On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  When she crossed the street to the market, an “Open” flag blew gently in the wind, a couple lonely rocking chairs sat vacant on the front porch, and a corkboard advertised events like rummage sales.

  With no food in the house, she needed some staples and trolled the few aisles. She looked and felt out of place pushing a shopping cart, something she’d never done in her life, except the time in northern California when the lighting guys on the shoot stole a couple rickety carts, filled them with cases of beer—which they quickly guzzled—and played chicken in the parking lot between takes.

  When she arrived at the register, through the window opposite, she spotted a tall guy with brow hair, in need of a shave, and the hottest body she’d seen that side of the Long Island Sound. She’d only spied a grand total of six people, three of whom looked like they’d been carved out of the surrounding mountains, but still.

  “Miss?” the cashier said.

  “Oh, sorry. Distracted,” Baskia said, brushing it off. She placed her sundries on the counter.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the woman asked, eying her. The gaps in the middle-aged woman’s half smile and shifty eyes told her she’d only ever made it as far as the county border.

  “That I’m not. Just visiting.”

  “Have family in these parts?”

  Baskia wasn’t used to the nosy questioning and looked away as the woman took a painstakingly long time bagging the items.

  “A few more weeks until summer’s over, then before you know it, winter’s coming. We won’t be seeing the likes of you city-folk once the weather dips below sixty-five.” She cackled.

  Baskia shivered at the mention of winter, but knew she’d only be there for a couple more days. She told herself that was all she’d need to get back on track. “Right,” Baskia said eager to get out of the shop.

  After loading into the car, a loud bang, like someone hitting the back of the BMW with a fist, and a male voice hollering, stopped her from backing out any farther.

  She whipped around to see the hot guy from before shaking his head as he walked away.

  “Geez, sorry, I didn’t see you,” she muttered. “Hot or not, you don’t have to be rude.” She watched him get in a pickup truck and pull away. Without meaning to, she followed him several miles out of town and then onto the winding route that took her back up the mountain to the cabin. She started to get nervous, maybe he was luring her out of town, ready to exact revenge for almost hitting him, but then he pulled off onto a dirt road. She sped by. As she rounded a corner, blue flashing lights commanded her to pull over.

  “Shit.”

  “License and registration, Miss,” a local policeman said when he reached her window. After what felt like a half hour, he returned with a ticket.

  As she pulled away, the pickup with the hot guy she almost plowed into rolled by. He waved and nodded at the Officer.

  “My second time on the road in as many years and I get pulled over, twice. Nice Baskia, nice.” When she realized she was talking to herself, she squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, wondering just what kind of backwoods wackiness she’d gotten herself into.

  Once at the cabin, she unloaded the groceries, poured a glass of lemonade, and turned to the porch, ready to relax. She swatted at a fly, buzzing irritatingly around her head. The sun, blazing overhead all morning, dipped behind a cloud, as others, like a herd of giant elephants, rushed across the sky.

  After five minutes, she shifted anxiously in the Adirondack chair. She tumbled over the last days, then weeks, and months in her mind.

  Ten minutes. An airplane went by, out of sight in the cloud cover, most likely destined for somewhere more exotic and exciting than the cabin by the lake.

  Fifteen minutes. Baskia paced along the wooden planks of the porch, having finished her lemonade. “This is boring,” she said aloud.

  Instead of going in the house, she walked down to the lake, recalling her, Will, and their cousins, in the water and playing Marco polo until the sun set over the hills.

  She sighed and sat on the end of the wooden dock, letting her bare feet dangle over the edge. Her toes skimmed the water. A clap of thunder sounded in the distance. In the silence that followed, her thoughts settled. She wasn’t ready to commit to school because she didn’t know what she wanted to study, but that wasn’t the only problem; she could just take required classes until she figured that out. She loved the city. It wasn’t that. As for modeling, she couldn’t imagine giving it up, but wasn’t eager to make it her entire life either. No, Baskia knew there was a dream somewhere inside her, but wasn’t yet sure what exactly it was. Until she did, she wouldn’t be happy on any of the paths laid before her.

  As another long roll of thunder rumbled in the sky plump drops of rain fell, dotting the lake, she saw that each possible choice foisted upon her would puddle into resentment; the kind of bitterness a person could drown in. It was longing she saw in her mother’s face whenever art history came up in conversation. It was the fraction of hesitancy whenever Anne committed to yet another item on her social calendar. It was in the tears, Baskia had only heard during the lonely nights her mother spent without her husband, which pointed toward dissatisfaction and regret. Anne would never admit to any of those things. It was also true that although her mother tolerated that life, it didn’t fit her as well as the tailored suits she wore.

  Maybe being on her own and traveling the world opened up a window of possibilities. Whatever it was had made Baskia not only unwilling, but also unable, to settle for a life living someone else’s dreams and expectations.

  Baskia let the pouring rain saturate her, cool her skin, and drench her shirt. She got to her feet and whooped at the sky. “Show me watcha got, I’m ready,” she called, her voice echoing across the valley below. She didn’t care if she had to stay there forever, perched on that hilltop, living off saltines and black coffee, she would figure out what she wanted. She’d open her eyes wide, drink the fresh air, and soak in the sun. She promised herself, as right as rain, she’d figure out her dream, and only then would she leave that remote place in the woods.

  She turned back to the cabin, splashing through the puddles, for the first time in a long time, verging on feeling free.

  Her plan seemed like a good idea, until later that evening, after showering and freshening up, she ran out of things to do. Her cell phone had spotty service and her patience evaporated just as the damp wood on the porch dried, the sun returning just in time to set, spilling like strawberry milk, splendidly, over the distant hills.

  When she crawled into bed that night, everything felt right. Yes, she’d gotten a bit bored, but the next day she planned to take a jog along the trails in the woods, do a crossword puzzle, look through the stack of fashion magazines she’d brought with her, and reorganize her luggage after having packed it hastily. Tomorrow would be a new day. She expected insights would burst forth as sure as the sun would rise. She drifted off to sleep feeling something like hope.

  Chapter Six

  Baskia dreamed of dancing in a sea of nameless faces, the music too loud and too fast, but she couldn’t stop moving. No matter how hard she tried, her feet and legs and arms wouldn’t stay still. In the dream, she closed her eyes and the music changed, no longer sticking to a rhythm of drums and bass. A tense rumbling grew louder as if coming closer. She started to panic, spinning dizzy circles in the dark vacuum of sleep, then shot upright in the large bed.

  The thin tank she wore clung to her sweating skin, and her pulse throbbed in her ears. For a split second, she thought she heard something crash outside, but the noises of her dream stuck in her mind.

  She lay back down in the bed, kicking the sheet off, and smoothing her hair out of her face. After a few moments, she got up, unable to go back to sleep. She trailed through the dark to the kitchen, in need of a glass of water. She heard another sound, this time closer, a scratching and then a brushing noise. Baskia stiffened, realizing that something might be out there. If sh
e screamed, no matter how loud, no one would hear her in the remote cabin.

  She crept to the door, feeling along the wall in the shadows for the lock, to make sure she’d bolted it earlier. As she was about to turn it, the door swung open. She jumped back, a shriek escaping, but then she slapped her hand to her lips and retreated backwards in the dark. Terror made her skin chill despite the warm summer night. As she neared the bedroom door, she fumbled for the light and flipped on.

  There, standing in the shadow of the doorway, stood a figure with chin length blond hair, blue jeans, and boots. He wore a wicked grin.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “You’re Three, uh I mean, Will’s sister, right? I remember you.”

  Baskia groped behind her for something, anything, to use in self-defense if he came any closer. Finally, her hand landed on an umbrella. She angled it at him. In her daze and still shaken up from the dream she shouted, “How do you know who I am, and why are you here?”

  “Relax,” he said, lifting his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not going to hurt you. Put the weapon down.”

  Disheveled, with red-rimmed eyes, his hair was windblown, and the fuzzy scruff on his face suggested haste and disdain. His broad shoulders hung slightly like an invisible weight pressed down on him. Tattoos lined his arms all the way up to the snug hem on his t-shirt.

  “Like what you see?” he asked, pulling Baskia out of her trance. “How about you put the umbrella away? If it opens, I hear that’s bad luck.”

  “Not until you tell me who you are and then go back the way you came.”

  “I’m Will’s friend. His old roommate actually. At Harvard.”

  “You went to Harvard?” she said, unable to help herself. His haggard, just-rolled-out-of-bed appearance didn’t suggest a shining example of higher education. And he was her kind of sexy, not Harvard sexy.

  “Don’t sound so surprised. It was freshman year. I uh, dropped out.” He took another step in her direction, reaching for the end of the umbrella and lowering it. “Tracey Wolfe. Trace,” he said.

  Slowly the memory of a guy with blond facial hair and a snarling attitude—on the edge of trouble, which she hadn’t quite become familiar with before her modeling career started—filtered back into her memory. It was a sweltering August day in Boston. While they toured the Harvard campus and got Will settled in, her father complained that he had to get back to his office. He’d appraised the roommate, Trace, whispering to Will, before they left, to be careful.

  “Where’s Will?” Baskia asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Despite her bad dream it was the middle of the night, she was tired, and not at all interested in having a houseguest, if she could call him that.

  “I needed to get away from things for a little while and get my shit together. He invited me to the Cape, but uh, he said it would be okay if I came up here instead.”

  Baskia sniffed, thinking how unfortunate the coincidence was, getting away being exactly what she needed to do. With Trace at the cabin, she was no longer away; life back home unexpectedly barged in. “Well, I’m staying here right now, and he didn’t mention anything about anyone coming up.”

  Trace narrowed his eyes slightly as if evaluating her. “Does he know you’re here?”

  Baskia shook her head.

  “Why are you here?” he asked pointedly.

  “None of your business. It’s my house.”

  “Actually, I think it’s your parents’ cabin.”

  “Which doesn’t give Will the right to loan it out.”

  He looked around at the thick wood beams, the state of the art electronics, and the spaciousness amidst the rustic and modern touches. “Though, I would hardly call this a cabin.” He sighed, as if weariness defeated him. “Listen, Baskia, right? I’m sorry, honest. I know I startled you, but I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know anyone else was here. I thought the car in the driveway was one your parents kept here or something. I just need to chill for a little while. Then I’ll be out of here. You won’t even know I’m around.”

  “How do I know you’re who you say—?”

  “Call your brother. He’ll tell you everything.”

  “The cell service sucks,” Baskia said. Coming down from the adrenaline rush combined with the thick night air, sleepiness tugged her back toward the plush bed.

  “I just drove five hours. I’m gonna crash, if that’s okay. I’ll keep to myself. It’ll just be a few days.”

  “Fine. I’m calling Will tomorrow. Stay on the couch,” Baskia ordered, finding herself barking, irritated that one of her brother’s loser friends was interfering with her solace.

  As she closed the door to her room, Trace tugged his shirt off, revealing a fit chest, tanned from the summer sun, and a chiseled waist. The tattoos lining his arms, like two colorful sleeves, words and images twisting around his muscles, hugged his back.

  “By the way, you turned out to be pretty hot, now that you’re all grown up,” he called as he reclined on the couch.

  Baskia flipped off the light without another word, leaving him submerged in darkness.

  Despite the fact that she vaguely remembered him, she locked the bedroom door before settling into the oversized bed. She remembered that the enormous walkout basement had spare bedrooms, bunk beds, relics from her childhood visits to the cabin. The next day, he could stay down there.

  Unable to sleep, she tossed and turned, fretting. She wondered about what kind of trouble might have brought him all the way to Vermont. Worse, she anticipated he might make it more difficult for her to do her soul searching. She tossed until her eyes grew heavy and sleep took her back into the land of dreams.

  ^^^

  As the new day dawned, Baskia’s growling stomach woke her. She vaguely recalled a bad dream involving loud music and a semi-stranger showing up at the cabin.

  She pulled on a pair of shorts, her skin already sticky in the heat and shuffled out to the main part of the house, yawning. Baskia jumped when she saw the really, really hot guy sleeping on the couch in the living room. The night before rushed back to her: the strange noises, him barging in, and her wishing he’d leave. Scolding herself for thinking he was cute, she didn’t want any drama—having had her fill back in the city—she promised she’d get him out of there as soon as possible.

  As she clanked around in the kitchen making coffee, Trace cleared his throat and then rustled. She wasn’t dressed properly, not that she’d ever cared before; she had, after all, modeled half-naked for magazine spreads, on the runway, and on billboards. Exposure wasn’t anything new, yet being braless in the cabin with Trace brought on an unusual sense of emotional vulnerability. She wanted that time to be her own, not spent resisting his magnetic field of burdens. Nor did she want distractions, especially extremely attractive ones.

  Baskia scooted back toward the hallway, but it was too late. He was up, his bare chest kissed by the sun that streamed through the oversized windows.

  She swallowed hard. “I was just, uh, going to change.”

  “I think you look fine the way you are,” he said, his voice husky from sleep.

  She fled to her room. Flustered, she quickly clasped her bra and slid on a sundress. It would be another hot day. She splashed water on her face and freshened up.

  When she entered the kitchen, she caught Trace dumping the fresh pot of coffee down the drain.

  “Hey, why are you doing that?” she said crossly.

  “It was awful. Who taught you how to make coffee? Wait, let me guess, you’ve never made coffee before.” He wore a smirk on his lips.

  “That’s not true.” It was. Her pout turned into a snarl. “And that’s not nice.” She was no pioneer woman or Martha Stewart, but her resolve to figure things out included the simplicity of making a pot of coffee. It was in the rhythm of every-day tasks that she hoped to move farther away from the tug of confusion and helplessness about not knowing how to move forward with her life.

  “I never said I was nice,” Trace said. He no
longer smiled. The roughness she’d noticed the night before appeared in the tight set of his jaw.

  “I never asked. And I certainly didn’t request that you rate my coffee making skills or—” she spat, but he interrupted.

  “Here’s how you do it,” he said, scooping just the right amount of grounds into the filter. “Also, freshly ground beans are much better.”

  “Okay, do it your way, coffee snob,” she said, pulling a banana from the bunch and peeling it.

  The machine gurgled as it brewed, filling the silence. In no time, the aroma of fresh coffee enticed Baskia to have a cup, despite the fact that he’d made it.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “What? The banana?”

  He shook his head with a chuckle. “You really know how to make one of those look good,” he said suggestively. “But I meant your coffee, how do you take it?”

  “Oh, just cream,” she answered, feeling foolish.

  Trace started to prepare two mugs, but Baskia grabbed hers. “I can handle it from here, thank you.”

  She huffed out of the kitchen, mug in hand, and took a seat on one of the uncomfortable Adirondack chairs. She couldn’t begin to understand why her mother insisted on having them; they were stiff and built at the wrong angle for reclining in comfort, yet she couldn’t sit up straight in it either. But what she really couldn’t wrap her head around was why she couldn’t be alone. She was trying to distance herself from the wealth, the parties, and the trouble. She wanted to improve her life, on her own terms, and then Trace—all handsome and surly—had to interfere.

  Watching a pair of birds land in a tree, she took a sip of coffee, reluctant to admit that it was much better than when she had made it.