Later that day, Baskia went into town to return a few books, namely the romance novel, long overdue. As she set it on the counter a slip of white paper brushed to the floor.
“Oops. You dropped your bookmark,” Mary said, pointing.
Baskia crouched to pick it up and recognized Trace’s handwriting from the note on the washing machine. It said,
What do you want? XO
A half-smile tugged at her cheek. It was as if he’d read her mind, but before she answered the question, she wanted to know what he wanted. Guys had always wanted her, but in a sexual way, for status, to tell all their friends on Facebook that they were dating a hot model, and to show up at a party with her on their arm. It was never so much about her, but about how she looked and what she did, not who she was. Surely, that wasn’t true about Trace. Status didn’t seem to register on any list of important qualities he may have had. They flew so far from each other’s social orbit as to be laughable. She imagined him hanging out with bikers, doing God only knows what in dim, smoky bars.
“Miss Benedict,” Mary asked, “your card, please.
Baskia handed it over and then carefully put the slip of paper in her purse.
“Oh, this is a good one. I’m sure you’ll like it,” she said, offering commentary on a memoir. Baskia picked it because she liked the bluebird on the cover. “Oh, and I see you’re brushing up on classics. Very good.”
Baskia’s cheeks grew rosy as she tried to ignore the reason she’d picked up the Iliad—Trace had mentioned being a classics major before he’d dropped out of Harvard.
“Will this be all? Are you sure you don’t want any DVDs? I always watch Roman Holiday on Thanksgiving. I love Audrey Hepburn. She had such class.”
Baskia grabbed a copy of Paris when it Sizzles from the nearby display.
“Good choice. You know, I met her once.”
The librarian relayed a story of her sole trip abroad, to Italy, where she stumbled onto the set of the film. Baskia indulged her, not mentioning she’d lost count of how many times she’d been to Europe, Italy specifically.
“Someday, I’d really love to go back,” Mary said wistfully.
“Why don’t you?”
She sighed. “Things have changed. I’m not as young as I used to be. And well…” but she didn’t answer. The chime on the door tinkled, and Mary greeted an older patron with an overstuffed tote of books.
“Thanks,” she called as she skipped out the door, the note from Trace zipping through her mind. She wanted him. However, the chaos that danced between them, made it daunting, if not impossible. As surely as there could never have been a relationship between Anya, in Roman Holiday, and the journalist, played by Gregory Peck, a future between Baskia and Trace was unlikely. Maybe she’d be better off with someone simple like Wes.
As her thoughts carried her back to the mountain, the wood delivery, and the impending winter, she caught herself up short with astonishment. Why was she so hung up on guys and relationships? Hadn’t she sought refuge in the forgotten town to figure out what she wanted? That’s what Trace’s message meant. What did she want in life and from herself? And there she was again, back where she’d started. The question hung in her mind like a no vacancy sign, the neon bulb flickering and dimming with her inability to occupy it.
Stashing her books in the car, Baskia went into the market, hoping to find something suitable for a Thanksgiving meal. Her mother had invited her over, but she’d already be in New York for two weeks in early December, adding any extra days would give Anne the opportunity to arrange another meeting with the alums from Columbia and other unpleasantness.
A young girl with mousy brown hair and a downturned mouth replaced the cashier with the missing teeth. Baskia roamed the aisles, not sure what she was looking for. She spotted a box of mashed potatoes and read the instructions. “Just add milk, salt, and butter. That’s easy enough.” She went to the freezer section and grabbed a bag of green beans, a frozen meal with cranberry sauce, and a small tub of Dulce de leché ice cream. The scent of warm cinnamon swirled in the air.
At the counter, a portly woman set down several pie boxes. “If you run out, call me right away. I can have more down here in three hours or you can take the name and number of the customer, and I can call them. I know this is just a trial, but no one has ever turned down one of my pies before.”
“Okay,” the girl behind the counter said flatly.
The pie-lady turned to Baskia. “Can I interest you in an apple or pumpkin pie? Fresh baked, just in time for Thanksgiving.” Her rosy cheeks lifted eagerly.
As tempting as it was, Baskia couldn’t afford to eat pie and ice cream with the show coming up. “No thank you,” she said briskly.
The woman winced as if she’d expected her to ask for a plate and a fork on the spot. “Well, here, take my card in case you change your mind.” She waddled out of the shop.
“They do smell good,” the girl behind the counter said longingly. “My stepdad hates pie so I’m always stuck eating rum raisin pound cake.”
“Who could hate pie?”
“I think the better question is who’d like rum raisin pound cake, but you’d be surprised what he hates.”
Baskia chuckled.
The girl’s lips turned down as if she sunk more deeply into herself, shrinking at the sound of her own her words.
“I say you sneak one of those home with you,” Baskia said.
The girl didn’t answer as she rang up the items on the counter. “Will that be all?”
Baskia eyed the pie, arguing against buying one to eat alone. “Yes.” After paying, she offered a Happy Thanksgiving.
“Thanks,” the dismal look on the girl’s face made Baskia wonder how happy a celebration it might be for the two of them. She was on her own after all, except for the companionship of a basket of questionable, readymade food, and an old movie that sparked, dangerously, with romance.
Chapter Thirteen
When Thursday night rolled around, Baskia pushed around the flaky mashed potatoes and the string beans—with freezer burn—on her plate. After one bite of the frozen meal in the little plastic tray, she deemed it inedible. A cube of lasagna still sat in the fridge from the dinner Trace had made. Baskia heated it up, warmth spreading through her at the thought of their hot night together. But, he wasn’t there to eat it with her. He’d ditched her again. She was probably just a booty call. Yes, he drove a significant distance to hook-up, but still. Like so many other guys, he only wanted to get laid, and she happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or in her case, the wrong time. She pushed the plate of lasagna away, gazing at the cold, empty fireplace, wishing for someone, or something, to ignite the fire in her that would point her toward her passion and purpose and away from guys and so many conflicting feelings.
She wondered if she could find a tutorial online for how make a fire in the stone hearth. But, it wouldn’t last long; there were just a few logs leftover from the previous winter. She wondered if Wes would bring by the wood he’d promised. She doubted it, after their strange interaction the last time they were together and Trace’s second appearance wearing nothing but a towel. She wondered if retreating to the cabin had somehow messed up her magnetism, causing her attractiveness to guys to grow and fade like a mutant character in a comic book.
An owl hooted in the dark night. After putting in the old film, Baskia drew a velour throw around her shoulders. Cars honked and someone yelled in French when a knock on the door startled her. Her heart raced at the possibility of Trace’s return. But if it was him, she wished she’d bought one of those pies so she could smash it in his face. The pot of nasty mashed potatoes might work. She pulled open the door to see Wes standing on the threshold holding a goofy looking cupcake made to look like a pilgrim hat.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, handing it to her. “A, uh, nurse I know made it. I had a minute to get away and thought you might like one.”
“Thanks,” she said, inviting him
in.
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. Thought maybe you would’ve gone to see your family.”
“Nope, for the rest of the season the mountain has claimed me,” Baskia said, sitting back down.
He glanced at the barely touched plates on the coffee table. “Looks like you had yourself a regular feast.”
“Want some ice cream?” she asked.
“No thanks. I’m stuffed. And it’s already cold enough. I, um… I came over to apologize if I was being weird the other day, when we went out to dinner—” He hung on the edge of saying more, but Baskia quickly cut him off, if only to put him at ease.
“Everyone has an off night.”
He mumbled, “An off couple of years is more like it, but hey, while I’m here why don’t I start a fire. That way you can eat your ice cream and keep warm.”
“Thanks. There’s not much wood though,” she said, pointing to the metal cradle holding a small stack of split logs.
“That’ll get you through tonight. Like it or not, winter is upon us, and keeping the cabin warm is a priority. Pipes can freeze easily and then, well, that’s a problem you don’t want on your hands.”
Wes crumbled up a few pieces of newspaper and added kindling. “Just make sure the flu is open, okay. The fire needs oxygen,” he said, showing her. When it caught, he added a couple of the dry logs. “And the snow. Have you hired someone to plow?”
The details of winter flew far outside Baskia’s frame of reference. She didn’t know what to say. “Do I need to?”
He nodded. “And snow tires. You’ll probably want them on your car if you plan on getting off the mountain during the next four months.”
“Oh,” Baskia said, the impending weather intimidating her. “I’ll be gone for the next couple weeks. I have a show in Manhattan, but I’ll make sure to get it all sorted out before I leave.”
“Good. Wouldn’t want you stranded up here.” Wes warmed his hands by the fire. “I better head home.”
“Are you sure you don’t want any ice cream?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be up tomorrow with a load of wood. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Alone again, but warmer than ever, Baskia stared into the firelight, listing what she had to be thankful for.
Early the next morning, Baskia woke to a loud crash. She worried about the fire and if there was something important she was supposed to have done before going to sleep. She raced to the living room and found everything in order.
Glancing outside, she spotted Wes take a sip of coffee from a mug. He set it on the hood of his truck and then walked around to the other side and started stacking an enormous pile of wood.
She hurried to the bathroom, freshened up, and pulled on jeans and a sweater before putting on her coat and a pair of gloves.
“Mornin,’” he called to her when she appeared in the driveway. “I don’t usually stack it for customers, but I figured you could use a little help.”
“I didn’t know it needed to be stacked.”
He laughed. “Exactly. Okay if I put it all here, that way you won’t have to shovel very far.”
“Shovel?” she echoed, never, until the night before, thinking about how to prepare for winter. She’d only ever considered which style of tall, black boots was essential for the season.
“And plow. Did you call anyone yet?”
She glanced at his truck, noting the yellow plow on the front. “Can I hire you?”
“I didn’t want to be pushy,” he answered humbly, all the while continuing to stack the logs, moving swiftly with capable hands that were calloused enough not to need gloves.
Baskia picked up a few stray logs and brought them over, unsure if there was a method to stacking wood.
“Form uniform rows with supports—Lincoln-log style—on the end. That way it won’t fall over,” he said gesturing, as if she would someday do it on her own.
Baskia was on a soul-searching mission, but as sure as the day was long, or getting shorter, as was the case, the cabin on the mountain would not be her ultimate dwelling place. Nonetheless, she welcomed the sweat that beaded along the back of her neck as she helped Wes stack the wood.
When the logs were as orderly as a box of matchsticks, Wes picked up his mug. It said, Let her dream, for she wakes, she’ll move mountains. As he started to take a sip, he pulled it from his lips. “Eh. Cold.”
“Want to come in? I have to make a pot anyway,” she offered.
He shrugged, looked toward the woods a moment, and then followed her in. They sat at the kitchen table, chatting idly while the coffee brewed. Baskia used a pod, not risking a botched pot, despite her instructions from Trace. She set two mugs on the table.
“No need to dirty another. I can reuse this one.”
“Lucky mug?” she asked.
“Something like that.”
“I like the quote.”
Sadness, brimming in his eyes, betrayed his grin. “Me too.”
She swiftly changed the subject, sensing there was more, but these two confusing men, newly in her life, weren’t eager to open up and as it was, she had herself to deal with.
“So the wood is stacked, I have a plow guy lined up, is there anything else I need to do to prepare for the winter?”
Wes cracked a knowing smile. “I’d recommend stocking up on food, water, and stuff to do, if you plan on staying after January.”
“Noted.”
They continued chatting until Wes said he had a few other deliveries that day.
“Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure,” he said. A rare grin appeared. “See ya in a couple weeks.”
The following days Baskia spent packing and preparing for her return to the city. She amped up her workouts, taking to running the trails that she’d hiked, thankful the snow hadn’t fallen yet. Having spent a great deal of time during her modeling career wearing designer clothes or very little, depending on the shoot, surrounded by mirrors, and having countless people scrutinizing her body, she couldn’t wait to shed the layers of clothing she had to wear up north and hit the runway. Then, as she caught up on her Facebook and Instagram accounts, she recalled London would be there. The text she’d accidentally received, with the words, crazy bitch, blazed through her mind.
^^^
Driving south, Baskia found excitement bubbling as the silhouette of familiar buildings came into view. It was dusk and although she’d promised her mother dinner, she looked forward to going out on the town later.
While riding the elevator in her parent’s building, she sent a quick text in reply to London’s last one.
The crazy bitch is back.
She waited for her phone to bleep, but it stayed silent as her mother gave her a stiff hug.
“You look well, dear,” she said. “Ready for the show tomorrow?”
“The show is next weekend. I have a meeting tomorrow, a fitting, just prep for the first few days,” Baskia clarified.
“Of course. I always forget how these things work.”
“Any chance I can stay at the apartment?” Baskia asked gingerly.
“I don’t think so. It’s still undergoing renovations. I opted for a more modern look this time. Renny, my interior design specialist, thought it was time for an overhaul. But I’ve arranged a campus tour at Columbia so you can get acquainted with the school before the students return and sweep you up into their midst during the third week in January.”
“Yeah, about that—” Baskia started to say. Just then, the kitchen timer dinged. She’d decided, she’d stay the winter. It was, without knowing why—or how—what she had to do.
“Why don’t you pour us some apple cider? It was so nice of you to bring something from Vermont,” Anne said, pointing to the jug. “Oh and I never was able to locate that crystal decanter. Any idea where it vanished to?” she called over her shoulder as she took a dish out of the oven.
Baskia’s phone vibrated as if on cue. London had written back.
Party toni
ght at Iced.
She referred to a club that had everyone buzzing over the summer. The rumor was the owner ran into some trouble and had to delay the opening, making it even more enticing when it finally did launch.
“Have you spoken to your brother?” Anne asked.
She hadn’t, but she lied. “Yeah.”
“And Mellie. She’s doing wonderfully. Made the dean’s list her first term, and she’s fast tracked to—”
Baskia stopped listening. She hadn’t spoken to Mellie in an unforgivably long time. She knew she should call, but the constant comparison by her mother had filtered into her consciousness making her want to rebel in a storm of fire, tequila, and failure at the mention of her old friend’s name. She still wasn’t sure about her future, but it had to be on her terms, not her mother’s, and certainly not Mellie’s. Not that the latter was at fault, but still.
Anne moved briskly around the kitchen and set the table. “Your father should be here any second.”
“Don’t you ever get pissed off that he’s always late? Or doesn’t show up?”
“Honestly, Baskia. You don’t have to use that kind of language.”
“What, pissed? As in angered, as in urine, or as in the British colloquial term for drunk? Or an alcoholic beverage, beer that tastes like swill, or—”
“That’s enough. You sound like your cousin Brighton. I always disapproved of how my sister just let her run wild—”
“Or as in the truth,” Baskia retorted bristling, a riot igniting inside.
“If this is something you want to talk about, let’s do it after we have a civilized dinner, it would be so unpleasant for your father to walk into a discussion.”
There were a dozen things Baskia wanted to scream in response. Criticisms and questions burned her tongue. She wanted to slam a drawer or door, but her mother wouldn’t have it. She launched into different study options all the while fussing with the cooling platters of food.
Baskia’s stomach grumbled. Although she knew she couldn’t eat much, she scooped the salad onto her plate, on principle.
“Don’t be disrespectful. We’re waiting for your father.”
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 11