Aspen in Moonlight

by Kelly Wacker

  They grabbed their packs out of the back of the Bronco and put them on. “Are you not carrying bear spray?” Melissa asked as Sula adjusted the chest strap on her pack.

  Sula looked at Melissa and noticed she had a brand-new holster with a canister of bear spray attached to the front of one of the shoulder straps.

  “No.” She considered telling Melissa that she forgot it, but she didn’t want to lie to her. “I don’t need it.”

  Sula always advised hikers to carry bear spray, it was a standard safety protocol, but she carried it only when she went in the field on official business with biologists or with groups associated with the conservancy.

  “How can you not need it?” Melissa looked incredulous.

  Sula thought for a moment about how best to respond. “I know bear habitat and behavior very well. I would never find myself in a position to have to use it.”

  “I’m not sure whether I should be impressed or worried.”

  “Worried about what?”

  “That I’m about to walk into the woods with someone reckless.”

  “I’m never reckless,” Sula said confidently and pointed toward the trees in front of them. “We’re going this way…if you trust me.”

  “At this point I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ll just have to reassure myself with the fact that you grew up here and you’re still alive.” She looked Sula up and down. “I don’t see any scars on you from having been mauled by bears.”

  “That you can see.” Sula laughed mischievously and walked toward the trees in front of them.

  “Touché,” Melissa replied, following her.

  After passing through a stand of tall ponderosa pines with the nasal calls of nuthatches and sapsuckers echoing around them, they entered a wide meadow of yellow-green grass dotted with bright colors. The wildflowers were in full bloom; the air was sweet and buzzed with insects.

  “Columbines…” Melissa stepped forward to look at some of the delicate blue flowers closest to her. “I love these.”

  “I’ve always been fond of the owl’s claws, myself,” Sula said.

  “Which ones are those?”

  Sula pointed to a flower with a dark center and orange petals.

  “Owl’s claws is such a descriptive name. The petals are curved like a talon.”

  Sula cocked her head, cupping a hand to her ear. “Do you hear the sound of running water?”

  Melissa closed her eyes as she listened carefully and shook her head. “No.”

  “We’re close. You’ll hear it soon.”

  They continued walking through the meadow descending gently toward the creek that Sula knew was nearby. A pattern on the ground caught her eye, so she stopped abruptly and squatted, focusing on the ground in front of her.

  “What do you see?”

  “Tracks,” Sula said and pointed. “A black bear crossed in front of us here. See?”

  “I would have missed them if you hadn’t pointed them out.” Melissa bent over, peering at them. “They’re so big. Are you sure those aren’t from a grizzly bear?”

  “I’m sure,” Sula said with a laugh.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Very. We haven’t had any grizzlies in this area since the 50s.”

  Melissa peered at the tracks. “You know, I read somewhere that when you step on the trail, you step into the food chain.”

  “That’s a bit extreme. You’re not really in the regular food chain.” Sula looked up, brushing her bangs away from her eyes in order to see Melissa better. The sun was behind her, illuminating her hair, creating a golden aura. “But you are in the bears’ house, Goldilocks.”

  Melissa narrowed her eyes at Sula and smiled slowly. “Well, then, I’ll be sure to mind my manners and will resist eating any bowls of porridge I find along the way. I would hate to get kicked out of this beautiful house. You’ll tell me if I violate any bear etiquette, won’t you?”

  “Absolutely, Goldie.” Sula grinned.

  “Oh, no…did I just get a nickname?” Melissa laughed and then became quiet and turned her head as if listening carefully. “I think I hear the creek now.”

  “See the blue spruce and the rocks up ahead? That’s where we’re headed.” Sula waved her forward.

  Icy Creek lived up to its name, as Melissa discovered when she crouched at the creek’s edge and dipped her bandana into the clear water.

  “Wow, that’s cold. No skinny-dipping today,” Melissa said as she wrung the frigid water out of the cloth and dabbed it against her face and the back of her neck. “Oh, that feels good, though.”

  Melissa stood, regarding the creek with a serious expression. “This really does look a lot like the river, I mean creek, in the painting, but I don’t see the owl-shaped boulders.”

  “It’s all about your perspective,” Sula said. “Follow me.”

  Sula led Melissa up the creek a little way to a place where the water rushed around four large rocks but didn’t cover them. “We’ll cross here. I’ll go first and help you. The first two rocks are easy, but the third one is a little tricky the first time.”

  Sula walked effortlessly across the first two flat-topped rocks and then scrambled up and perched on the next, taller and rounded, rock. She watched as Melissa followed her footsteps. “Okay, as you step onto this rock, give me your hand and put your weight forward.”

  Melissa did as Sula directed, and she pulled her up effortlessly.

  “Wow, that was easier than I thought it’d be,” Melissa said, but realized that Sula had done most of the work.

  Sula hopped down to the fourth rock and extended her hand again, helping Melissa to the last lower and flatter rock. Melissa didn’t immediately let go of Sula, and they stepped onto the creek bank hand in hand. Enjoying the feel of Melissa’s hand in hers, Sula led her up the creek a bit farther, to some small waterfalls. Melissa dropped Sula’s hand and pointed upstream.

  “This is it. I see the owls!” Using her hands, Melissa framed the view. “Add a fallen tree, a creek swollen by a passing thunderstorm, and…this is the place!”

  Melissa was standing on a rock that made her the same height as Sula. Smiling her astonishment, Melissa turned around quickly, meeting Sula’s gaze evenly. Sula inhaled sharply and froze, feeling like a deer in that moment when it knows she’s being watched and hasn’t decided on a course of action. Melissa reached out for Sula’s cheeks, and before she realized what was happening, Melissa kissed her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Melissa hadn’t planned on a kiss. Standing on a rock in the very spot where Ursula Bergen, the artist, must have stood nearly a hundred years ago, Melissa let her excitement bubble to the surface. When she turned around to explain to Sula how absolutely astonishing and wonderful this moment was for her, she was surprised to find Sula standing so close and at eye level. Sula stared at her, unblinking, with those marvelous amber eyes and long, dark eyelashes. Melissa abandoned the words she was attempting to form, reached out, and—just like that—had kissed her.

  It was an innocent kiss at first, but then Melissa discovered that Sula’s lips were soft, tender…and responsive. Sula leaned closer and returned the kiss, making a throaty sound like a soft growl. Melissa felt as if all her nerve endings had just woken up from a deep slumber as her awareness shifted to other parts of her body. She moved her hand from Sula’s cheek to the nape of her neck, feeling the tendrils of Sula’s hair brushing against her fingers. She became conscious of the weight of Sula’s hand as it rested on her shoulder and then slipped slowly down, stopping against the curve of her back. As their kiss deepened, Melissa began to lose herself again in the sensations of Sula’s lips and tongue, and then, with a wrenching abruptness, she felt Sula stiffen and pull away.

  “I…uh…I’m…sorry.” Sula’s words sputtered out. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “What are you apologizing for?” Melissa took a deep breath and struggled to meet Sula’s gaze, the wave of desire that washed over her making it difficult to focus on anyth
ing but her shapely lips.

  Sula looked down at her feet. “I didn’t mean to mislead you. I mean, I didn’t bring you out here to…uh…seduce you. I don’t want you to think I’m like—”

  “Like Kerry?”

  Sula nodded and hung her head like a scolded puppy. She removed her hand from Melissa’s back and fidgeted with a strap on her pack.

  “Sula, you are nothing like Kerry. Trust me,” Melissa said tenderly. “Anyway, I kissed you first, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did.” Sula spoke softly and smiled but kept her eyes cast down. She slipped her pack off and held it up between them. “Are you hungry? Ready for lunch?”

  Melissa was hungry all right. Hungry for another kiss. But the moment between them had passed. Sula seemed uncomfortable with what had just happened, and Melissa felt as if she had inadvertently crossed some invisible boundary. Experiencing Sula’s shift from confident naturalist to shy woman was unexpected, but also oddly intriguing. It intensified Melissa’s curiosity. She wanted more, but for now she’d follow Sula’s lead. She blew air out between her lips and hoped the whoosh didn’t sound as exasperated as she felt. “Ready for lunch,” she said.

  Sula pulled a checkered blanket out of her pack and unfurled it in a patch of shade near the creek, and they sat down. Facing Sula, she watched as she removed cloth napkins, two apples, and a tiffin. She separated the three stainless-steel compartments, placing them side by side on the blanket in between them to reveal a smorgasbord—sliced cheese, salami, peeled hard-boiled eggs, pickles, and crackers.

  “Is this all right?”

  “More than all right. This is a feast.”

  “Help yourself.” Sula gestured to the food and pulled a knife from her pocket.

  Melissa sandwiched cheese and salami between two crackers and ate it while watching Sula turn the tiffin lid over to use as a plate and then pick up one of the apples and begin to slice it into pieces. Her fingers moved deftly as she carved out the seeds and tossed them aside.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Melissa observed Sula while she cut the apple and arranged the slices neatly on the lid. Melissa had never had a specific type, but she considered a woman’s mind and personality to be her most attractive features. If those two aspects didn’t engage her, nothing else mattered. If asked to classify Sula according to the lesbian spectrum of butch to femme, she’d have been hard-pressed to categorize her. Sula dressed practically for the mountain environment, and outdoor clothing tended to be intrinsically androgynous. She wore makeup, but only enough to highlight her natural features, especially her eyes and lips. Melissa had walked behind Sula most of the day and noticed that she moved with a confident, graceful power without even breaking a sweat, but she didn’t carry herself with any kind of butch bravado.

  Sula produced a small plastic bottle from her pack. Flicking the lid open with her thumb, she squeezed it, drizzling the apples with sticky honey. She wiped the rim of the lid with her finger, licked it, and looked up with a surprised expression, as if she didn’t realize Melissa had been watching her all along. Melissa became aware she’d been holding her breath while watching her and mentally reminded herself to breathe.

  “Dessert.” Sula pointed to the apples and honey.

  “You sure do like honey.”

  “Why do you say that?” Sula sliced an egg, placed it on a cracker with a pickle, and ate it.

  “Remember, I’m observant. You put honey in your coffee, you have a bowl of honey candy on your office desk, and you brought a bottle of honey on a hike. Two’s a coincidence. Three is a pattern.”

  “Yeah, so I like honey.” Sula laughed and shrugged. “It’s natural and it’s good for you. Betty’s a beekeeper, did you know?”

  “Yes. She told me. We met one day after she’d checked on her hives.” Melissa remembered the bee walking on Betty’s finger. “I think she’s a bee charmer.”

  “She might be.”

  Melissa waited for Sula to tell her more, but she just continued to eat. Finally, Melissa spoke. “Care to explain what you mean by that?”

  “Well, one time when I was a kid, my family and Betty’s family were on a picnic, and I tried to get honey from a wild hive. I’d been watching the bees go in and out of a crevice in a tree and got the brilliant idea to climb the tree and stick my hand in. Let’s just say the bees were not happy with me.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten, maybe.”

  Melissa gasped. “Sula, swarming bees could have killed you.”

  “I only got a couple of stings. Betty saw what was happening and ran over and grabbed me. The bees all flew away from her.”

  “That’s miraculous.” Melissa reached for more cheese and crackers.

  “She told me that if I wanted honey that bad, she’d give me a whole jar of it whenever I wanted. I’ve held her to it ever since.” Sula smiled, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight filtering through the pines.

  Melissa narrowed her eyes. “Is this a tall tale, Ms. Johansen?”

  Sula shrugged and grinned in what Melissa interpreted as a noncommittal answer and swatted her playfully, feigning a sound of irritation.

  “I have an elderly neighbor who grew up in the town where I live in Georgia. She sometimes tells the most amazing stories. One day I questioned her about the veracity of her story about a dog, a deer, and a wild turkey running together down a country road. All she said was, ‘Why, Miss Warren. Don’t you know a story’s not worth telling without embellishments?’”

  Sula chuckled and picked up an apple slice, swiping it in the honey that had pooled underneath it, and popped it into her mouth.

  The thought of kissing Sula’s honey-sweetened lips flashed through Melissa’s mind. Much as she wanted to make that a reality, Sula appeared relaxed, and Melissa didn’t want to risk making her retreat again. “That reminds me of an interview with a famous artist I read years ago. She talked about her early days, before her career took off, when she had to make ends meet by teaching art history classes part-time in New York. She said she stopped teaching after she started making up stories during her lectures.”

  “And also when she realized that those students were going to start repeating what she was teaching to the regular professors, I’m sure.”

  Melissa laughed. “You’re probably right about that. I’ve always been a little jealous of the creative freedom that artists have. They can take a fact and bend it into a new kind of truth. You know, the word ‘professor’ was coined to describe what we’re expected to do—to profess what we know to be true. There’s not much wiggle room there. I’m really just a grand storyteller explaining who did what, when, where, how, and why it’s meaningful to us today.”

  “So, studying art is like a whodunit. That’s interesting.” Sula ate another slice of apple, looking thoughtful while she chewed. “Speaking of art and mysteries, I’m still mystified that you have paintings by my great-grandmother. Betty told me you have photographs from her that were taken at the ranch in the 20s and 30s.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if my great-grandmother might have purchased the paintings directly from your great-grandmother. Gosh, that’s such a mouthful. I’m just going to say Ursula and Evelyn.”

  Sula nodded. “I doubt Evelyn bought them. As far as I know, Ursula never sold her paintings. She kept them or gave them to family members. And to Evelyn, it would seem.”

  “It’s curious, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  Thinking about the possibility that their great-grandmothers, Ursula and Evelyn, knew each other excited Melissa. She wasn’t quite sure why it stirred her so deeply. Maybe it was the thrill of solving a mystery, not only of the artist whose paintings had been in her family, but of a possible personal relationship between Sula’s ancestors and hers.

  “What do you know about Ursula?” Melissa asked, then grew suddenly concerned that the question was too personal. “If I may ask.”

  “Well…” Sula stared up at the tree branch
es for a moment before answering. “She died young, so I know more about the family history than about her. Her side of the family has lived in America for a long time, since before it was America actually. Although they were Norwegian, they were part of the Dutch New Amsterdam colony that’s now New York City. Like everyone else, they wanted new opportunities, so they started with land and then ventured into business and finance. Ursula’s parents followed in their footsteps, I guess, by moving farther west and repeating that pattern, but keeping the land.”

  Sula’s expression had changed. Melissa didn’t know how to read it now.

  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Sula. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” And Melissa meant it.

  “I want to.” Sula took a deep breath and let it out. “I really do, but I rarely talk about personal things. I know that must seem odd to you.”

  “I’m honored that you want to confide in me.” Melissa took Sula’s hand and held it, hoping she wasn’t crossing a line. She wanted the gesture to be comforting. Sula squeezed her hand gently and smiled. Melissa’s curiosity about this woman intensified. Perhaps her wealth made her cautious with people she didn’t know well. Melissa increasingly realized that Sula was affluent, though she didn’t flaunt it. Nonetheless she wondered why talking about her family history seemed to make her feel so vulnerable.

  “As I told you earlier,” Sula said, “my family started with a homestead and kept adding land to it. By the time Ursula was born in 1910, they owned one of the largest ranches in this area.”

  “You’ve never mentioned your great-grandfather,” Melissa said.

  “No one knows who he was. She never married.”

  “Really? That’s unusual.”

  “I suppose so. But it was so remote here then, social norms didn’t exist the way they did back East. Being independent was seen as—well, still is—very respectable.” Sula shrugged. “I might not know who my great-grandfather was, but I do know that my grandmother, Inga, was born in 1932.”