On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5)

by Riordan Hall, Deirdre

  She wondered if the mistakes in her past would prevent her from being her very best in the future. As the last minutes of January first counted down, Baskia probed her mind for her purpose, her heart’s desire. Yes, she wanted to be with the man lying beside her, possibly forever, maybe longer, but she couldn’t see how it could work, never mind where she’d be in six months’ time.

  This thought carried her to a dreamy vision of the granite steps in front of Columbia University. Her mother waited there, nagging, droning on about the future, and blowing over Baskia’s ideas and interests. She steamrolled Baskia’s pleas to listen in a giant slab of don’t do this, do this, but never, what do you want? She felt herself suffocating, her spirit crushing under the weight of her mother’s intense control. Baskia gasped for breath, blinking her eyes open. Trace rested quietly beside her. She wiped her forehead and lay back down.

  He’d fearlessly asked what she wanted again and again. She still couldn’t answer, but the fact that he asked was akin to breathing in the fresh mountain air. Maybe after so many years of her mother not asking about or listening to her wishes, Baskia had shut up, locked her wishes deep inside, nearly forgotten just so she wouldn’t have to look at them and endure the agony of their going unanswered. Maybe Trace also kept his secrets in a safe place, deep inside, where the pain was dull, but familiar, not explosive with unmet longing.

  As for her parents’ directives, in recent times, she’d rebelled against every single one. She started slowly with modeling and then followed a non-traditional path through high school. Of course, there were also the things they didn’t know, or perhaps did, but wouldn’t admit. She’d bucked up against what they wanted for her, but it didn’t bring her any closer to figuring out what she wanted. Maybe it wasn’t so much that she needed to do the exact opposite of what they expected: raging around the house, slamming doors, swearing at the table, missing meetings and appointments, drinking, and doing drugs. No, maybe what she needed to do was entirely different; so different it was off the map.

  A funny thought popped into her head as an owl hooted outside. Maybe instead of rebelling against her parents, and effectively taking the road to ruin in her own life, perhaps it was time to do something completely unconventional, as far as her frame of reference went. Maybe the mountain drew her north for a very simple reason; it was time just to be.

  Part Three: Fly

  “Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity...”

  –John Muir

  Chapter Twenty-One

  One of the things Baskia liked most about being with Trace, aside from the mind blowing sex, was how completely comfortable they felt around each other. They could laugh over a bottle of wine and chocolate mousse or sit quietly, side by side in front of the fire and read. There was never an ounce of awkwardness, unless she brought up New York or delved too deeply into personal questions, then he’d go prickly and tight-lipped.

  They spent the next couple of days denned up in the cabin, Trace cooking, Baskia reading or writing in her journal, the two of them playing cards, and watching old movies. Trace read her poetry from a book that he’d found at the bottom of her library basket while they snuggled on the couch, warmed by each other and the fire.

  “We fit together jigsaw puzzle perfect,” Baskia said, contentedly.

  “Aristophanes-style.”

  “Do explain my wise scholar,” Baskia said, laughing.

  “We’re like two halves of an ancient whole.” His voice crackled and stroked her with its allure.

  Baskia liked the sound of that. She knew what she had to do to become more independent, but she drew great comfort and security from the fact that she was part of something bigger, part of Trace. She closed her eyes. “I sometimes forget you were a Classics major.”

  “Am. I’m on the slow-track, but I’ll get my diploma. I study it because it makes me braver,” he said, his open expression showing a rare moment of vulnerability.

  “And then what?”

  “When you decide what your then what is, I’ll tell you mine.”

  “You’re a tough one,” she said, undeterred.

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  ^^^

  The sun set, bathing the pine trees in chromatic hues of pink and orange, blending into salmon, and softening the mountain’s ridges.

  “You know what I love about it up here?” Trace asked, checking the enchiladas in the oven.

  “Tell me,” Baskia said as she rimmed two glasses with salt for margaritas.

  “The mountain strips us down to the bare essentials. It makes us more raw and real.”

  “Yeah, you’re not as much of the bad-boy you were when you crept in here in the middle of the night last summer.”

  “I’m every bit the bad-boy. But I’m also more myself,” he said, pinning her against the counter, stealing kisses between words.

  “You don’t really have to go do you?” Baskia asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Trace nodded. “I’ll be back.”

  “Tell me where you’re going.”

  He shook his head. “Next time I come up, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Really? When’s that?” Baskia didn’t want to beg or seem needy because she wasn’t. In fact, she was eager to begin her transformation, to enact the plan she was sure was going to lead her to where she wanted to be, free. Although she loved their time spent together, hers was a solo mission. She needed time for her journey inward, but also wanted him to return as soon as possible.

  “Soon.”

  “Not soon enough.”

  It was deep, dark night beyond the windows of the cabin, but in Trace’s arms, Baskia glowed as brightly as the noonday sun. They kissed and nuzzled, had sex and made love. She didn’t want to miss one lick of the moments they spent together. She counted them in the stubbly whiskers on his face, the creases around his eyes when he laughed, the firmness of his chest, and in the outlines of his inky tattoos telling stories of sailors and fate.

  As the moon rose in the sky, Trace hit the road. Baskia watched him disappear down the snow-covered driveway. The cabin was quiet without him. Several times, she caught herself turning to tell him something, but he wasn’t there. The chair was empty, and the figure she thought was he, was just the old grandfather clock, standing solidly in her periphery.

  She told herself it was okay though, she trusted he’d be back.

  ^^^

  Baskia opened her journal, but before she set pen to paper, she closed her eyes wishing and wondering what was in store for her. An image of her mother with her back turned appeared in her mind’s eye. Anne’s attention mattered, and yet it didn’t. It was time she started paying attention to herself. She was ready to open to the possibilities that weren’t on Anne’s checklist for her daughter’s future. She blinked open her eyes, ready to write down some of her revelations over the last few days. On the facing page, she saw the same handwriting from the note left by the laundry.

  Until someday, I wait patiently

  For your hopes and dreams

  And what is yet to be.

  From where you are

  Atop the mountain or adrift at sea

  The journey isn’t far.

  Set foot on the trail

  That twists and snakes

  You will meet thorn and crow.

  You will see dew and dale.

  But when you arrive

  I promise to follow.

  At our backs

  We will see the treasures that we gathered.

  When we look forward

  We will see the winding path mattered.

  I cannot ask you for forever.

  But only for every someday spent together.

  XO

  Baskia read and reread the promise for the future from Trace, her heart floating with happiness. Thoughts of independence bubbled through the spaces between words, telling her n
ot to wait, not to do as her mother did and reach for a man while letting go of what was important to her. She knew she had to keep going, not stopping for anyone, not even Trace, but he knew that. He understood. And that if she kept to her path, eventually she’d find him there.

  She flipped to the next page in the journal. Across the top, she wrote Goals for Self-Sufficiency. Then in a numbered list, she added:

  1. Learn to cook and bake.

  2. Learn to sew.

  3. Clean house including windows, vacuum, polish things?

  4. Shovel as necessary.

  5. Prepare a garden.

  Baskia paused, hoping these outward tasks would lead to her inner truths. Wes’s comment about finding Zen in painting made her nod. “I guess instead of asking so many questions, it’s time to listen.” She’d already learned to do the laundry, make coffee, and start a fire. If she had to survive on her own, at least she’d have clean clothes, be caffeinated, and warm. A new determination to drop into those moments with her full attention accompanied her quest to add more items to the list. She left the next lines blank remaining open to possibilities.

  Flipping open the laptop, she searched, Learn how to cook. There were how-tos and videos, paid online classes, and promises to make the perfect meal for guests. No, she wanted to learn how to cook for herself, for one, for the simple act of knowing how to do something and do it well. She glanced over to the bookshelf, but her mother’s version of cooking was for appearances, cover material for a glossy magazine. Baskia had to start with the basics; she wanted to learn how to nourish herself. Then maybe the crowd pleasing, show-stopping dinners might be a possibility.

  The next day at the library, she scoured the shelf labeled Cookery. To be practical, she wanted to know how to make macaroni and cheese, boil rice, and she ventured, chocolate chip cookies would be useful too. Mary, the librarian, eyed her armful of books.

  “New Year’s resolution? Everyone vows to start eating better on January first, but do they stick to it? ”

  “I just want to know how to cook.” Then she added, “So I can feed myself.”

  “You don’t know how to cook? No wonder. What have you been living off? Don’t tell me frozen food or worse, cereal. Here, I just ordered this. ‘Italian Favorites Made Easy.’ I think you’ll like it, just don’t get any sauce on the pages.” Mary passed her the Italian cuisine tome.

  Once home, Baskia flipped through the cookbooks. She had the Joy of Cooking, which weighed in at about ten pounds. It was easily the dictionary of kitchen wizardry, but the thick text and lack of photos made her set it aside. Next, she perused an ancient vegetarian cookbook that intimidated her with the multitude of steps and unfamiliar ingredients, though the photos were pleasing. She leafed through recipes for breakfast dishes, light meals, starters, sides, main courses, and desserts in a third cookbook, but none of it made her mouth water. Lastly, she opened the Italian cookbook and the recipes combined with the high quality photos brought her to her feet, but she didn’t have all the ingredients required. She doubted the market carried anchovy paste, gnocchi, or fresh basil. She slouched back on the couch.

  “Where to start?” It was still early. She shrugged. Breakfast. Carefully following the directions, Baskia scrambled eggs, heated a pan, and began to cook. She turned the heat up and then down, fussing and fumbling. The toaster dinged, and while she buttered the burnt toast, she suddenly craved a croissant, warm and buttery on the streets of Paris. Emerging from reverie, the sight of the eggs sticking to the pan, made her jump to the stove. “No, I’m going to learn how to feed myself. I’m going to do this right.”

  Baskia sat at the table, her plate artfully arranged. Just before she took a bite, she snapped a quick photo, just to document what she was going to call, Before. Maybe she’d succeed in making some of the delicious looking dishes in the Italian cookbook and label them, After.

  She tried to choke the eggs down, but they were somehow slimy and dry at the same time, nowhere near as tasty as the ones Trace had made. Pushing her plate away, she reread the directions to pinpoint where she went wrong.

  The next day, Baskia tried again. The eggs came out better, but were dense instead of fluffy. She photographed each attempt, hoping the batch would be the winner until she’d run through the carton. She searched online for the secret to perfect scrambled eggs, coming up with almost a dozen different methods and variations on the original recipe she’d used.

  “Why does this have to be so hard?”

  Toward the end of the week, she decided it was time to move onto lunch. After foraging for fresh ingredients to make soup, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work in the kitchen. After simmering a pot of Minestrone on the stove until well past lunchtime, it turned mushy and lacked depth of flavor. But she’d photographed it anyway, documenting the attempt.

  Snowed in over the weekend, she moved onto dinner, imagining she couldn’t go too far off track with the box of macaroni and cheese she’d picked up at the market. It was sticky so she dumped it into the leftover soup, but disappointingly, it turned out to be a gross combination.

  Baskia pouted, frustrated that she couldn’t prepare simple meals, or even follow a box with directions. Then she sneezed. And sneezed again. Curling up on the couch, in front of the fire, she dozed off.

  She slouched around the house the next day blowing her nose and napping until Wes knocked on the door. She considered not answering it; they hadn’t seen each other since New Year’s Eve. Her head was so clogged she couldn’t remember if the night had been a disaster for him or if he’d gone home with a smile; he’d chatted with Mellie and danced with Gigi and Ali, after all.

  “Baskia, are you in there?” he hollered.

  She pulled open the door; afraid that if she didn’t he’d hack through just to make sure she was still alive.

  “Hey, how’s it—oh no, you’re sick. Cold?”

  Baskia nodded, wiping her nose.

  “Do you have everything you need? Tissues? Do you need cold medicine?” he asked as if he was the nurse on call.

  “Thank you for your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said with a stuffed up voice. She knew she looked pathetic with a red nose and her hair frizzing in every direction.

  “I just came to plow you out, but it doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere anyway. Are you sure there isn’t something I can do?”

  She shrugged and then burst into a fit of coughing as the cold air blew in through the open door. “Better go lay back down,” she said. “Thanks.”

  She spent the rest of the afternoon zoning out to cooking websites and blogs, starting with Martha Stewart and ending with a woman who’d halted the progression of her cancer mainly through diet and exercise. Baskia blinked in and out of awareness, reading about food, looking at food, and then dreaming about food when her eyes drooped, and she dozed off.

  She woke, the next day, her mouth parched. After guzzling a glass of water, she took a steamy shower, and pulled on a pair of stretch pants. “What do I want?” she asked her reflection in the mirror, noting her baggy eyes. “To not have a cold would be a good start.”

  She wondered what her friends were doing back in New York, if she was missing any events or opportunities. She rested on the bed, envisioning Trace laying there beside her. She may not have been where she wanted to be, especially not sick, but she was exactly where she needed to be.

  Tires crunched across the driveway. Wes appeared at the door holding a pot. “Do you feel better?” he asked while heating the soup on the stove.

  “Not really.”

  “You look better. And this chicken noodle soup will definitely help.”

  “Aw. Did you make me soup?” she asked.

  “I’d like to say yes, but I’m not so skilled in the kitchen. Patty made it for you. She hopes you feel better fast.”

  Wes sat across the table while she slowly sipped the broth, letting it soothe her throat.

  “Delicious.” It nourished her in a way th
at a bowl of soup never had. She imagined Patty making it for her own children when they had the sniffles.

  “She said this is your medicine. A couple bowls a day, and by the time the pot is empty, you should be well again. Nurse Patty’s prescription.”

  “It tastes better than medicine, that’s for sure.” Through the haze of fatigue and snot, Baskia had an idea. “Hey, do you think Patty would teach me how to cook?”

  “Sure. I mean you’d have to ask, but I imagine so. It’s kind of what she does.”

  Baskia confessed her trials at the stove. “I’m starting to think I’m hopeless, destined to live off cereal and frozen entrees. At least until I go back to the City.”

  “My mom was a great cook. She’d have the slow cooker filled with baked beans that would make the whole cabin smell like, well, like home and then afterward—” Wes’s cheeks spread in a smile at the happy memory. A chuckle started in his throat that stretched down to his belly until he laughed so hard he doubled over.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You know what beans make you do, right?” he asked when he’d caught his breath.

  “No. What?” Baskia asked, blowing her nose again.

  “Beans, beans the magical fruit, the more you eat the more you—” Wes burst out laughing again.

  “Toot,” Baskia finished with a laugh.

  Hidden under layers of grief, Baskia spied the carefree young man Wes had once been; and she faintly remembered the glossy feeling of being untroubled and liberated, hoping they’d both get there soon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The cold hung onto Baskia for another week, but by the time the second box of tissues was empty, she’d recovered. She arranged to go to Patty’s house that afternoon. She sifted through more cooking blogs and websites, determined not to make a fool of herself.