On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  “Baskia?”

  “What?”

  “You looked lost in thought.”

  “I was remembering—” Just then, the pizza arrived and Baskia set the memory aside, glad to be distracted from the disappointment bubbling up from the past.

  ^^^

  As the week wore on, Baskia and Wes painted each room a soft, sunny yellow she knew her mother would approve of. Boxes and cartons arrived containing sheets, comforters, and décor to outfit the space once it was finished.

  “It’s kind of cool, ya know?” Wes said absentmindedly while cutting in the paint along the ceiling.

  “What’s that?”

  “That you came up here. You upped yourself from your life to try something different.”

  “I guess it’s cool, but it kinda came about because I was fed up, desperate, lost.”

  “That’s often the catalyst for change.”

  “Aren’t you wise,” she said, wondering if he’d read as many self-improvement books as she had.

  “Really though. Some people go through life doing the same thing over and over. But are they happy? Isn’t that the point? To experience and spread joy.”

  Baskia pondered this and some of the other sage proclamations, and questions, he’d posed over the week they’d been working together. She lost the next few minutes to quiet contemplation.

  Running his brush along the doorframe, Wes said, “There’s something Zen about painting.”

  “I think you’ve been breathing too many fumes. Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

  Out on the deck, Baskia turned her face toward the sun, taking in the last rays of the day. Wes went to grab a stack of logs for the fire that Baskia, shamefully, had not started. She’d promised herself she’d do it, but it created so much dust, and she didn’t want to burn herself trying. When he’d arrived and saw the hearth cold, Wes had set the blaze and tended to it ever since.

  Just then, something hard and cold slammed into her leg. “Hey.” She whipped around.

  Wes ducked behind the woodpile, laughing.

  “Oh really? A snowball fight? You’re on.” She reached down and packed a snowball in her gloved hands. She tiptoed down the steps when another snowball volleyed toward her. She dodged out of the way. Coming around the woodpile, another came at her, but she chucked hers and it landed on Wes’s arm. “Gotcha.”

  Wes tossed another and another, while Baskia dodged and aimed. They both laughed and hollered, bringing life to the barren landscape until the blanket of snow shone bluish in the fading light.

  Wes made for his truck.

  “Thanks for everything.”

  “Does that include the pearls of wisdom I shared?” he asked.

  “Especially those.”

  ^^^

  Even though they were under a time crunch, Wes took the weekend off from working on the basement. He didn’t offer an explanation. She wondered what he did in his lonely log cabin. As much as she relished the long, leisurely days alone, she missed having company, but didn’t look forward to her parents’ visit.

  On Monday afternoon, Baskia had an appointment with the pie-lady, Patty, for tea. When she pulled up in front of the old farmhouse, Baskia wasn’t expecting the delicious aroma that greeted her nose when she pulled open the door.

  “Welcome. It’s nice to meet you,” Patty said enthusiastically, her pink cheeks glowing.

  They sat down at the table, set for two. “Now, I know we said we were only going to talk today, but as you can probably tell, I really love cooking, and well, I couldn’t resist.” She gestured toward the double oven and an array of serving dishes. “I figured I could let the food do the talking.”

  As they sipped their tea, Patty spared few details about her family. “Now, I’m certainly not a classically trained chef, but after nine kids, you learn a thing or two about nutrition, taste, economy, and well, simply put, I grew to like cooking. I’ve come to relish seeing the smiles on people’s faces while enjoying a good meal. In fact, with everyone gone, I miss it.” She gazed out the window as if her kids were playing in the snow.

  “Aren’t you cooking for them on Christmas?” Baskia asked.

  “Gerry and Madeline are overseas, Bruce is busy with his family, and Angie and her new husband are visiting his parents this year. Tammy just had a baby and they’re in Portland. Robbie and Jack are coming for New Year’s, and then there’s Natasha, she’s working. And Faith, my dear Faith, isn’t with us anymore.” She sighed, sadness sweeping her eyes low.

  “I’m sorry.” Baskia found those words on her tongue more often lately. Suddenly, the urge to do something to help Wes and Patty, to provide some kind of goodness in their lives overwhelmed her. Just as quickly, it evaporated, leaving her feeling as empty as the cup of tea in front of her. She had no idea what she could do for them. A thought fluttered through the air, landed on her heart, and just before it flew off, she heard it whisper, Maybe they’re here to help you.

  “So, are ya hungry?” Patty asked.

  She arranged a full-course meal between them on the old wooden table. In detail, Patty described the spirals of tenderloin with parmesan herb stuffing, Chantilly potatoes with a cheddar crust, a warm Brussels sprout and kale salad, roasted carrots with pesto, and more.

  “Now, don’t you worry, I’m going to freeze all this and eat it over the course of the winter. Nothing wasted. But if you like it, I can replicate the whole thing, fresh, no problem. If there are alterations you’d like me to make for taste or allergies, let me know. Now of course we haven’t even started with biscuits, rolls, and bread.”

  “It’s perfect,” Baskia said simply. The home cooked meal nourished her in a way her body and soul desperately craved. She leaned back in the chair, speechless.

  “See what a good meal can do. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about dessert. I have a marvelous chocolate truffle layer cake, pumpkin cheesecake, and of course my fingers-crossed-soon-to-be-famous pies.”

  “It all sounds so good. You’re a miracle worker. I didn’t know where I’d be able to find food of this quality around here,” Baskia said, thankful to cast off her doubts. “As for dessert, the pies you made around Thanksgiving looked really good.”

  “You know it’s funny, my cakes were more beloved by my family. Of course, they loved pie too, but each child, while growing up, had a special birthday cake, every year. That made about 150 unique cakes. I baked a pie inside a cake once, and ice cream too, but that still counts by my reckoning. And of course I’d bake one for Henry.” She looked toward the barn, as if her late husband was about to emerge from it and clomp up the stairs with muddy boots. “You know, I always wanted to open my own bakery. I’d dreamed of calling it Patty-Cakes. That was Faith’s favorite, you know.” Patty wiped a tear from her eye.

  Baskia realized with glaring clarity how thoroughly she’d avoided loss in her life. Yes, her grandparents had passed on and it was sad, but they were well into their eighties and had lived full and satisfying lives. Some ancient voice inside her, urged her to count her blessings.

  “You’ve done a tremendous job. Thank you,” she said, embracing Patty and receiving a mother’s hug.

  They spent the next hour working out the details, food for Christmas Eve, appetizers, and of course the desserts. Baskia wondered how one woman did it all, but then, she did raise nine kids.

  ^^^

  With the food settled for the holiday, Baskia and Wes worked into the evening for the next days finishing the basement. A company installed the carpeting and two burly guys with muddy boots delivered the mattresses. Baskia spent the day before Christmas Eve vacuuming, making the beds, and getting the house ready.

  She didn’t expect to see Wes that day, but the sound of snow crunching beneath tires brought her to the door.

  Wes stepped out of the pickup. “There’s one thing we missed,” he said, reaching the porch with a box in his hands.

  “What’s that?” she asked, mentally going over every detail of the last tw
o weeks, horrified she’d overlooked something crucial.

  “Lights and a tree of course.”

  Wes set the massive Scotch pine in the stand beside the crackling fire. Baskia brought over two mugs of cocoa.

  Wes grinned. “Fitting.”

  While they trimmed the tree, Wes told stories about several of the homespun decorations. He tucked a few away without a word. The smell of tempera paint, glue, and memories told Baskia that was what it would be like if her family had participated in the typical traditions around the holidays; instead of the housekeeper doing the decorating.

  They sat back admiring their work, finishing the last drops of rich cocoa, and toasting their feet by the fire.

  “Be the light,” Wes all but whispered.

  “Hmm?” Baskia asked, the words popping from one Christmas bulb to another.

  He sighed. “I better get going. Oh, hang on, I got you something.”

  Baskia’s cheeks flushed. She didn’t have anything to offer except the wad of cash she took out of the ATM to pay him for his help.

  Wes went to his jacket and pulled out a thin parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red string.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  Baskia opened it to find a simple journal with the word smile written in small gold print along the bottom.

  “I’m known more for my signature pout, but I could use the reminder,” Baskia said, allowing her lips to turn up into a smile.

  “Your smile reminds me of someone I know who hasn’t smiled in a long time.”

  “Thanks,” Baskia said, appreciating the thoughtful gift.

  “Your present hasn’t come yet. I ordered it.” Baskia felt bad about lying, but in all her preparations, she’d forgotten about a gift for him.

  “Well, hopefully everything will get here before the storm.”

  “Storm?”

  “It’s supposed to hit on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow night.”

  Baskia hadn’t paid attention to the weather, as busy as she’d been. “Hey, here, this is for you. In case you need to buy some more gifts.” She handed him the money.

  Wes refused the cash, but Baskia insisted. “You can donate it to the library or buy me a slice of pizza next time.

  He left on a gust of cold air and laughter.

  The wind howled against the window whipping up worry about the incoming storm. After climbing into bed, Baskia opened the journal, hoping for a distraction. She dated the first page and wrote,

  10 things I’ve learned from Wes Carter (some of which may have been induced by paint fumes.)

  1. Be humble and kind.

  2. You can never be too prepared for the winter.

  3. Pizza joints do not deliver to rural locations.

  4. Satisfaction comes from doing it yourself (DIY.)

  5. There’s something Zen about painting. Find Zen everywhere.

  6. There’s a difference between being quiet and listening.

  7. Comfort can be found in predictability.

  8. Be the light.

  9. Self-sufficiency is underrated, but it’s okay to ask for help.

  10. Smile.

  As she scrawled the last one, she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The words that woke Baskia on Christmas Eve morning were patience, preparation, and adamantine, but that may have had something to do with the glitzy Jimmy Choos she’d dreamt about.

  She texted Will, asking when he expected to arrive. She hit resend four times before it finally sent. Her phone remained quiet as the day rolled on.

  Baskia fluttered around the house, arranging, and rearranging, making sure everything was perfect. She brought her luggage to the basement, returned with a couple bottles of wine, set out cheese and crackers, and waited while she browsed online for a gift to give to Wes until she picked out a book on architecture.

  Chilly, as the December wind continued to howl, Baskia crumbled newspaper, set it in the hearth, and then made a tepee out of kindling. She struck a match and watched it catch. The sharp scent of wood smoke filled the house as she laid a log on top. Looking around, she credited herself—and Wes—with creating the picture perfect holiday: the tree, lights, a warm fire, and delicious food. She took a few pictures, looking forward to posting them.

  One o’clock came and went, but there was still no sign of her mom and dad. By three, she’d started compulsively checking her phone before giving up, gathering her coat and gloves, ready to head down the mountain, hoping she’d pass them on their way up.

  At the bottom, she received a signal and checked her voicemail. Nothing. She called her mother, only to leave a message. She went back up the mountain, expecting they’d be shortly behind her. The cloud-muted day faded to evening. Baskia checked the weather, pleased to see they’d not only have a white Christmas, but fresh snow would fall, making the dirty slush pristine by morning.

  In the light of the glowing tree, Baskia watched out the window, hoping to see headlights beaming through the dark. Anxious about the uncertain arrival of her guests, even though they were just her lousy parents, Baskia uncorked a bottle of wine and stared into the fridge, wondering if she should bother reheating the first round of food that Patty had sent up. She shrugged, and turned back to the living room.

  She browsed her social media, wishing friends and associates from modeling a happy holiday. She paused on a waif-thin photo tagged Kate London mugging for a selfie, and sighed.

  Finally, at half-past eight, and with half of the merlot empty, Baskia fixed a plate from the sumptuous meal and ate in front of the fire. When the coals burned low, she tossed in another log and slouched off with a book in one hand and a wineglass in the other.

  Baskia’s phone vibrated the next morning as she pulled herself from sleep. The stained, but empty wineglass sat on the night table. “Merry Christmas,” she said, rubbing her head and pawing around for the phone. The text said,

  Sorry. Won’t be able to make it Sis. The storm rages. Happy Xmas. Love, Will

  Her plans were turned upside down and shaken. They looked like a snow globe, and not only because of the flurry visible through the window. Flakes fell and swirled in every direction. The black car was adrift in a sea of frozen, white waves as the snow drove down.

  Tugging on her winter gear, she plodded outside and loaded wood before digging out the BMW. She was supposed to go to Patty’s to pick up the rest of the food. The two refrigerators in the old farmhouse contained the four-course meal, except for a few items Patty insisted she make fresh that morning.

  Baskia patrolled the yard, her boots buried in snow, trying to find a cell signal. Finally, she got two bars and dialed her mother.

  “Hello,” Anne answered.

  “Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas,” she called over the wind.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. We’re not going to be able to make it up there. What with the storm, we figured it would be wiser to stay here. Didn’t you get the message?”

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t worry though. We won’t be alone. Betsy Strothman is having us over for dinner and dessert. You should see her tree. It’s magnificent. Did you know you can send pictures with your phone?”

  “Yes. I knew that,” Baskia said through gritted teeth. The wall of snow surrounding her feet barely kept her anchored.

  “I hope you have a Merry Christmas, dear. You know, the older I get the less I like winter. Maybe we’ll come up in the spring when it thaws. In the meantime, Baskia, we have to make some decisions about your future. Now, I’ll send you the names of the alums, and they’ll talk to you about different options. If you have any questions, I’m sure they’ll be able to point you in the right direction.”

  The wind gusted icy bits of snow, pelting Baskia’s face, but nothing stung as much as Anne’s preoccupation with everything except the present.

  “Bye,” she said in a small voice, afraid she might splinter and crack open if she said more.

  In front of the fire, Ba
skia sunk into the couch, not intending to get up until next year. As the fire burned low, she knew that the thick pressure in her chest wasn’t so much from the fact that her parents weren’t going to make it, the raging storm, or that she was alone. She was upset because she didn’t feel loved, seen, or accepted or any of the things the self-help books told her might be the root of her problem. She'd also read that the surest way to fix that was to cultivate those qualities in herself. She’d never really thought about loving herself. It seemed cheesy and pushed her a little too far along the road of narcissism that she already trod. She saw herself every day in the mirror, in magazines, and even a few times on film; she didn’t dislike whom she saw, but she didn’t fully understand what it meant to accept that person.

  What do you want? XO

  Trace’s message, as if whispered from the walls of the house itself, filtered into her mind. Did she want him? No, she probably wouldn’t see him again. Did she want mommy and daddy to tell her she’d done a good job, give her a gold star, and praise her tirelessly? She couldn’t bring herself to care. Did she want a purpose? She had one. She was a model.

  What was it? What did her heart desire? Transfixed by the dying flame, yearning danced in the orange-yellow glow telling her she wanted all of those things. Every single one of them, boldly, deeply, and immediately. Maybe knowing that was the path to acceptance, but she wasn’t sure any of them were her ultimate destination.

  She pulled out the journal from Wes and spent the next hour filling pages about what she loved and hated about Trace. She wrote that she wanted a long conversation where her mother heard her, and an even longer one with her father, listening to the soft and leathery tones of his voice—with him actually talking. She reflected on modeling and what it meant to her. By the time her hand ached, she’d explored, but hadn’t pinpointed any specific thing that whispered Yes, this is your gift; this is what you’re meant to do. The question lingered. What do you want?