His brows knit together. “What are you talking about? I think you’re brilliant. I always have—that’s why it makes me so crazy that you just want to waste it. You’re content to sit at home, locked in your room with your computer, while the world passes you by.”
“The career I pursue is my choice.”
“Writing make-believe worlds, sending queries, and crying over rejection letters is not a career choice. Kinsley, you’re going to live with your parents forever at this rate.” He steps forward. “I doubt you even go to that cabin. That would be something. And you don’t do anything. You’re scared to move forward.”
“You’re right.” I set my palm on his chest and push him back. “I was scared to break up with you. But you know what? I’m not scared anymore.”
I hand his jacket back and leave him under the streetlight.
Chapter Three
It’s one thing to say you’re brave. It’s another to be brave. Right now, as I try to find a parking spot on the uneven street, I think I might have been all talk.
I finally find a place to pull in and take a deep breath before I step out on the very slanted road. I’ve driven all day, and I’m almost to Silverton. The problem is, I’m not sure how to get there from here.
After digging my phone from my purse, I dial my dad’s number. As soon as I hit send, it alerts me that I have no service. I hit the button again, and my phone tells me it’s searching. Once a full minute goes by, I click back. Frustrated, I flip to the GPS. The app opens and then freezes.
Growling, I hit the screen several times, but it’s no use. The whole thing has locked up. Irritated, I shove the phone back in my purse and open the door.
Out of the car, I take in the little town of Ouray. It’s kind of cute. Little shops line the street. They all have a quaint western-town-meets-Switzerland sort of feel. There’s an ice cream shop and a place that claims to sell rocks. Four-wheel tours are advertised, and an assortment of restaurants are tucked in here and there.
The mountains hug the town. The only main road I see goes straight up, right next to a steep drop-off. I don’t care if that’s the way Dad’s printed directions tell me to go; there is no way I’m driving that.
I wander the streets a bit and then go in a souvenir shop. The bell over the door chimes as I walk in.
“Are you looking for something?” the lady behind the counter calls.
“I was hoping for directions.”
She nods and walks over, greeting a couple looking at a stand of local honey on her way. “Where are you headed?”
“Silverton.”
“That’s an easy one.” She points out a window to the nightmare-inducing road. “You just head up the mountain.”
Oh, I don’t think so.
“Is there a different way?”
She laughs. “Well, you can skirt around Telluride and go through Durango, but you’ll still come up on the other side of Red Mountain, and it will take you a lot longer.”
“So no matter what, I have to go up it?”
“That’s right.”
I groan under my breath and thank the woman for her time. I dig a twenty out of my pocket and hand it to her. “Can I buy some of your honey?”
She smiles, packages up my purchase, and sends me on my way.
Back in my car, I give myself a pep talk.
You can do this.
After only a few minutes, I decide I’m going to die.
What is a road like this doing in America? It’s ridiculous. There is no shoulder. None. It’s just a line and then the cliff.
In front of me, a semi-truck driver takes the turns like he does it every day. He probably does, but I watch his tires anyway, gasping every time I think he gets too close to the edge.
He’s going to go off. I know it.
The whole way I pray I’ll live to see the evening. Just a little farther.
Finally—finally—I reach Silverton. I’m very much alive, but that was the longest thirty minutes of my life. The truck made it just fine, too. He pulls into the gas station and I follow him, needing to take a short break before I continue on.
I’m practically shaking when I push through the door. I grab a bottle of water and browse candy bars I shouldn’t eat. After loitering as long as I dare, I buy just the water and meander to my car, not in any particular hurry to get back on the road.
There are a few gift shops along the street, a place advertising trail rides that I remember from when I was young, and a coffee shop.
It’s already late afternoon. I don’t have any more time to stall. Reluctantly, I make my way back to my car. I eye the road with suspicion. There better not be a cliff on the way to Columbine Meadow.
I take the winding mountain road, which is neither as steep nor as terrifying as the last road I was on. Still, by the time I pull into the campground, I’m exhausted.
With it being the beginning of summer, Columbine Meadow is booked up. Kids play on the swings near the lodge’s general store, and plenty of people fish on the lake.
The early evening light casts everything in a warm glow, and it all looks as scenic as a postcard.
But I couldn’t care less. I’m just glad to be out of the car.
I walk the kinks out of my legs and eventually admire the area. It really is beautiful. It reminds me of a tiny, privately owned town. A little general store and ice cream shop sit near the parking area. A sign advertises a coffee bar in the lodge—I will certainly be making use of that.
On one side of the lake, cabins sit nestled amongst the trees. The campground surrounds the rest of the shore. A paved biking path winds through everything, and a hiking trail starts just to the left of the cabins.
Schnitzel would have loved it here. I wish I could have brought him.
A few campers have started early fires, and the smell makes my stomach growl. I’m starving.
I pull out my phone and peer at it. Not good. There’s only one bar. Hoping for the best, I dial my mother. To my relief, it goes through.
Mom answers on the first ring and we exchange the usual greetings. Then she asks, “How was Red Mountain?”
As if she doesn’t already know.
“Someone could have warned me.”
She laughs. “You’d have never gone.”
I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me and turn toward the water. She goes on about what to check when I get to the cabin, and I listen with half an ear.
A young girl fishes on the dock—or attempts to fish. There’s a guy a little older than I am with her, obviously trying to give her pointers. The girl swings the pole with all her eight-year-old might, and the hook goes twirling through the air, right at the guy. He jumps back just in time.
The sinker makes a loud plop two feet from the shore.
And even though he almost had a fishing hook embedded in his flesh, the guy laughs and gives the kid a high five.
Then he looks up, straight at me. The sun glints off his dark hair, and a tentative smile curves his lips.
“Kinsley?” Mom asks.
Abruptly, I turn away. “What?”
“I asked how the campground looks. Dad and I got on the website to take a look at the changes you mentioned. It’s pretty different.”
I take a sly peek back at the guy. “It looks good.”
“You sound distracted.”
Shaking my head, I walk back to the car. “I’m just tired from the drive.”
“Call me tomorrow, okay?”
“I will.”
When I hang up, I glance back at the lake. The girl’s still there, but the guy is gone.
Oh well.
I get back in my car and follow the directions, which take me down an overgrown and very rutted road. It doesn’t look like anyone has been on it for months. Didn’t Grandpa have a caretaker looking after the place?
When I turn the corner, I’m flooded with memories of summers long past. I get out of the car and take a good look at the cabin. Dread weighs on my should
ers. Some of the decking boards have fallen apart, and the wood is gray. The shingles on the roof look patchy at best. The windows are filthy.
Grandma’s rosebushes run wild around the perimeter. It looks like a fairy tale cottage—but not one of the nice ones. I know this story; something is going to try to eat me.
I twirl my keys between my fingers and peer at the horizon. It’s about five o’clock. The sun is low in the sky, but I have a few hours of light left. Still, my overactive imagination takes over. If I were a character in one of my stories, there would be something scary waiting for me. Something that’s been lying low for years…just biding its time until—
Stop it.
What am I doing? Grow up, Kinsley. Open the door.
The loose decking shifts under my feet, giving me a peek at the dark, empty space below. There are spiders lurking down there. I’m so busy worrying about Arachnazilla, I miss the huge wasp nest over the front door.
When I do finally notice, I jump back. The board under my foot breaks, and I stumble, almost going down. With my heart racing, I stare into the dark abyss through the new, jagged hole.
Stop being such a girl.
I turn my attention back to the wasp nest. Now that is a problem. As soon as I swing the door open, it will fall. I’m not a wasp expert, but I’m pretty sure that will tick them off.
I pull my cell phone out of my pocket to call Dad. There are no bars. Not a one.
This is crazy. The place is obviously filthy. I didn’t bring any cleaning supplies with me; I figured the caretaker would have left some. From the looks of things, I think it’s a safe bet to assume he didn’t.
Apparently my sisters and I overlooked a few essentials.
I’ll drive back to the general store. Surely they’ll have some disinfectant, and—if I’m lucky—wasp spray.
The sun is sinking pretty low by the time I pull in front of the little store. A few people linger on the lake, but most have gone back to their campsites. Luckily, the store is still open.
I walk through the door and am startled by how old fashioned it looks. There are barrels of nuts and dried fruit. Toward the register is a display with candy sticks. I almost expect the woman behind the counter to wear a prairie skirt and pinafore. I’m a little disappointed to find her in jeans.
“Hi there.” She brushes a strand of dark hair back with her ponytail. “We’re closing in a few minutes. Can I help you find something?”
“Cleaning supplies?”
She nods to a side room. I walk through the archway and back into the right century. Donuts, candy, and chips take up the first aisle, but other boxed goods line the back shelves. Refrigerator and freezer cases stand against the walls. I find what I’m looking for toward the back.
After nearly passing out from the price—which is triple what I expect—I start grabbing. Disinfectant wipes and spray, glass cleaner, and dusting rags—I stuff multiples of everything into my arms. On my way out, I pass the waterless hand sanitizer. As I’m reaching for it, my precarious pile shifts in my arms. The wipe containers fall first…and then I lose it all.
Groaning, I stoop down. I look up when I hear footsteps behind me, and then I freeze. The guy from the lake kneels next to me and collects my lost supplies.
“Hey,” he says, the tone of his voice acknowledging that he recognizes me from earlier. He picks up a spray bottle. “I’ll carry these to the counter for you.”
His eyes are hazel—kind of green, kind of gold. Kind of gorgeous.
“Doing a little cleaning?” He gives his armful an incredulous look. “Hopefully you’re not staying in one of the cabins, or we’re going to need to have a talk with the housekeeping crew.”
“I…uh…”
He grins, and—help me—it’s a wicked, crooked smirk that could and should grace cologne advertisements.
“I’m Jack,” he says.
Still bemused by that deadly smile, I blink at him. “Kinsley.”
He nods to the next room. “Do you need anything else?”
“Wasp spray?”
Giving me a funny look, he says, “No, sorry.”
I shrug and follow him to the front.
The woman behind the counter steps away from the register. “You finish this up, Jack.”
He offers me a toned-down, customer-friendly smile. “Sure thing.”
I come to my senses once the woman leaves. “So you work here?”
“Something like that.”
Balking at the price, I hand him my card. “You know that’s robbery, right?”
Jack laughs. “It’s expensive to get stuff up here.”
“That’s because no one in their right mind would drive that mountain road.”
He takes my signed receipt and picks up my bags. “Where are you camped? I’ll carry this back for you.”
Leaning on the counter, and giving him what I hope is a Liv-worthy smile, I say, “It may be expensive, but that’s pretty good service you offer.”
He flashes that smirk again. “I aim to please.”
I laugh, enjoying myself more than I have in a long time, and take the bag from him. “I’m afraid I’m not staying here.”
For the briefest moment, disappointment flashes in his eyes. He hides it with a cocky smile. “Well, you’re welcome back anytime.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I look over my shoulder. “Maybe you can teach me how to fish.”
He steps from behind the counter and leans a hip against it. “As long as you promise not to hook me.”
A smile lurks on his lips. He looks pretty proud of his cheesy line, and I bite my cheek so I don’t beam at him shamefully.
“See you around, Jack,” I call back, nonchalant, and then indulge in a grin as soon as the door is safely shut between us.
Before I head back to the cabin, I call Dad.
“There’s a wasp nest over the front door,” I say as soon as he answers.
“Use the back door.”
“There’s a back door?”
“Yeah—it’s in the back.”
I grin despite myself. “I can always count on you to come through.”
“That’s what I’m here for. So, how is it?”
“Pretty bad. Everything’s overgrown. The deck should be fixed, and I think it’s going to need a new roof—and that’s just on the outside.”
Dad groans. I doubt he wanted to sink a bunch of money into it.
“You okay there?” he asks.
I think of the horror-movie-worthy amount of neglect, but that image is soon replaced with hazel eyes and a wicked smile.
“I think I’m all right,” I answer.
“Yeah?”
“I’m a big girl. I can do this.”
“I’ll have someone out tomorrow to look at the place.”
I peer at the jagged mountains surrounding the campground. “Do you remember it over here? It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere.”
“There’s a number for a handyman that Eddie’s wife gave me when they had to move him to the nursing home. I’ll give him a call.”
“Thanks, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome. You really okay?”
I smile into my phone. “I’m good.”
Chapter Four
It’s nearly dark by the time I pull in front of the cabin. The shadows are getting long, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little spooked. I traipse around the back—which is even more overgrown than the front, if that’s possible—and startle something small. It scampers into the brush.
The artificial turf rug Ginger spoke so fondly of lies in front of the back door. It’s faded and matted and will be one of the first things to go.
The door sticks, so I give it a good yank. Not sure what to expect, I peer in, cautious. It smells like it’s been closed up for a long time, but, except for the recent neglect, the kitchen doesn’t look too different from what I remember. The fading light shines through a rain-smudged window, illuminating a good layer of dust on the butc
her block countertops and table.
I feel like an intruder—like I should call out to announce my presence. As I step in, I flick on the light switch. Nothing happens. I turn it off and then flip it on again. Nothing.
Hoping it’s just a bad switch, I scan the room for another. I locate one and give it a try. It doesn’t do anything. A horrible thought pops into my head, and I turn on the kitchen faucet.
There’s no water, either.
I lean against the counter, thinking. I have almost half of the water bottle left that I bought in Silverton. That should at least get me through the night.
But what am I going to eat? I only brought some dry goods with me, knowing I could shop for everything else later. Dinner was going to be a can of soup that I can’t heat without power. I should have bought more while I was at the campground. I guess I’ll have breakfast cereal. Without milk.
Discouraged, I take a tour of the rest of the house. The living room is tidy but dusty, and there are some truly awful afghans tossed over the couch and chairs. The curtains that Mom spoke so fondly of are lacy and off-white—just hideous. I run my finger over Aunt Diane’s stained glass front door. At least it will be pretty once I get it cleaned up.
The hardwood floors also look like they’re in good condition. I kick one of the coiled rugs at my feet. These will have to go. So will the macramé and shell plant hangers.
I pause by the fireplace to wind an old anniversary clock. A blurry photograph of Grandma and Grandpa on their wedding day sits on the mantle. An assortment of snapshots of my sisters and me surround it. Liv was just a tiny thing in the most recent.
In another one, Ginger and I grin at the camera. I’m missing several teeth and Ginger hadn’t gotten her braces yet. My plain brown hair is up in a prim and perfect French braid, and I have on a pink T-shirt and flip-flops.
Ginger’s hair is twisted in a crazy ponytail that she must have attempted herself. Half a dozen plastic bead necklaces are draped around her neck, falling over the glittery heart on her tank top.
I look from her to me and then back again. Not much has changed. It makes me feel unusually nostalgic, so I move on.
[2015] Just the Essentials Page 3