Clear to Lift

by Anne A. Wilson

30

  “Turn right here,” Will says.

  Feather-light snowflakes drift through the headlight beams as I turn in to what appears to be a near-impenetrable wall of evergreens. But then the slimmest of openings is revealed, and a hidden road becomes visible, one without tire tracks, just untouched snow. With the increase in elevation from Reno to June Lake, the rain morphed into sleet, and finally to a quiet snow, the temperature hovering just above freezing.

  “This isn’t the way to your house,” I say. “Or is it a back way or something?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I drive cautiously on this narrow route that winds and falls, noticeably dropping in elevation. Granted, it’s dark now, but I don’t see any signs of houses—no driveways or mailboxes—just forest. What I do see are the pinpoint silver twinkles of stars that peek through open slivers of unseen clouds. And I think, how wondrous to experience both the stars and the falling snow in the same moment.

  Five minutes after we turn from the main road, Will directs me to park in a small clearing. He removes one of his North Face duffel bags from the back, opens it, and removes a small headlamp. He straps this to his forehead, then slings the duffel over his shoulders, wearing it like a backpack.

  “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

  I’m glad I’ve worn my hiking boots, as we tromp off in the snow, following the narrow beam from Will’s light. We negotiate what feels like a stairway, each step marked with a soft powder crunch, then exit the clearing and turn onto a forest trail, not even wide enough to accommodate us side by side. We thread our way through a stand of bare-branched aspen, and a short minute later emerge into a second clearing, one ringed with stately pines. Shifting ribbons of steam rise from a pool of water in the middle.

  “Is this—?”

  He smiles.

  The pool is part of a larger creek that disappears into the forest on either side, visible because of the steam that floats in sheets above it. Gurgling water spills into the depression in front of us before shooting through a tapered channel, then continuing downward and out of view. This particular pool has human touches, lined with rocks around the sides, flat ones, like patio tiles.

  “I thought you might like to see this … you know, at night,” he says, slipping the duffel bag off his shoulders and letting it drop to the ground.

  “The star show…” I lift my gaze from the water to the sky, remembering his comment when we soaked in the hot springs near the Mammoth Lakes airport.

  “But you need to see it as it was meant to be seen,” he says, switching off his headlamp.

  Instantly, we’re wrapped in the blackest black, a no-moon-night-over-the-ocean black. I squeeze his hand, because now I can’t see at all.

  Except for above, that is. The clouds have parted like curtains. Absent the moon’s reflective shine and without any artificial light to wash out the view, the sky shimmers, awash in silver. And maybe it’s that we’re at altitude, the air thinner, less pollution, but there’s a thickness to the starlight, a saturating sense of wonder, possibility.

  “Spectacular, isn’t it?” he says.

  I look up to the sound of his voice, unable to make out his features. “It sort of takes your breath away.”

  His hand finds the back of my head, he pulls me to him, and lips so warm press down on mine. His kiss is sensuous, like an ache, the only two people on the planet. Snowflakes alight—pat, pat, pat—on my nose and cheeks, but melt away on contact, my skin rushing with warmth.

  He pulls the zipper on my jacket, the sleeves roll off my arms, and he tosses it aside.

  “Are we … out here?” I ask.

  It’s snowing. It’s thirty degrees.

  “Nope,” he says, shrugging off his own jacket. He follows by lifting his shirt up and over his head. I can’t see his chest, but my hands find it, moving over its wide contours. My fingers move at will, exploring, gliding over the washboard abdomen I remember from our first trip to the hot springs.

  “Or are we—?”

  His hands move to my hips, gathering my shirt, and pulling upward. Somehow he finds the hook to my bra, and that falls next.

  I’m about to complete my question when he fits his mouth over mine, and the words die on my tongue—probably because his wraps so wondrously around mine. Snowflakes drop, pitter patter, across my back, but his warm hands smooth over them, gliding down to the dip in my waist. Any thought of the cold evaporates as his fingers slip under the waistband of my pants and circle to the sides, finding my hips.

  His fingers stay there, sliding along my hip bones, back and forth in that narrow groove. I press into him, and his hands move lower, every touch searing, sending a burn so deep—

  “Will, this is torture!”

  His deep laugh fills the night air. “You like that, then.”

  “I can’t even … I can’t even think—”

  “That’s the idea,” he says, hands now on my pants, unbuttoning them, zipper coming down …

  “I know we’re supposed to go slow,” I say. “But, this time—”

  I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity, realizing I’ve lived a sex-by-the-numbers existence until now. You do this, then this, next step, next step … Like my entire life up to this point.

  He doesn’t answer as he removes my boots, then socks—ooh, the rocks are hot, like they were at the springs near Mammoth Lakes. His hands return to my waist, and he pulls my pants down. Down, down, down, and off.

  “Will…,” I start, but then I hear the gentle swish, swish as he removes the rest of his clothes.

  “Just wait,” he whispers.

  He must have kneeled, because now his hands glide up my legs and move over my torso. A kiss to my navel. Another just above. His lips press gently against my abdomen, one slow kiss after another, moving sensually upward, until his fingers smooth over my breasts which swell and harden under his touch.

  “Oh god, Will—”

  He finds my mouth again, and his lips press hard against mine. A guttural sound issues from the back of his throat, his kiss deepening, just as the clouds knit together, closing our picture window to the stars.

  I’m pummeled with sensory overload. The wholesome fragrance of him, like earth and pine. The sound of his breath washing across my cheeks, echoing, roaring in my ears. His slow-beating heart pounding as if it were in my own chest. Every touch heightened, every sensation amplified in the all-consuming darkness.

  I thought we’d move into the water. I’m sure Will thought the same. A romantic interlude in a hot spring? What could be better? But as the heat explodes between us, my body molded to his … it’s too much. The notion of a dip in the spring quickly goes by the wayside as he lowers me to the flat rocks next to the pool, where the sensory overload bumps up one more notch—my backside warm like butter, my front rippling with goose bumps as snowflakes dot across my skin.

  “Ooh, it’s cold!” I say with a shiver.

  “It won’t be in just a second.”

  I hear him move away. The zip of a zipper. The ripping of paper.

  A condom. Thank god he has one.

  He moves over me, his body weight settling. Instant warmth.

  And in this blackest of black, there’s nothing to cling to visually, fostering an intense connection to the warm-blooded being who hovers over me, now in me, all of him, becoming all of me. We move as one, no more holding back, and soar into oblivion.

  * * *

  The clouds pull apart to allow another peek at the cosmos, the stars winking their approval. My head presses firmly into Will’s chest, his arm wrapped securely around me, one side of my brain absorbed in the forever of the universe, the other trying to decide if I’m hot or cold.

  I burrow my head further, and Will responds by extending his other arm across me and pulling me close for a light kiss on the forehead.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  “I can’t decide, but I think you’re tipping the scales toward warmer than colder.”

  �
��We can go, if you want.”

  “No, no. I could stay here all night. Just like this.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “You know…,” he says, shifting. “We could stay here, and we wouldn’t have to be completely exposed like this. I have my tent in my pack. A sleeping bag, too.”

  “I guess you would, wouldn’t you? For your trip…”

  “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never slept in a tent before.”

  I don’t need any illumination to know he wears an incredulous look on his face.

  “You’ve never been in a tent before?”

  “I was an indoor girl, remember?”

  “That still does not compute with me.”

  “Well, yeah. The closest I got to the outdoors was my aunt Celia’s lodge on the Walker River. I thought it was so rugged, staying in a cabin.”

  I feel his head shaking as his chin brushes the top of my head. “Just gimme a couple minutes.”

  A light rummaging sound, and then the light is near-blinding when he twists on his headlamp.

  “Here,” he says, handing me my clothes. “We can get dressed first, then put everything together.”

  He dresses quickly, then begins to pull things out of his North Face bag. This is followed by the clinking of metal as he snaps aluminum poles together and lays them across the yellow nylon material he has spread on the ground.

  I don my clothes, pulling on my boots last, not bothering with the laces. But at least I’m covered now. “May I help you?”

  “Sure, you can thread these poles through the loops there,” he says. “They run diagonally and insert into the straps at the ends.”

  I oblige, sliding the poles crossways and snapping them into the grommets built into the webbing at each corner. But when I stand back, the tent promptly collapses, twisting awkwardly in the middle.

  “Uh, Will, I think I missed something.”

  He tries to stifle the laugh, but it escapes anyway. “These are supposed to cross in the center. Like this.” He talks as he works to undo my mess. “Easy mistake.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s how we learn, right?”

  “Well, you’ve done a fine job of scrambling my brain tonight, just so you know.”

  “Good,” he says, chuckling.

  Will works on the last pole—click, click, click—snapping the final section into place. “This one’s for the entry, and then we should be all set.” He slides it through the loops, and the material bends, forming an arched entryway.

  He turns back to his duffel and removes a sleeping bag, the one from Basin Mountain. Releasing it from its stuff sack, he rolls it out inside the tent.

  “There we go,” he says, wiping his hands.

  “Home away from home,” I say.

  He turns to me, arms dropping, the oddest expression crossing his face.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  He approaches me, taking both my hands in his. “This is home. I mean, it’s home for a lot of the year, depending on where I am in the world.” He shifts his feet. Stalling? Nervous? “But that’s not exactly right, either. Truthfully, home is wherever I am at the moment. I don’t have—”

  “Stop,” I say, squeezing his hands. “I guess I’m home, then.”

  31

  I open my eyes to a tent suffused in light. Naked and blissfully warm in my sleeping bag, I stare at the yellow dome above me. The haze of sleep lifts, and I’m flooded with memories of a singularly transcendent night with Will.

  Will …

  Smiling, I peek out from my downy enclosure, my nose and ears nipped in greeting by the chill morning air.

  I search for my clothes, which lie haphazardly discarded in the corner, and dress within the warm confines of my sleeping bag. I rub my eyes—teeth, too, using my finger as a toothbrush—and swipe the hair away from my face. Unzipping the front flap of the tent, I step out to a most glorious sight.

  A tough little fire leaps in yellows and reds, crackling and snapping, emitting a woody, tangy odor, like cedar. Next to it, a healthy blanket of steam hides the hot spring that bubbles beneath, all of this surrounded by the now fully visible lofty pines, layered in white, sixty, seventy, eighty feet high. A thin layer of snow coats the ground, and the clouds hang heavy—another morning without sun, a sun that has been absent for more than a week. And in the middle of it all, one Will Cavanaugh, perched on a log next to the fire, wool hat on his head, stubble on his face, pulling a coffeepot from its stone resting platform and pouring a cup.

  “Coffee?” he asks.

  “Are you kidding?”

  He moves over to give me room, and I take my place next to him. Reaching for the cup, I bring it under my chin, the steam washing over my face.

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  I take a cautious first sip, blowing first, not expecting the delicious flavor of … “Mint?” I ask.

  He smiles, pleased. “You like it?”

  “Very much,” I say, taking another drink. “But how did you—?”

  “Added it to the coffee grounds. Great for the flavor, don’t you think?”

  I nod, sipping. “I’ve only tried it with tea, but this is great in coffee. I had no idea.”

  He watches me, a playful look on his face. “You know, for an indoor girl, you seem to take to the outdoor life pretty easily.”

  “Tent skills aside, yeah, I think I could warm to this,” I say, leaning into him. “What can I say? The snow, the trees, the stars. It made what we shared last night…”

  I’m unable to finish, because I don’t know that I’ll ever have the words to describe it. And not just what happened by the spring. We shared the same sleeping bag, so … The lovemaking was slower then, but every bit as intense. I find his eyes, and here they hold, steam from my cup curling softly between us.

  “That was … beyond anything I could have ever imagined,” he says.

  “And beyond the best birthday present I could have ever imagined,” I say.

  “What’s this? It’s your birthday?”

  “Actually, no. It’s tomorrow. But close enough.”

  He leans in, brushing his lips softly against mine. “Happy birthday.”

  “Thank you,” I say, drawing back with a smile.

  We sip our coffee, our shoulders pressed together, and soak in the warmth of the fire. I’m so utterly content, I let my eyes shutter closed.

  “Do you think you can stay over tomorrow?” he asks. “We could celebrate.”

  “I have duty, unfortunately.”

  “You’re standing duty on your birthday?”

  “Gotta love the navy. Isn’t the first time. Won’t be the last.”

  “Well, we’re gonna need a makeup day for sure.”

  I open my eyes and turn to him. “I’m all for that, especially if it’s like … well, what it’s been like the last twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m sure I can arrange that,” he says, skimming his hand across my cheek.

  “So where are we, by the way?” I say, looking up, around.

  “I guess we never got to that, did we?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, with a small laugh. “So is this another locals-only hot spring?”

  “Actually, no. This is private property.”

  “Oh. Are we trespassing then?”

  “You think I would trespass?”

  “Well … yeah, for a sweet hot spring like this?”

  “True,” he says, with a wink.

  Are these words really leaving my mouth? Condoning trespassing? Talking about it in fun? I think I can officially say I’ve been unmade since coming to Fallon. But the weird part is, I like this new Alison far better. She’s not as hard on herself. Doesn’t sweat the small stuff. She tries new things. Takes chances. Even ventures on the occasional rogue criminal outing.

  “Although, this time, it’s legit,” he says.

  “Why, did you get permiss
ion or something?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. I own the property, so I gave myself permission.”

  “You own this?”

  “You look shocked! Is that so far-fetched?”

  “Well, I just thought, you know,” I say, pointing to his tent. “Your said this was your home … and then, you live with Jack … and it’s okay, it’s totally okay. I don’t care where you live. This tent life is pretty awesome, if you ask me.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I really do. And I meant what I said last night. My home is with you, wherever that might be at the time.” I look down to the half-full coffee mug in my hand, knowing I have spoken the heartfelt truth. I remember the same contentment in the mine tunnel in Basin Mountain. No urge to go or do. I couldn’t pinpoint the reason at the time, but now I know. It was him. He was there, and I was with him. And so I was content. I was home.

  “Although, I have to admit, I’m glad you weren’t trespassing. If we’re living in a tent on your property, I’ll breathe easier.”

  He looks at me for some time. “You really don’t mind this, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I was warm last night. We have food and water and … coffee,” I say, lifting my mug in a small caffeine salute. “I’m not sure what you do long-term about bathroom facilities, but other than that…” I shrug my shoulders, bringing the cup to my lips for another sip.

  Rich would be aghast at this conversation. He has all the comforts, and I don’t think he could imagine living without them. And for most of my twenty-eight years on this earth, I couldn’t have imagined living without them. But the more that’s stripped from me, the longer I do without, the more liberating it becomes. Like the dull pencil run through the automatic sharpener, I’ve become honed, tightened, balanced. Everything is clearer. More present. More real. Will is real. What we share is real.

  “I’m glad that you say that, but, uh, the tent thing. You don’t have to worry about that. The tent is just for trips. I’m staying with Jack, so you won’t have to be subjected to this too much.”

  “Subjected? Far from it. This is amazing, every bit of it. It’s just a bonus that you get to live at Jack’s.”

  “No,” he says, tipping his coffee cup back, draining it. “I said, I’m staying with Jack. I don’t live there.”