Thorne Bay

by Jeanine Croft

  With a tight smile, I left her to her sour disposition, shoving my driver’s license into my back pocket.

  “This is only goodbye for a little while!” Mom said, her chipper words sounding discordant as she sniffled bravely. “No tears.”

  “Sure,” I scoffed, wiping at the tears spilling warmly onto my cheeks. “I love you, Mom!” There was a raw lump in my throat that had been swelling painfully throughout the drive to the airport. “I swear, one day I’ll pay you back for wasting all the money you’ve spent on my—”

  I was instantly enveloped in one of her fiercest hugs. “Don’t think about that now, Ev. I’m considering it an investment. Make the most of life and have fun.” And then she pulled away to fix me with a stern and watery look. “But not too much fun…” she clarified meaningfully. “Don’t forget what I said about always using condoms.”

  “Mom!” I grimaced with a laugh, my face turning puce.

  “I’m just saying! And remember, I’m just a phone call away if you need me, okay? Say the word and I’ll hop on the first flight to Ketchikan.”

  “I know.” And I did know that. She was the stable and loving fixture in my life and I had probably only retained my compos mentis this long because of her. Struggling for composure, I took my backpack from her arm. “Is it too late to change my mind?”

  “Yes”—with tongue in cheek—“I’ve already rented your room out to Hugh Jackman.”

  “Mmkay.” I checked my watch. “I’ll call you when I get to Ketchikan.” With a last, trembling wave, I hurried off before I did change my mind. Or missed my flight. Gramps would love that, I thought derisively.

  Goodbyes were brutal. Mom’s teary face nearly crumbled my resolve altogether when I turned to glance back one last time, so I determined not to look back again. Figuratively too. She would have been proud of that. My feet ate up the drab linoleum as I followed the signs for my gate with eyes still dimmed by tears. The TSA line was, thankfully, short, so I was able to breeze through security. The officer studied my puffy eyes stoically as I shoved my laptop back into my backpack. Once I’d pulled my sneakers back on, I raced for my gate.

  By the time I got there the last of zone four was trickling past the ticket scanner. Before I knew it I was buckled up, listening to the deep hum of the engines as they idled. I was really doing this! It was heady and surreal—taking control of my life. The knots of tension in my gut were alternately loosening and tightening, as if still unsure of which emotion—fear or excitement—held primacy. I knew I should be fearful for leaving my safety net for parts unknown, but it was impossible not to let the latent power of the engines, and the sight of the other planes hurtling down the runway, act like a counterpoise to meekness.

  As the 737 was pushed back from the gate, I quietly said goodbye to the suffocating humidity and to the ninety-degree morning heat already scorching the sun-bleached tarmac now that the rain had passed.

  Moments later the G-force suddenly pushed me back against my seat as the jet surged into the takeoff roll. We were speeding down the longer of the parallel runways, the lofty control tower flashing briefly past my little port side window.

  That restrictive doubt and fear that was always a constant heavy weight around my neck, like an engorged python, seemed to fall away as we gained altitude. I’d forgotten how much I loved flying. Surely this wasn’t the wrong decision if I was feeling so weightless, despite the positive G’s?

  I peered down past the wing as we banked and watched the coastline falling away, my lungs seeming to expand further than they had in a long time.

  As the oceanside mansions of Palm Beach Island, and even Mar-a-Lago itself, became indistinct and the clouds swallowed us up, I pulled my sketchbook from my backpack. Drawing was one way to exorcise self-doubt…and negate my grandfather’s sullen prognostications that I’d be running back to my mother, tail between my legs, within the week. I scoffed at the thought.

  But had I known then what was waiting for me on the other side of my journey, I’d have thrown in my lot with the tarantulas in the Amazon!

  It was a balmy forty-three degrees Fahrenheit when I landed in Ketchikan. From the moment the 737 had descended through the clouds I’d been struck with the sprawling beauty of the granite mountains bestrewn with towering Sitka spruce, cedar, and hemlock. The air was so crisp it stung my lungs as I left the terminal. But arriving in a strange place all alone was vastly intimidating. There was no one waiting to welcome me. A stab of loneliness suddenly chilled that part of my heart where most of my courage was hiding. After a quick call to my mom, both to borrow some of her confidence and to let her know I had landed safely, I hoofed it to the ferry dock, bought a ticket and boarded the ferry with a small handful of other pedestrians, an Air Alaska van and a sedan.

  It was a three-minute ride from Ketchikan International across the choppy narrows. I bypassed the bus stop and taxis to brave the wind since Thorn Aviation was only a short walk from the ferry terminal and parking lot. Alison had explained in her email that I’d be taken to Thorne Bay by Bear Lodge’s private floatplane…because how else did anyone get around. By boat or by air, I’d been warned. Those were my only options from now on.

  Initially, the thought of such isolation had given me pause, but the dart had pointed and I had agreed to go where it willed me. There was nothing for it now but to make the best of this pilgrimage of self-discovery.

  The floatplane terminal was packed with tourists, which was to be expected since the first cruise ship of the season had only just docked in town for a few hours. Timidly, I glanced around, chewing one side of my lip and then the other as I searched the crowd for a face I’d never laid eyes on—my pilot.

  I knew only that his name was Matt Mitchell, but nothing else. Not his age or any distinguishing features. Nevertheless, I scanned the foreign faces deliberately, looking for epaulets and Ray-Ban aviators. Unfortunately, no one here seemed to fit the Top Gun mold.

  Standing around like a lost fart in the wind, I re-positioned my green beanie a little more snugly around my ears, hoping that none of the locals were judging my thin-blooded proclivity for dressing like an Eskimo. Rationally, I knew that my blood’s viscosity was by no means ‘thinner’ than that of the locals’, but I had definitely underestimated how much I took the tropical heat for granted. I could already feel my skin objecting to the cold, stretching and splitting into Death Valley mud cracks.

  I was wearing a maroon wool-lined Fjällräven jacket and a thermal base layer underneath, but still, my bones were chilled. Conversely, most of the locals were in nothing but light flannels and jeans and rubber boots. I could easily pick out the tourists because I looked just like one.

  I ran my tongue over my lips and pulled a granola bar from my pocket, peeling the wrapper down with frozen hands as I continued dragging an abstracted gaze around the terminal. Abstracted, that is, until my gaze suddenly stalled over one man in particular. I was so completely fascinated with the tall stranger that had prowled into the terminal, from the waterside, that I clean forgot about my snack and instead feasted unblinking eyes on the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

  He moved with such canid fluidity through the crowd that he hardly seemed to belong there at all—no more than the wolf belonged with the sheep. And then he was gone! The crush of humanity instantly swallowed him up.

  I strained on the tips of my toes, looking, nearly sobbing with bereavement, trying to catch sight of him again, but, despite his height, he’d melted into the crowd. Well, I told myself as I expelled the reverential breath I’d been holding in, at least he hadn’t caught me gawking like a creep. Not in a thousand years would I have imagined it possible for any man to outshine Andy. But the stranger had done that easily. He’d made my Andy, who had always seemed to me the paragon of male perfection, look like nothing but a pug.

  What are you, twelve? I fanned my hot cheeks, inwardly sneering at my dramatic reaction to him. Finally, I returned my attention to my neglected granola bar, instantly de
vouring it like a starving chipmunk. And now that I was no longer distracted by the stranger, I found myself growing nervous, waiting for my overdue pilot. Where the hell is he? The thought was muffled by the sound of nuts and seeds grinding between my molars. My worry escalated further and further the longer I waited. What if I was forced to spend the night in the terminal?! What if—

  “You Evan?”

  I spun around to face the resonant voice that had spoken my name, my cheeks still engorged with half-masticated chunks of soggy granola (crumbs probably cleaving to my chin). Tall as I was, my eyes collided instantly with a very wide male chest. Blinking rapidly, I slowly dragged my gaze up to stare bemusedly at the tall drink of water who was regarding me with a waggish grin.

  Hot damn, it was him! The wolf amongst the sheep! My Pilot?

  Of course he would turn out to be my pilot; of course he’d chosen this moment to approach me, just as I’d stuffed my face; and of course he had the most mesmeric eyes I’d ever beheld.

  3

  Flying Beavers

  “Evan Spencer, right?” the stranger asked again, his mouth quirking slightly. He had dressed his athletic frame in the ubiquitous flannel of his brethren, paired with scarred jeans and scuffed dark Blundstones.

  I still hadn’t answered him, only continued to gape blankly, my tongue suddenly as articulate as a watermelon, and my cheeks still stuffed with granola. Thankfully, though, he was not only gorgeous but seemed to understand my rapid blinking—Morse code for, “Help, I’m pathetic!”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Yeth!” My hand belated flew up to ward off flying granola, but it was too late. Out came the chunky deluge. I was horrified! With one dry and painful swallow, I choked the granola down like a mouthful of sand and finally managed to utter something intelligible. “Sorry!” My cheeks flooded with humiliation.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been hit with worse.” Topaz eyes glittered with humor. They were the most vivid and lightest of Gulf Stream hues—not quite green and not quite blue. Too intense to stare into for long. “I’m Tristan Thorn, your chauffeur.”

  I diffidently lowered my gaze to his waiting palm. Unlike my fumbling lips my hand was at least functioning reliably today, and without any input from me, it obediently slipped into his. His handshake was confident and warm, just firm enough that he didn’t crush my fingers. I almost wished it had been a ‘wet fish’ sort of handshake because then I would have been far less intimidated.

  “H-hi, Tristan.” Where was Matt?

  “You look disappointed,” he said, trying (and failing) to suppress his grin.

  It took me a second to clear my head of the fluff that had collected there when our palms had met. “I was told…um…” It’s really not that hard, Ev, just take your goddamn foot out of your mouth. “I, uh, expected a Matt.”

  “Well,” he replied, apparently not in the least offended, “I’m afraid it looks like you’re stuck with a Tristan instead.”

  Poor me. Smiling, I surreptitiously wiped at my mouth on the off chance there were any unsightly wet crumbs still loitering there.

  Ordinarily, I’d have been thrilled to spend any time in the company of such a superior specimen (preferably without having spat on him first), but right from my initial glimpse, there’d been something primal and sylvan underlying my fascination. It seemed to evade my senses, yet it pawed restlessly at the fringe of animal instinct. Something about him seemed…not altogether safe. If he did pose a threat, however, I figured it was only to my flustered lady bits. He didn’t strike me as a sociopath. But, then again, I’d never met a sociopath…

  I shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, fiddling with the straps of the backpack on my shoulder, wishing he’d look elsewhere. Mom would have told me to fake confidence, so I forced myself to meet his gaze and resolved not to hide my own on the floor again. “How’d you know I was Evan by the way?” Technically I was an Evangeline, a silly name that bore no familial significance. A name I disliked enough to assume a male byname instead.

  Tristan’s one brow winged facetiously before he shrugged and dragged his eyes dubiously over my copious layers. “You looked…a little lost.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  He, however, looked confident and fresh, and so divinely rugged it made my eyes water. Was it any wonder I’d found my way to the Last Frontier—the last place on earth where men were men and sheep were scared… Wait, did that make me a sheep?

  His thick wind-blown hair lay like dark coffee, in perfect disorder, curling slightly at his ears and nape. I followed the angle of his jaw and then up towards that engaging dimple at his left cheek, watching, enthralled, as it deepened under his growing amusement. He’d clearly noticed my gawking.

  “If you’re gonna be staying a while, you’ll wanna get yourself some Ketchikan sneakers.”

  “Umm…” I looked down at my white fashion sneakers, bewildered.

  “No,” he said, chuckling. After searching the crowd, he gestured over to a lady in sturdy grey rubber boots. “Those are Ketchikan sneakers.” Then he swiftly bent down to grab my duffle, turning around only briefly to acknowledge a greeting from someone who’d called out to him. “What size shoe do you wear? I’ll get you some on the next mail run.”

  “Size eight.” I blinked bemusedly.

  He nodded and, without further ado, left me to trail behind him, my bag slung over his wide shoulder like a boar destined for the hearth fire, the flock of sheep scuttling meekly out of his way.

  “After you,” he said with a chivalrous wink, pushing the double doors open for me.

  I preceded him through the glass doors and then followed him down the wooden gangway to the float plane dock where about ten De Havilland Beavers were basking under the grey sky. Earlier, I’d read a tour brochure at the counter, so I was confident I’d correctly identified the distinctive lines of this flock of floating planes.

  “Good thing you came in today. We had a freak windstorm this time yesterday. Peak gusts were at 112 knots! You’d have been stuck in Seattle for the night.”

  “An Alaskan hurricane?!”

  “Pretty much,” he said, readjusting the duffle onto the other shoulder. “So what accent is that?”

  “South African.” I watched as surprise lit his eyes. “I was born there,” I explained, “but I’ve lived in West Palm Beach for the last five years.”

  “South African? You’re a long way from home.” He whistled, ostensibly impressed by the distance. “D’you miss it?”

  I shrugged. “Well, home has always been where Mom is. What about you? Have you always lived up here?” In perpetual winter.

  Tristan’s expression tightened a fraction. “Practically born and bred in the snow.”

  My gaze strayed admiringly over his rugged frame and untamed hair. “And raised by wolves, huh?”

  He shot me a comical look. “Eh?”

  “Oh, I’ve watched my fair share of Alaskan survival shows—families living off the land, and off the grid like primitives in bear coats.”

  “I think you mean like pioneers.”

  “Heating bath water over the fire,” I continued, undaunted by his scoffing grin, “and reading by candlelight.” It was all very romantic, the thought of such glorious subsistence living.

  He snorted. “Sounds like you’ve done your research then.”

  “Yup,” I said, grinning facetiously, “learned most of my survival skills from The Jungle Book.”

  “That’s cute.”

  The problem with me was that when I was nervous I babbled incessantly. And usually nonsensically. “ ‘Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky. And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper—’ ”

  “ ‘But the wolf that shall break it must die.’ ”

  I was sure there were love hearts dropping from my eyes to fall at his feet. Le sigh. “A Kipling fan?”

  His lips parted enigmatically as he smiled. A sharp smile. “I’m more of an Akela fan.”<
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  By this time we’d drawn up alongside a blue and white seaplane, Thorn Aviation emblazoned on the fuselage. But I hardly noticed the plane, still reeling from that keen-edged smile of his, and still disquieted by the fact that I’d just glimpsed a pair of unsettling canines. Weird.

  “The weather’s been holding up,” he explained, all business now, as he stowed my luggage in the back of the plane where a stack of parcels and boxes had been placed, “but we’re supposed to get fog later. You’ll find the weather’s unpredictable here.” There was a glint of mischief in his eyes as he continued, “It changes like a woman’s mood—all pretty smiles one minute and dancing a temper the next.”

  Smiling, “Excuse you, I’m pretty mild tempered.”

  Whether he heard me or not I didn’t know. His forehead creased suddenly as he looked past me towards the horizon.

  I followed his gaze to see a looming cloud bank in the distance.

  He took a moment to scroll through his phone. “Damn—” shaking his head “—forecast just changed. It’s moving in a lot faster.” After he’d shoved the phone back in his pocket he held his hand out for me, helping me from the pontoon dock onto the floats, up the steps and then, from the rear door, into the cockpit.

  I self-consciously pulled the beanie from my head and tried to smooth the static from my long mousy mane. I hated my hair. It was so dull and lank and dead straight.

  “Do you get airsick?” Tristan asked suddenly.

  “Uh…good question.” I hadn't really been in a little plane before, but I did well enough in commercial jets.

  “Here.” He passed me a small, blue envelope.

  Inside, I discovered a folded sick bag. “Gee, thanks.”

  “I can’t have you destroying the upholstery.” He smirked.

  “Just my dignity.” I rolled my eyes.

  “I just got the interior refurbished.”

  I looked around the cockpit, taking note of all the switches, circuit breakers and instruments on the panel that he was currently fiddling with. A robust and exoteric blend of masculine spices infused Tristan’s cockpit—old charts, sun-warmed leather, and avgas. “Well, it’s a pretty swish interior, I wouldn’t want to defile it with half-digested granola.”