by M. K. Wren
“Maybe not, but I do. I have to check on Jayleen.”
“Who?”
“Jayleen. First pregnancy, remember? Hell, she’s probably had the babies already. Twins. She’s having twins.” He looked at Lise regretfully with those words, but she only nodded.
Conan closed his eyes, too spent to balk at leaving his fate in others’ hands. He’d just rest a little while, let the Demerol take effect.
It seemed no more than a minute later when he looked up to find himself flanked by two efficient young people clad in jackets with LIFE FLIGHT embroidered on the pockets.
* * *
The helicopter’s rotors throbbed, lifting it from the lawn in a whirling, miraculous cloud of white, dazzling in the light of the rising sun. Lise King stood on the deck with Mark’s arm around her shoulder in a comfortable embrace that surprised her. He had always seemed to find touching people, even those he loved, difficult.
As the chopper tilted westward above the white hills, and the cloud settled in a sparkling mist, Lise felt an irrational terror. It was, she knew, something she’d have to get used to. Rationally, she understood it: two people she cared about had departed in that racheting machine, and she was terrified that she’d never see them again.
Like Dad. Like Al. Like Lucas.
Mark’s arm slipped from her shoulder. “I’m going to check the thermometer again, Lise.” She nodded, still watching the empty sky, as he stumped along the snowy deck and around the corner of the lodge.
Not everyone you love is bound to die every time they leave you, Lise. So her rational mind assured her. But she knew it would take a lot of safe returns before the part of her mind that commanded fear was satisfied.
Conan wouldn’t be returning to the lodge. She wouldn’t blame him if he never set foot here again or accepted an invitation of any kind from her. But he would. As long as she continued to paint, he’d come into her life at intervals to revel in her work. It was a rare relationship, and one she treasured. Every artist needs someone whose admiration is unconditional.
Will would be back. Safely, she insisted to the fear within her. This afternoon, he’d said. After he got Conan to the hospital, after he checked Jayleen, after he checked the storefront clinic on Burnside and his clients from the unforgiving streets.
But Will Stewart would be back. There was very little she could count on in her life now, but she could count on Will.
And her work.
That would keep her sane in the following days and weeks and months. And perhaps years.
“Lise!” Mark was hurrying toward her, panting and excited. “The temperature’s gone up nearly thirty degrees since I looked an hour ago. It’s up to eighteen.”
“Mark, the temperature always goes up when the sun rises.”
“Not that fast. What we’ve got here is an honest-to-God chinook. At this rate, all the snow’ll be melted off by tomorrow.”
He seemed inordinately pleased at that prospect, and Lise had to admit that it would be a profound relief to have this snow gone. Usually she found in a snowfall endless material for paintings that drove her to frenzied creation. But not this snow.
She could only deal with this snow when it was gone.
Yet what would her world in this cherished mountain fastness be like then? Not as it had been. Nothing would ever be as it had been. Too much was buried in this snow.
Mark said, “Come on, let’s go in. Still too damned cold out here.”
She started to turn away, but a movement on the freshly-plowed road stopped her. “Someone’s coming.”
“Hey, that’s Art’s old pickup, isn’t it?”
“Looks like it. And that’s a police car behind him.”
“Must be the sheriff’s deputies. Oh, Lord, I’m not looking forward to trying to sort all this out with them.”
Lise shivered, the cold closing in, despite the crystalline sunshine. She wondered how anything that had happened during this endless weekend could be sorted out, could be understood.
She looked to the immaculate presence of the mountain and opened her eyes and mind to the ancient power in its massive planes, clothed now in snow that held captive in its shadows exquisite blends of color. Cerulean, yes, and ultramarine. A hint of alizarin crimson, sometimes a cast of ochre. The essence of the mountain was in the colors in its shadows, but she’d never found all of them on her palette.
There was solace in that. The mountain would solace her with its unattainable color. And one day, she knew—or perhaps hoped—she would discover the color of the wind that plumed off the summit into the depth of the sky.
One day she might even understand that life lived in death in the presence of this mountain.
One day she might understand.