On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  With thoughts of Trace and solace ahead of her, and Manhattan and London behind her, Baskia drove north.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Can you believe it?” Baskia said, leaning into the window of Wes’s truck. He’d just plowed the driveway to the cabin after the first major snowfall. Baskia ignored her frozen toes. “It took her three days to call, and she didn’t even apologize. I just don’t understand her—she’s so frustrating.”

  Wes looked on sympathetically. “Have you told her exactly how you feel?”

  “Well, yeah. But that’s the thing—never mind. I don’t even know why I’m boring you with this. Thanks for coming up and plowing.”

  “That’s what you hired me for.”

  “Yeah, and not to listen to me rant about my mother.” Baskia wasn’t sure why she suddenly opened up to Wes. It may have been the kind smile and the crinkle in his eyes that made them sparkle that morning as he squinted against the bright blanket of fresh snow. Or it may have been that he seemed like a good listener (more so than a talker.) She’d been boiling with irritation for days, and cooped up in the house with no one to talk to made her gripes just pour out to the first person she met. Or it could have been a combination of all three, which was often the case. It rarely was as simple as just one thing.

  After Wes pulled away, her phone beeped with a message. It was her mother again. “What, did you realize you meant to say sorry?” she said aloud. Baskia needed to restock the cupboards, and despite not wanting to talk to her mother, she clung to the possibility an apology waited in the message the spotty cell service wasn’t letting her hear.

  As Baskia drove down the driveway toward the mountain road, the BMW skidded and fishtailed. Her knuckles blanched as she gripped the steering wheel. “This isn’t fun.” She let off the brake to see what would happen. The car coasted. She avoided mounds of slush and stayed in Wes’s tracks.

  Finally, at the base of the mountain, Baskia took a deep breath, relieved she’d made it. Fear of driving up and down the winding hill for the next few months prompted her to second-guess the plan to see through the winter in Vermont. Then, when a remix of a song came through the car’s speakers reminding her of the late nights and bright lights in the City, and the declaration she’d made to her mother to make good use of her life, her resolve strengthened.

  She pulled directly into the garage Wes had brought the BMW to when the alternator died. The small office reeked of motor oil. Grease smudged the wooden door leading to the repair bay. A stout woman with short, curly grey hair stood ready behind the sales counter.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I came in to find out about getting snow tires put on my BMW.”

  “Curtis is towing someone out of a ditch. He’ll be able to tell you when he can get them ordered better than I can. But that’s a smart idea; let me tell you. He has some nasty stories about people going off the road. Drive slow, don’t brake suddenly, and have good tires, and four-wheel drive. Or me, I usually just stay home. Except today. I have a meeting in an hour, and he asked me to hold down the fort. Jim’s here, but he’s,” she leaned in to whisper, “not real good with customers. Every other word is followed by a cuss. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  Baskia intended to listen to her mother’s message and browse on her phone, but the woman behind the counter rattled on about the weather, winter supplies, and her grandchildren. Within a half hour, Curtis, an older man with grease-black hair, going white around the temples, appeared and informed Baskia he’d have the tires by the end of the week.

  Before popping into the market, she pressed listen on her mother’s message.

  “Hello, Baskia dear. I hoped to speak to you directly, but your father and I decided we’re coming up to the cabin to celebrate Christmas this year. By the sounds of it, we’ll have a white one with all that snow. I think your brother will visit too, so please do get everything ready. Call me back soon. Bu-bye.”

  Baskia sunk back into the seat, her chin falling toward her chest. It was one thing to go it alone up there with her books, magazines, online shopping, movies, and lousy microwave dinners. It was another to entertain her parents. She’d taken to thinking of the cabin as her place, a space to rest, restore, and figure things out, not that she’d gotten very far. Her parents’ visit felt like an intrusion. “Get everything ready?” she asked no one in particular. The basement was still in rough shape; could she hire someone to get it fixed up? Where did she start? In addition, there was the matter of food and Christmas dinner. How long were they going to stay? Baskia sighed then stepped into the slushy street, the cold slapping her in the face.

  The mousy girl stood idly behind the cash register in the market. Her face looked fuller, her hair not as stringy. Maybe she’d eaten a pie for Thanksgiving after all.

  Unloading her groceries onto the counter, Baskia asked, “Do you have a Christmas menu?”

  “Huh?” the girl asked.

  “Do you cater?”

  “Um. I don’t know.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. I can’t cook. I’m lucky I haven’t wasted away. For real. There aren’t any decent restaurants around here, and no one’s going to trust me behind the stove so I need to come up with a meal for four.”

  “Just four?” The girl’s eyes glazed over with disinterest as if it shouldn’t be a big deal.

  “I can cover appetizers, but salad, the main course, and dessert—I have to leave it to the professionals. I have plenty of wine—”

  The girl looked bored.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Daniella,” she answered shortly.

  “Well, Daniella, do you understand my question? Do you hear the desperation in my voice?”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m trying to think of someone around here that could help you. My mom is an awful cook; at least my step-dad thinks so. Um, hey, how about the pie lady?” She handed Baskia a card from the Thanksgiving delivery.

  “Right,” she said, doubting the woman’s ability to create a meal to meet her mother’s standards.

  “Or you know, you could just learn to cook,” Daniella said, stating the obvious.

  Baskia snorted. “Thanks, but I don’t think an apron would look good on me.”

  On the way back to the cabin, Baskia stopped off at Wes’s, hoping to catch him at home. The truck wasn’t in the driveway, but she knocked on the door to the log cabin anyway. There was no answer. She peered through the window, but the house looked quiet and hazy, almost uninhabited.

  She dug through her purse for a paper to leave a note. Just as she signed her name, the pickup pulled in.

  Wes approached, nervousness pinching his features. “Hi, what are you doing here?”

  “Is something the matter?” Baskia asked.

  “No, uh, I just didn’t expect you.”

  She wondered if that was a problem, but went on, “I need your help. Again.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets against the cold, waiting for her to continue.

  “Are you going to invite me in? It’s freezing,” she said with a shiver.

  He shifted uneasily. His boots crunched in the snow. “We better not. Um, my um. My—”

  Baskia leaned in, waiting for him to finish.

  “Why don’t I meet you up at your place in an hour?” He glanced at his watch. “No, make that an hour and a half. I just came back to grab something.”

  Baskia looked at him carefully. His eyes darted around, avoiding her gaze.

  “That’s fine, I guess. I’m not looking forward to driving up the mountain, but if you don’t care…”

  “I passed your car parked outside Curtis’s. Did you order tires?”

  Baskia nodded. “See you in a little while.”

  The drive back up the mountain was nearly as terrifying as the way down. It didn’t look like anyone, plows included, had passed that way while Baskia was in town.

  She had less than two weeks to prepare to entertai
n her parents. In the past, she would have said screw it, but she sensed the challenge in her mother’s voice. If she was going to prove she was grown up, she wanted everything to be perfect.

  After unloading the groceries, she searched online for a catering service that would fit her parents’ tastes. Their palate was refined, specific, and they wouldn’t accept anything less than the finest ingredients. Based on the choices in town—the greasy diner, Din’s, and the market—gourmet anything was in short supply. There were several restaurants and caterers listed that might meet her criteria, but they were all at least an hour or two away. She wasn’t eager to drive more than was necessary on the icy roads. She turned the pie lady’s card over in her hand, but then Wes knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” she called. The door didn’t open. “Come in,” she repeated. There was no answer except for a scraping and whooshing sound from the front deck. Baskia pulled the door open to find Wes shoveling. “You don’t have to do that,” she called to him.

  After a few more swipes, he stomped off his boots. “How were you going to get to your wood pile?”

  “I figured I’d flatten a path with my boots.” She pranced around in her bulky winter boots, as if demonstrating.

  “It’s going to snow again. Then again. And again. And—”

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll just add that to my cold weather to-do list: wood, plowing, snow tires, extra food, supplies, shovel—there must be one around here somewhere.”

  “I’ll leave that one for you. I have a bunch.”

  “You’re too kind. But I actually have another item to add to the ever-growing list of winter essentials. My basement.”

  “Huh?”

  “I need to get it ready for guests or more specifically, my brother and me. And who knows, before she’s through she might invite half of Manhattan up here for Christmas.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “My mother decided to spend the holidays here. In this cabin. In my oasis. And I doubt she’ll sleep on a bunk downstairs and there was a problem…”

  “Gotcha. Let’s have a look.”

  Standing in the water-damaged basement, Wes shrugged. “Seems straightforward enough. My, uh, there are carpenters in my family. I think we can get this figured out.”

  “Great. You’ve done so much for me. I wanted someone that came on recommendation, someone I can trust. I didn’t want to hire some schlub to—”

  A sad smile lifted Wes’s cheeks as if the memory was bitter and sweet. “Those carpenters live in Nebraska and Maryland.”

  “How soon can they get out here? My mom and dad will be here on Christmas Eve.”

  As if he couldn’t help himself, Wes’s smile turned into a chuckle.

  “What’s funny?” Baskia asked, confused.

  “We’re going to do this. You and me.”

  “No. I mean. Huh? Are you handy?”

  “Handy enough.” He straightened up and drew a deep breath. “My father was a carpenter. He built our house. He helped build this cabin years ago, before he had his own crew, actually.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “About my father or this place?”

  “Both. You should have him come up. I bet he’d love to see how it turned out. Can’t he help? Or is he in Nebraska? I mean, of course I’d pay. He probably knows this place like the back of his hand.”

  Just as easily as Wes had smiled, his face crumbled. He steadied himself on the rail of the bunk bed. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. Did I say something?” Then it struck her, the log cabin looked empty, because it was. “Did you lose him?” she asked quietly.

  Baskia had only seen two men cry in real life. One was her brother, when their grandfather died, tears she’d shared. And the other guy was one of her friends, Russ. She’d gotten used to, even expected his tears—happy or sad. They’d cry together over rom-coms and cute puppies. Wes’s tears, private, mournful, and agonizing, was a different experience altogether.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, then gingerly pulled him into a hug.

  He sniffled, pulled away, and wiped his eyes. “It usually doesn’t hit me like this anymore,” he said in a quiet voice. “Maybe it’s because I know that he was here once.”

  “I’m sorry. If it’s too hard. I understand. I mean, I don’t of course. But—” There were no right words to be said.

  “No, I think it would be good actually.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Wes nodded. “We’ll make a list of what we need and hit the hardware store tomorrow as long as it doesn’t snow again; if that’s the case, I’ll have to get out early to plow beforehand.”

  As Baskia watched the pickup rumble down the driveway, the pieces fell together; Wes was adrift and hanging on to the memory of his parents for dear life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After the failed Thanksgiving meal, Baskia spent the next morning brainstorming ideas for putting together a proper Christmas dinner. Technically, she needed to pull off something for Christmas Eve too, plus brunch, and dessert. She lingered in the shower, trying to figure out what to do, with no sure bets for a prepared or catered meal. She pouted. If she was in the City, the meal wouldn’t be a problem, nor would she have to deal with getting the basement fixed up.

  She searched for her favorite pair of earrings and spotted the note Trace left, atop the stacked material from Columbia University. The four words, What do you want? and XO floated off the paper.

  She took a deep breath and tried the question out on her tongue. “What do I want?”

  Silence.

  She looked in the mirror and repeated it.

  Nothing.

  With that, she threw open the window. Her breath puffed into the grey sky. “What do I want?” The words echoed in reply.

  Then, as she pulled on thick socks, all she heard was the sentence, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, on an endless loop, playing staccato against What do you want? Luckily, Wes honked and she rushed out to meet him, leaving uncertainty behind.

  Baskia was used to traffic, long cab rides, and travelling, of course, with its own brand of waiting: planes, trains, and shuttles. But the winter-bleached ground matching the cloudy sky was never-ending. The tall, ashen trees punctuated the quiet ride in the truck.

  “Everything looks the same,” Baskia said for no particular reason.

  “Some people take comfort in predictability.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t?”

  She shrugged. “I actually don’t know.” The monotonous scenery forced Baskia to look inside— foreign territory she wasn’t sure she was ready to explore.

  The warehouse style hardware store with fluorescent lighting and aisle after aisle of building materials, Baskia didn’t even know existed, was like a loud, bright shopping mall for home improvement enthusiasts.

  “Where do we start?” she asked as Wes marched toward the paint department.

  They spent the next three hours evaluating flooring options, paint colors, and finish styles. Wes pushed the cartload of brushes, caulking, nails, and screws.

  “Are we really doing this?” she asked, overwhelmed.

  “I think we can manage.”

  She had her doubts.

  ^^^

  Back at the cabin, alone again, Baskia went online to research mattresses, which led to bedding, bringing her to sites selling linens, and then tableware, and she recalled the conundrum of meal planning. The card with the pie-lady’s name sat on the coffee table. Again, she turned it over in her hands and finally dialed the number. For once, her cell phone held the call and after leaving a message, Baskia returned to her online shopping for the basement, until she’d ordered nearly everything, except a pair of sparkly platform Jimmy Choo’s she’d been coveting.

  She stayed up late that night reading a self-improvement book about manifesting miracles. When she woke up the next morning, to Wes knocking on the door, she reasoned she’d need a
miracle to get through the day as they hauled all the materials to the basement.

  Coffee subdued the slight headache from lack of sleep, but nothing prepared her for all the lifting, scraping, shuffling, and hammering as the pair transformed the space.

  After two, days Baskia had earned some pie—sweet or savory.

  “What do you think about ordering a pizza?” she asked when they'd finished for the day.

  “No one delivers up here. But we could head into Chesterbury. There’s a great pizza joint there.”

  Baskia didn’t look forward to another foray along the wintered, winding roads of Vermont, but she’d grown semi-used to Wes’s quiet, yet steady presence. “If you drive, I’ll buy.”

  Seated in a vinyl booth with red, plastic cups of water, Baskia voiced her doubts about her role in the renovations.

  “Just wait and see. When you accomplish something yourself, there’s no greater satisfaction,” Wes said encouragingly.

  “Spoken like a true New Englander.”

  “I suppose. But when you were a kid, did you ever figure something out, on your own, or create something with your own hands? It was the best, right?”

  Baskia trolled her youngest memories, including a time she’d put together a thousand-piece puzzle. Another time she’d built a bridge as part of a science project, and it actually held a load unlike the bridges built by her classmates. Once, she’d rescued a dog, struck by a car, and nursed it back to health until its owner claimed it. Then there was her freshman year of high school, before she’d signed her modeling contract, she’d made the varsity volleyball team, and the school newspaper invited her to join as photographer. The flashes of her youth flipped through her mind lightning fast. She stiffened as her father’s disregard and her mother’s chatter—comparing her accomplishments to those of the children of the women in her circle—tainted each of the memories.