by Bourne, Lena
"They're gearing up to throw a large New Year's do here," she says. "But it's such a hassle, especially when all one wants to do is sleep."
She says the same thing every year, and she's always one of the last to leave the party on New Year's Eve.
"You're just saying that Gran," I protest. "You know you love the parties."
"And what will you be doing for the longest night of the year?" she asks. "Spending it with that handsome young man of yours, I expect."
My breath hitches in my throat, but I smile through it. "No. We're no longer seeing each other."
I can say it now without my voice cracking, but the sharp shards of ice filling my chest still take my air.
"That's a pity," Gran muses. "I thought he was good for you."
"How so?" I ask, before I can stop myself. "You didn't like him at all."
She chuckles. "He was rather rude to me. But it's good to have someone who loves you enough to go beyond what's proper to protect you. Your grandfather was like that with me, even though I spend most of our courtship crying over another man and carrying his baby. But he waited for me even after everyone told him he was crazy for doing it. And that is why I never stopped loving him, not even after fifty years of marriage. It's why I still love him today, though he's been dead for fifteen years."
"How does that work, exactly?" I mutter, barely getting the words out over the hard ball of tears in my throat.
She sighs, like she's still stuck in the memory of her courtship. "I don't know, it just does. I wish I could celebrate the New Year with him."
My whole body is shaking by the time I finally hang up, love and homesickness flooding my chest, fueling the tears running down my cheeks. I can't just sit around waiting. Can't just let things be as they are. Not this, not ever. And I was dumb for thinking I could. Besides, if Scott left to get out of his life of crime, there really is no reason why we can't be together. None at all.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It takes me all of twenty minutes to pack up my bag and make sure all the lights are turned off in the house. Phillipa left for England that morning, and she won't be back until next year. And neither will I, not if all goes the way I want it to.
I could just drive straight to the city, hope to find Janine at the store she works at, but it's eight PM by the time I cross the state line, and the traffic will probably be unbelievable, with all the people doing their last minute shopping. Besides, if anyone knows where Scott is, it's his dad, and he will tell me.
The street his dad lives on is as decked out in Christmas decorations as my own back in Connecticut, but only a single row of flashing red, green and blue lights is hanging over the door of Scott's home. All the windows are dark, but the bluish light of the TV screen spills from the side, forming a rectangle on the untouched snow.
I ring the doorbell, before my nerve fails me. Nothing stirs on the other side of the door. I count to five before ringing again, this time holding the button longer.
The hall light comes on and then I'm staring into the wide blue eyes of a tall blonde woman. It's Janine's mom, I recognize her from the photo.
I peel off my glove and extend my hand to her. "My name is Gail. I need to speak to Mr. Turner."
I don't know how I keep my voice from shaking, but somehow it's as firm as a rod.
"Who is it, Ava?" Scott's dad yells from the living room, and she turns around.
"Some girl asking for you. Her name's Gail." And maybe there's a hint of annoyance in her voice.
"Let her in."
She stands aside and I brush past her. Scott's dad is already striding toward me, reaches me before Ava even has the door closed.
"Have you seen him? Do you know where Scott is?" He's holding onto my arms, his fingers digging into my biceps painfully. Sadness and pain are spilling into a puddle at my feet, and if I move just an inch, I'll be sucked right into it.
I shake my head reluctantly. "No, I was hoping you did. That's why I'm here."
He lets me go, his head falling forward. I turn to face Ava because I can't stand to share his grief a moment longer. "Doesn't Janine know? Is she home?"
Ava shakes her head. "Janine left too. Barely said goodbye, and certainly didn't tell me where she was going."
All sorts of explosions are going off in my brain, but the loudest one of all is that they're together, maybe even kissing right now. But he wouldn't do that, wouldn't lie like that. He's in love with me, I knew it before he even told me, and love like that doesn't ever die, reaches beyond the grave. Just like Gran said.
"They left no word? With anyone?"
"They didn't. And neither of them called yet," Ava says and laces her arm around Mr. Turner's, who doesn't seem to feel it at all. He wriggles loose though, and walks back into the living room.
Ava gazes after him, the edges of her lips turned downward. "It's been really hard on him, with everything that's already happened. And now two of his sons are gone who knows where. At least Andrew had the decency to tell his father where he was going."
It's not exactly anger at Scott that's lacing her words, more a motherly annoyance, but it still makes me yearn to berate her for it. I bite my tongue to keep from speaking.
Scott's keys are on the plate by the coat rack, I recognize them by the compass dangling from them. The calico cat wobbles into the hall from the kitchen, still very pregnant. Tears rise into my eyes, as she bumps her head into my leg. Ava bends down and strokes her back, and I stuff Scott's keys into my sleeve.
I have no idea what I'll do with them, or if I'll end up arrested for stealing them. But Scott's apartment is the only place I can face tonight in, and maybe he left some clue behind, something that will let me track him down and tell him what an idiot he's being for leaving me.
"Can I ask you to let me know if he calls?" I say. "Or if Janine does?"
She eyes me for a few moments, and then nods slowly. "Sure, I can do that."
I turn my back to her and write my number on the pad by the door, handing the piece of paper to her.
All the boxes that littered Scott's apartment before are piled up by the TV, rising almost to the ceiling. His suitcase is gone, but the fridge is still on, and I find the bottle of vodka in the freezer. There's only about a glass left, and I pour it, the liquid burning my throat making hope rise in my chest.
Here, in his apartment, it's like he'll walk in at any moment.
I have to stand on the table to get the boxes down, but they're all filled with old clothes, papers, and sketchbooks, things he hasn't used in years.
An hour later Scott's entire past is strewn across the floor all around me, but I haven't found a single clue as to where he's planning to spend his future. Two of the boxes contained all his old sketchbooks, and a folder of drawings of vast empty plains, stretching so deep and wide, it's like I'm watching them through a window, grasses swaying in the breeze, trees rustling, snow tumbling down from the branches of thick pines.
Maybe he went to Thailand, to be close to his brother. Breath is misting in front of my face, and my fingers are red from the cold, so I climb under the covers still wearing my winter jacket.
I search for flights to Thailand on my phone, even though I have no idea how to find him in a country of millions, with no concrete place where to start. But I will try it, because it might be the only way. Though rational Gail is screaming so loudly in my mind now, and I don't even have my passport number with me, so I can't confirm the flight.
I toss the phone to the edge of the bed and pull the covers up to my neck, staring at the windows. If I pretend really hard, it's like Scott's beside me. This apartment is still so full of him, even though he's been gone for weeks. An intricate ice flower has risen in the edge of the window, its perfect, sharp petals jutting out like some one drew it there for me to find. Heat rises between my legs, and I can feel Scott's lips on my neck, his warm hands snaking up my shirt, his fingers teasing my nipples. I close my eyes and concentrate hard on the sensations, love and h
omesickness flooding my chest, mixing with the soft excitement building in my stomach.
I can feel his hard body pressing into my back, the ripples of his stomach melting into my own flesh. But the touch is faint, like he's very far away, which he is. I open my eyes and blink away the tears cooling against my cheeks. I sit up and wipe the tears away with the comforter, because none of this is real, and the world is disappearing behind the sound proof walls of my plastic ball again.
There's a black shoebox tucked into the space between the window and the bed, the longest of the petals on the ice flower pointing straight at it. I lean over to pick it up, my hands shaking. Inside it there's a pile of leather bound notebooks and I open the top one, staring at the name on the front page. Inge Martinsson is written across it in a flowery script, adorned with intricate roses and thorns. A black and white photograph falls out as I open to the first page with December 21, 1966 written across the top. These must be Scott's mom's diaries, the ones he spoke about.
The photo shows a family of six standing up to their knees in snow, the father in the center, his wife by his side. The girl at the far end must be Scott's mom. She's about twelve, her long blond hair flapping over the edge of the photo, a range of tall, snow covered mountains rising behind the wooden cabin they're posing in front of.
I scramble across the bed for my phone, sending it wobbling so hard the box falls off with a thud. It's eleven here, so it's only about eight on the West Coast. The perfect time for Scott's estranged family to be home.
But there are about a hundred Martinssons living in Portland and it's almost one by the time I get to the last five names on the list. None of the people I call know an Inge who married a Turner from New York about 30 years ago. I'm dialing a Karen Martinsson now, all my hope barely a flicker in my chest now. Judging by the photo any daughters of Inge's two brothers would be married by now, with new last names, as would her sister. And maybe that's the problem, maybe her family is all dead and everyone left has a new name by now.
"Hello," a woman says into the phone, her voice rough with sleep.
"I am sorry to wake you," I mutter changing my routine at the last second, but then lunge right into the speech I've delivered 95 times in the last 2 hours. "My name is Gail Henderson and I am looking for the family of Inge Martinsson. I am enquiring on behalf of Mr. Turner, her husband. Are you related to her by any chance?"
The woman sighs, and the last flicker of hope in my chest dies out.
"Yes, Inge was my sister. What is this about?" the woman says and I'm gasping for breath, hope flaring high.
"I'm calling to ask about the cabin your family once owned. Was it in Alaska?"
"What?" Karen asks. "Why do you want to know?"
"Please, can you tell me where it is?"
"Who did you say you were?" she asks sharply. She has no intention of telling me, but I can't let her hang up, so I lunge right into the whole story, tell her everything, leave nothing out, not even how I ran into Scott and his family at the cemetery, as they visited Inge's grave on the day that would've been her birthday.
"The cabin was near Fort Healy, Alaska," Karen mutters while I'm still catching my breath. "But my father sold it a few years before he died. I don't know who owns it now, or even if it's still standing."
But it's enough, it's plenty. And I know I'll find Scott there, because it's the only lead I have, and he wouldn't just go off into the middle of nowhere. No, he'd go somewhere he knew, somewhere his mom knew. I'm certain of it.
"How are they?" Karen asks softly.
"Fine, I guess," I say and I wish I could pour more certainty into my lie.
"I wanted to call so many times, but my father forbade any contact, and he was a very strict man," Karen says. "And Inge died years before him, and by then it was too late to call."
A huge part of me wants to berate her for not reaching out to her sister, her nephews, but I swallow the harsh words, because it's not my place, and judging by her tone she's regretting it enough already.
"I have your phone number now, and I'll pass it along to Scott when I see him again," I say instead and she thanks me, but I'm not sure much will come of it.
I fall asleep easily after we stop talking. First thing in the morning, I'll get a flight out to Fort Healy, Alaska, and by tomorrow night, I will be sleeping in Scott's arms for real.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
But the only flight I can get lands in Anchorage at 9PM, so I'm forced to spend a night at the Holiday Inn. To get to Fort Healy I have to take a bus and another plane, and by the time I finally reach the little town, it's ten at night, below zero degrees, and no one at the single guesthouse has ever heard of a Scott Turner.
They've stopped serving dinner an hour ago, but the lady is nice enough to make me a sandwich, after the two rough looking men at the bar offer to take me home with them and feed me.
I sit at a table as far away from them as possible.
"Why don't you eat this in your room?" she says as she places the sandwich and a cup of cocoa in front of me, eying the two men over her shoulder.
"What about a Scott Martinsson?" I ask, grabbing her hand so she won't leave. "Tall and blond, he might have come here a few weeks ago."
Her arm is stiff under my fingers, but I can't let go. "I don't know anyone by that name either. There will be some more people here in the morning, maybe one of them knows your friend."
She's pulling her arm away, her eyes telling me she's just saying it to make me feel better.
I dig out my phone and show her a photo of Scott. "This is him. Are you sure you don't know him?"
Her lips disappear into a thin line, her eyes filled with pity as she takes the phone from my hand. I'm holding my breath. This is my last chance, or else I've failed.
She gasps, and her eyes light up brighter than the Christmas tree in the corner.
"But this is Martin," she croaks and walks over to the men by the bar, showing them my phone. "Don't you think this is Martin?"
My heart is beating so fast, I might actually pass out this time.
"Yes, I think you're right," one of the men says, and they're all staring at me now.
"But he told us his name is Martin Winters, he's renting that house on Pine Lane from my cousin. Though he had no ID, said he got mugged in Anchorage," the other man says, and a look of knowing passes between the three of them.
"Are you Gail?" the woman asks, handing the phone back.
I'm just about to stand up, ask them for directions to this Pine Lane, but I topple back into my chair at her question.
"How…how do you know?"
They all laugh, but it's not a harsh sound, and it fills the room with a whimsical hope.
"Oh, we heard a lot about you," the lady says, smiling at me. "It's good that you're here. Martin never thought he'd see you again."
My eyes are wide, flashing from one to the other, because this is making no sense, none whatsoever. It's like I'm stuck in some romantic movie, and I'll just wake up at any moment, back in the hospital bed, because the weeks since Scott left have all just been a sick dream of my deranged mind.
"People don't come here unless they're running from something," one of the men says and finishes off his drink. "It's good to finally get someone who's looking for one of them. Other than the police I mean."
They all laugh again, but it's a tinkling sound, not unlike my mom's laugh.
"I'll take you to see Martin," the man says. He's standing now, zipping up his jacket, but I'm still sitting in my chair, pinching my hand so hard my whole arm is shaking from the pain.
"Are you coming or what?" the man says. The lady is still smiling at me, her eyes filled with twinkling lights.
I pick up my bag and stand up, my legs shaking, my heart thundering in my chest. It's not until we reach the door that I remember I didn't pay for my sandwich.
She waves her hand through the air as I offer to. "You'll get it tomorrow. Go now."
"It's that one over there," the ma
n who drove me says and points at a small house on the other side of a snow-covered field. "I can't drive you all the way to the door, because Martin hasn't shoveled away any of the snow yet."
I smile. "Yes, he's lazy like that."
I sink down to my knees into fresh snow as soon as I climb from the truck.
"Step lightly," the man tells me. I thank him for the ride and slam the door shut.
Only a single light is on in the house. Behind me, the car rattles and the guy drives away. If Scott's not actually this Martin they all know, I might be stuck out here all night and I'll probably freeze to death, but all those fears are so far away they don't even touch me. Of course Scott is here, I felt his presence as soon as I entered this town and I feel it more so right now.
I try to walk as lightly as I can, but I'm still sinking into snow on every third step, and I'm panting by the time I finally reach the house. On the porch, I stop my feet hard against the wooden boards to shake off the snow, sweat running down my face.
The front door swings open, and Scott is standing in front of me, wearing is ratty pajamas, his eyes so wide they're taking up half his face.
"Gail?"
"Hank Henderson, Scott," I say and stride into the house, my skin crackling as it thaws in the heat. "Hank Henderson."
The door slams shut behind me, and then my back's against the wall, Scott's weight pressing into me, his lips on mine, so hot and hungry, I might never escape them. Not that I ever want to.
I open my mouth and let his tongue in, my hands pulling up his sweatshirt, because I need to feel his skin against mine, like I've never needed anything else.
He pulls away long enough to take off his clothes, and then his lips are on mine again, his fingers fumbling with the button on my jeans, getting caught in the leggings I'm wearing under them. I shake off my jacket and pull off my sweater as he struggles to get my pants down. His skin is hotter than fire against my cold flesh, searing me to the core as I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close.