wyatt managed to chuckle around the lump in his throat. His brother was not given to frequent displays of affection. This much of it was unprecedented.

  “I have wanted to explore Africa,” he said teasingly. “And see if the Sahara is as sandy as they say.”

  “Exactly,” said Tyler, sounding relieved the squishy part of the discussion was over.

  Corinne had never been in a helicopter before, and had her heart not felt like it had ripped it two, would have been more excited about it. But each minute they were in the air was another minute further away from Wyatt, and Corinne had to clench her teeth to keep from asking Brock to turn around and bring her back.

  The look on Wyatt’s face had nearly done her in. Pulling away from him had felt almost like a physical rending. She tried and tried to talk herself out of it, to reprogram what her heart chanted. It was too soon, it was ridiculous, they barely knew each other. She was who she was, tall and plain Corinne Wade, plodding and dull. He was handsome, charming Wyatt Lindstrom.

  Under normal circumstances, they’d never have met. It was pure chance that they did, that she’d been uncharacteristically reckless and not written down the directions and turned onto the first Mountain Road instead of the second, that she’d pressed on instead of turning back when it had become clear she’d made a mistake.

  Or divine intervention, some evil little voice whispered back. Because you’re meant to be together. How else could you have hit it off so well? How else could you have clicked so easily?

  “Stupid,” she scolded herself, blinking angrily against the tears that threatened.

  “Pardon?”

  Corinne’s eyes flew to Brock. He glanced back, creases forming around his eyes as he offered her a smirk.

  “Uh, not you,” she muttered.

  “Ah.” He studied her silently, for so long she began to get nervous, more because of how he was observing he
r than because it might be dangerous.

  “Shouldn’t you keep your eyes on the— the road? No.” That sounded ridiculous. “The sky?”

  Brock made a big deal out of squinting and peering out the big wide window before them. A clear, cloudless sky stretched before them to infinity.

  “You seeing a plane or something out there I don’t? Exactly what should I be on the lookout for?”

  She slumped back in her seat and scowled but said nothing.

  “It’s okay if you’re upset,” he continued in what he probably meant to be a soothing voice but which just ended up sounding kind of sleazy. “Cry, if you like. See this shoulder?” He pointed to the one nearest Corinne. “It’s perfect to put your head on, if you need some comforting.”

  I wonder how hard landing a helicopter would be, Corinne mused, wanting very much to chuck him out of the aircraft. I bet it’s not that hard. I’m sure I could do it.

  Her stony silence only amused him.

  “No?” he said with a laugh and a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

  She hoped that would be the end of it but all too soon, he was speaking again.

  “Tyler thought Wyatt was crazy, being so taken with a woman he’s only known a week or so,” said Brock, “and I did too… until I met you.” His pale eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over her substantial form. “You’d be fun to wrestle into submission.”

  “You’re assuming you’d win.” She couldn’t refrain from a contemptuous snort as she eyed him back. He was a bit shorter than Wyatt, and not as well-built. “You wouldn’t.”

  It probably wasn’t fair to compare him to Wyatt— who could possibly measure up?— and held against such a paragon, Brock did not give a good showing.

  But then, who would? she thought, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a faint smile. No one, that’s why. Wyatt was unique among men. The smile faded. He was utterly singular, and she’d never meet his match or anyone like him again. She’d never meet him again. He’d stamped himself indelibly on her and she’d never be the same.

  “I’m bringing you to Lebanon,” Brock said after some while where neither spoke, his soft burr of a voice easing into the silence. “You can catch a train from there. It’s about the same from there to either Boston or Hartford, though Boston is a bit closer.”

  “That’s how I got here in the first place,” Corinne said absently, staring out the window at the world flowing past below them, disconcerted by the odd perspective of seeing everything from above. “Plane from Raleigh to Boston, train to Lebanon. Then I rented a car and drove to Widow's Vale, and from there up the mountain.” She paused. “The wrong mountain.”

  “Or the right one, depending on how you look at it,” he said lightly. “Do you wish you’d gone up the right mountain?”

  Corinne swallowed. “I did,” she whispered. “I went up the right mountain after all.”

  “Then why did you leave the mountain?”

  She sighed and very firmly leashed her annoyance. What a nosy man.

  “You’re going to Jamaica when, tomorrow? Say you meet a woman there. You’re very attracted to her, you get along, you even feel a strong connection to her that goes beyond the physical. Would you give up your job, your friends, everything you have here, to move there to be with her? After fewer than two weeks?”

  “If I met someone that looked at me like Wyatt looks at you? If leaving her felt like as gutted as you look?” Brock peered at her closely, far too closely, before shrugging. “Yeah.”

  Not what I wanted to hear, she thought sullenly. She turned her face away without a reply, and they spent the remainder of the trip in not-quite-companionable quiet.

  At Lebanon, they touched down in a tiny airfield outside of town. Brock offered her a lift to the train station, which she took with as graceful a thanks as she could manage. The train got her to Boston in under three hours, which she spent in the quiet car so as to have an excuse not to make all the phone calls she’d promised via email.

  She did, however, change her plane reservation from two days hence to that afternoon, and damn the fees. She just wanted to be home.

  And then, hours and hours later, she was. She let herself into the familiar old house with a sigh of relief, discarding coat and suitcase on the nearest chair and flopping down on the sofa, arms and legs sprawled out, feeling drained. She realized, when she slung her forearm over her eyes, that every stitch she wore—besides her panties— belonged to Wyatt: sweatpants, flannel shirt, socks. Corinne had traveled down the east coast looking like a hobo, and didn’t care in the slightest.

  And she had no intention of returning the clothes to him, either, though her conscience niggled at her for her rebellion. He’d been wearing the shirt the night before; in their mad scramble to dress when Brock had arrived, they’d just grabbed whatever was nearest. Bringing the collar to her nose, she inhaled the scent of him still clinging to the worn fabric and felt her stomach clench at the memories provoked by the warm, golden smell. She couldn’t shake the persistent conviction that she’d made a mistake.

  When the sun finally set, and the house was dark, Corinne finally heaved herself from the sofa and went about the rote motions of putting her things away properly. When she picked up her coat, about to hang it in the closet, she recalled the scrap of paper Wyatt had thrust at her when she left. Digging in the pocket, she extracted the paper and found it was his phone number, scrawled in a bold, slanting hand.

  Call me, he had written under the digits, underlining it twice, and then under that, please.

  Corinne closed her eyes tightly, inundated with thoughts of him. At that very moment, if she were still there, they’d be having dinner— it was her turn to cook, that night, and she’d thought of making some sort of chicken casserole. Instead, he’d probably have leftovers of the chili he’d made the night before. She’d microwave some ghastly frozen dinner. And they’d eat separately, no soft conversation or jokes or smiles.

  After, they’d clean up and Wyatt would go to his laptop and look at funny videos or read articles on the sad state of politics in Washington, but Corinne wouldn’t be there to share them with him. She pictured him sitting on the big leather couch without her. Leo would be snuggled against him, and he’d idly pet the dog’s head as he scrolled down the page.

  She’d… what did she do in the evenings, before meeting him? When her father was alive, they’d watch TV together, sometimes play cards. He’d read tidbits from the Raleigh News & Tribune to her that he found interesting. They’d discuss people they knew, and whatever distant family remained. After his death, she’d spent the evenings using her laptop to search for amusing things that would distract her, lift her mood, keep her from remembering that she was all by herself in the big empty house and always would be.

  Maybe… maybe leaving the world behind to live on a mountaintop wouldn’t be so bad, if it meant being with Wyatt? Not being alone?

  With trembling fingers, she peered again at the number, then reached for her phone.

  “Hello?” he answered, sounding breathless, as if he’d made a wild dash to pick up.

  “H-hi, Wyatt,” she said, pleased her voice only sound partially croaky from the lump in her throat. “It’s—”

  “Corinne!” Gladness thrummed in his voice, turning her knees weak as water, and she abruptly sat on the couch. “Where are you? Did you get home? I wasn’t sure if you’d make it back there today, but then it got late— it’s dark now— and I worried you were stuck somewhere, in Boston or Hartford, God forbid, and—”

  “Wyatt,” she interrupted with a laugh, warmth filling her at his hurried spate of stream-of-consciousness. The knowledge he cared about her welfare made her hand clench on the phone and longing fill her to bursting. “I ended up in Boston, was able to switch my flight. And now I’m home.”

  She looked around and realized that the familiar old things all seemed different to her now. She was looking at them through his eyes, wondering what he’d think of the shabby, comfortable fur
niture and everything else. The image of him there, with her, was so strong for a moment it took her breath away.

  “I’m glad,” he was saying, then after a pause, “It feels strange here, without you.”

  “Peace and quiet at last,” Corinne joked, but it fell flat.

  “You know that’s not—” he protested right away.

  “I know,” she said quickly. “I was just—”

  Trying to lighten a heavy mood. Trying to lift our sagging spirits. Trying to pretend we’re not unhappy.

  “How’s Leo?” she tried instead.

  “He’s miserable,” Wyatt replied after a moment, his voice quiet. Sad. “He tried to eat dinner but it didn’t taste like anything. He’s bored because nothing’s interesting anymore. He’s probably going to sleep on the couch with me because the idea of being in the bed by himself is terrible.”

  Corinne’s throat ached with unshed tears. It wasn’t Leo he was describing.

  “How about you?” he asked, with a tragic attempt at cheerfulness. “Got any plans for the night?”

  “I haven’t eaten yet,” she said slowly. “Probably won’t. The idea of food makes my stomach turn.”

  She pulled her legs up, knees under her chin, curling around herself as if to trap his warmth within her.

  “I should shower, and change, but…” She shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it, and misery prodded her to be honest, to be daring and reveal herself to him. “I’m wearing your clothes from yesterday. I don’t want to take them off. And if I shower, I won’t smell like you anymore.”

  He sucked in a breath. “Corinne…”

  “I miss you,” she whispered. “It feels awful and, and wrong to be apart.”

  “Yes,” he said forcefully. “The cabin seems like it echoes, now. I keep expecting you to be there when I turn around. I keep beginning to tell you things and then feeling stupid when I realize you’re gone. You left all your toiletries here and I’ve been into the bathroom to sniff at your shampoo like some weird pervert about twenty times.”