The Wonder of You

by Susan May Warren

  The next, an underhand blow, sank farther, a better hit.

  He raised his ax for a down hit, and to her horror, it skimmed down the front of the log, the angle off. The crowd gasped as the blade plunged into the deck, narrowly missing his leg. Thanks to Darek for teaching him the right stance.

  But Roark looked shaken.

  Darek yelled at him from the side of the stage, and Roark looked over at him, nodded. He picked up the ax, blew out a breath, and brought it down.

  A perfect blow, and he yanked it out, down, around, and back into the wood. A beautiful trapezoid chinked out of the wood. He added another up hit, two more down hits, and the wedge came out.

  His competitor had moved to the other side, his hits hard, but his V seemed lopsided.

  Roark lined up, wood chipped on his shirt, and drove in an up hit, then another.

  Then he rose up as tall as he could and brought the ax down, severing the top from the wood.

  It skidded off just as his competitor finished his log.

  Amelia glanced at Seth, saw his mouth in a tight, dark line. But it vanished as he glanced at her. “Want a fish burger?”

  No. What she wanted was a chance to talk to Roark. To find out exactly why he’d decided to stick around and challenge Seth. Did he seriously think that he could ever belong here, in this tiny town?

  And what was he doing with her? He’d dated a supermodel. Amelia had seen her photo online—Francesca, a tall, shapely blonde who belonged on magazine covers.

  Roark’s time came up, and Seth let out a breath. Thirty-six seconds.

  “C’mon,” he said, taking her hand, and she slid out of the bleachers with him, almost out of habit.

  They ate their fish burgers while watching Vivie recite her monologue, then answer her interview questions.

  She smiled at her audience, pretty, poised. Quintessential Vivien.

  Mona Michaels, owner of the local bookstore, played the role of moderator. “Okay, Vivien. Tell us this. When is the last time you failed? How did you handle it?”

  Vivien blinked, and Amelia couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed her smile faded for a moment. Then she sighed. “Actually, it was quite recent. I dropped out of acting school. Something I always longed to do, and I blew it because I was afraid. I . . .” She swallowed. “I actually ran off the stage during an important audition, got into my friend’s car, and drove all the way back to Minnesota.”

  Amelia stared at her, unmoving.

  “So I guess the answer is, I came home. But you see, that’s the thing about home. It’s here. It will always be here. It’s not failure to come home and regroup. I’ve discovered that coming home helps you remember exactly who you are and what you want. Home gives you the courage to leave again. At least, that’s my theory because I’m not giving up. Hollywood or bust.” She winked, and when she did, it landed on Amelia.

  A few cheers went up as Mona moved on to the next contestant. But beside Amelia, Seth asked, “Did you know she dropped out of acting school?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes. Poor Vivie. But she got it. She’d wanted to hide when she got home too. But coming home had healed her. And was starting to show her that maybe she didn’t have to stay.

  “I gotta go. Birling next. Brr.”

  Amelia laughed. “Good luck.” She got up, wandered over to where Vivie stood offstage. Wheedling in past a couple organizers, she caught Vivie in a hug. “You should have told me,” she said.

  “Aw, I . . . was ashamed. Here I was, acting like I was a big shot, and I was really just a failure.”

  “Neither of us are failures. We’re regrouping.”

  Vivie nodded. She looked over Amelia’s shoulder. “Is that Roark up on that log?”

  “No, it’s Seth—”

  But Vivie took her by the shoulders, turned her.

  And her heart stopped for a second as she watched Seth climb up opposite Roark.

  “Oh no.”

  “Yeah, this isn’t going to be pretty.”

  Vivie took her hand, and they cut through the crowd as the two balanced, duking it out. Seth had changed, wore a pair of athletic shorts, a T-shirt. Roark wore what looked like biking pants, a sleeveless shirt. And a pair of soccer cleats, which looked new.

  Seth had always been clumsy, no finesse when it came to birling. Roark, on the other hand, had grace, and he toyed with Seth, rolling forward, then slowing, jerking the log, and rolling back. Twice he kicked the water, a ploy that worked the second time.

  Seth tumbled off hard into the bath.

  Roark jumped down, rolled the log over to the edge of the pool.

  The officials held the log as the competitors climbed up, using poles to push out from the edge. They let go, balanced, and the gun went off.

  Almost instantly, Seth jerked the log hard, and Roark went down with a splash.

  “Oh, my,” Amelia said. “He looks mad.”

  “Seth?”

  “Roark.” Indeed, Roark came up hot, shaking his hair from his face, huffing out a breath.

  “Just one more, Roark. You got this.” Darek, from the far end of the pool.

  Seth looked at him, frowned. “Thanks a lot, Dare.”

  Amelia stepped a little behind Vivie.

  Roark and Seth climbed up. This time, Roark was ready when Seth tried to jerk the log. He stayed on and countered, pressing the log backward fast, running in micro, almost tiptoe steps. Seth clomped on the far end, low in the water. Slowly he took control, decreasing the speed, moving the log the opposite direction. Roark now ran backward, his arms trying not to flail.

  Keep low; keep your center. Amelia let out a breath and realized she’d been holding it.

  Suddenly Seth slipped. His foot went out, and he kicked the log. It jerked out from under him and he went flying. But the action toppled Roark, who hit the water first.

  No.

  Roark came up and almost instantly turned to the officials. Amelia wanted to scream at the injustice when they gave the win to Seth.

  As Roark climbed out, Jensen met him with a towel. Seth’s pal Sammy Johnson stood at his ready.

  “Wanna stick around for Seth’s next round?”

  Amelia sighed. “I should.”

  But really she wanted to follow Jensen and Darek as they wandered toward the food shacks to grab a bite, rest.

  Relaunch for the final event, the double buck.

  No, what she really wanted was to tell Roark that it didn’t matter who won. That he’d shown her exactly the kind of man he was—the kind of man who kept his promises, even in the face of defeat. And apparently he’d been right when he said extreme didn’t begin to describe what he’d do to win her back.

  “I have to go find out who made the finals in the pageant,” Vivie said, squeezing her hand.

  Amelia climbed onto the bleachers, cheering as Seth fought through the next round but was handily beaten by a wiry man from Duluth.

  He’d still earned enough points to rise against Roark, at least on the leaderboard.

  Roark couldn’t believe he hadn’t done something stupid, like chop off his foot or saw off his leg. His name hung on the leaderboard, three notches below Seth’s, thanks to his fall in the pool. But he’d seen Amelia watching him. Cheering for him. And angry for him when he went into the drink.

  He planned on winning. Because there was no way he was walking away from her. Not when he saw that expression on her face. She still loved him; he just knew it.

  Tossing his wet clothes into a rucksack, he climbed onto a picnic bench and cracked open the cold Coke he’d purchased from a vendor.

  He drank it half down before Darek stopped him. “You need water, not soda.” He grabbed Jensen’s bottled water. Handed it to Roark.

  “Hey.”

  “It’s for the win. Go get him one of those corn on the cobs.” He motioned Jensen toward the stand.

  “I’m not your lackey.”

  “Our boy needs sustenance.”

  Actually, Roark couldn’t e
at a thing, but with the double buck still an hour away, maybe he needed somewhere to put all this adrenaline.

  “I should have won that.”

  Darek raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, the fact that you stayed on and won even one round was—”

  “No, I can do better. Have done better, against you.”

  “I let you, dude. Confidence building.”

  “Hardly. I know cheating when I see it. You were in for the win, and I sent you into the lake.”

  “Whatever you want to believe.” Darek tossed the can into a nearby bin. “But more importantly, we gotta win that double buck. You’re on the leaderboard, and whether you win or not, the key here is—”

  “I gotta beat Seth.”

  “I was going to say that you’ve already earned the respect of Deep Haven. And Amelia. I saw her watching you that last round. You’re golden, bro. I think you’ve already beaten Seth in that department.”

  Roark shook his head. “If I don’t win, it won’t matter. Because I’m an idiot.”

  “Let me count the ways. But seriously, why this time?”

  “I wagered Seth . . . uh, well, Amelia.”

  Darek stared at him a long moment, then let out something that sounded remotely like laughter. “As her brother, I should probably be angry, but the very idea that either of you could think you could wager Amelia—like she isn’t the most stubborn person on the planet, the one person in our family who seems to always get her own way—is downright laughable.”

  “I know. I . . . He just set me off.”

  “So drive your Ferrari over him. Don’t do something like say you’ll wager my sister, whatever that means.”

  “If he wins, I promised to leave town. And he promised to step out of the picture if I won.”

  “Roark, if you believe for one second that Seth would walk away from Amelia if you won this match, you are more naive than we were to think you weren’t serious about Amelia. He’s in this, wager or no wager, until she says no. Out loud. Until she stands up and declares you the love of her life.”

  Roark nodded, trying to get behind Darek’s words. He picked at the label on the water bottle.

  “Oh no. Don’t give me a ‘my word is my bond’ speech. You Brits, all about honor and country.”

  Roark sighed.

  “Okay, so it’s simple. We win. We’ve been practicing the double buck for a week now, and if you can keep up, we got this.”

  “I can keep up.”

  Darek smiled. “When we win, do I get to drive the Ferrari?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake—”

  “Two corncobs and another bottled water,” Jensen said, sitting down. “By the way, I think Vivie made the finals.” He nodded at the judges’ booth on the platform, and Roark turned to see three contestants, dressed in overalls, waving to the crowd. “I think they have to look pretty for tonight’s ball.”

  “They’re not the only ones. We’ll win this thing, and then, Roark, we expect you to show up in something . . . Bond, James Bond. It’s time for the true Roark St. John to come out of hiding.”

  If only he knew who that might be. But today, during the hot saw, during the standing chop, and even during the birling, it had all felt so . . . elemental. Good, clean fun, without the posh accoutrements of his upbringing.

  Or maybe it was his upbringing. Simple village living, chopping coal, pumping water, fixing the car.

  “C’mon, let’s go check out the chain saw exhibits.” Darek hauled him up before he could dwell.

  They walked around the festival grounds, watching the children riding ducks on the merry-go-round, the face painters, the few vendors selling chain saw art or watercolors on swaths of birch bark. Seagulls waddled in the street, scavenging for scraps.

  Chain saws buzzed in the air, which held the smell of flapjacks against sawdust, the freshness of summer. Roark finished his corn, wandered down to the harbor, watched Jake fly in and out, cutting through the indigo waves.

  He wanted to stay. To build a life here. The urge could take him under, drown him with its intensity.

  But not without Amelia, and he didn’t know how to fix that.

  “We’re up, dude,” Darek said behind him.

  Roark tossed his water bottle in the bin as he headed toward the stage.

  Working together, he and Darek would use a two-man bucksaw to cut through a twenty-inch-diameter white pine log. Apparently the best times were under ten seconds. He and Darek averaged under twenty, which he’d thought nearly miraculous but, when he watched videos on YouTube, became downright slothful.

  With only eight contestants, the judges had lined up four logs across the expansive stage, each team sawing at once, three rounds for the grand finale.

  Sunlight cascaded over the logs, stretching their shadows out to eternity as Roark followed Darek onto the platform, picked up his end of the saw. The crosscut saw had mean five-inch teeth, razors that tore through the wood with a violent bite.

  Roark flexed his hands inside his work gloves as they settled the saw into the starting cut on the log. Two blocks of wood nailed into the platform gave his feet leverage as he stretched them out, one in front, the other in back, twice as wide as his shoulders, drawing him low to use his core and hips for maximum power.

  “Rhythm,” Darek said opposite him as he hunkered down. “Remember to keep it level, steady, and . . .” He grinned. “Try to keep up.”

  Roark heard the crowd’s cheers rise around him but dared not look for Amelia.

  Seth and his partner, one of the blokes Roark recognized from the gym, manned a bucksaw next to Roark and Darek. Seth faced him, of course, and sent him a grin, all grizzly teeth.

  Roark ignored him. Darek pulled the saw out, maximum length toward himself, and Roark bent over, ready to draw it back.

  For Amelia.

  The gunshot sounded the go, and just like they’d practiced, Roark pulled back, steady, even, as Darek pushed. At the end, he powered into a push, which Darek matched. Their early practice attempts had Darek bowing the saw, pushing into the wood harder than Roark pulled, with Roark pulling up instead of bearing down into the wood, but now Roark matched Darek’s speed and power. Not unlike rowing in the rhythm, only faster, brutally faster.

  The cookie fell off in what seemed a blink, and he looked at the clock: 12.6 seconds.

  Seth’s cookie, however, had fallen off at 12.2.

  Darek stood, wiped the hint of sweat from his brow. Glanced at the times as the crowd roared. Roark’s heart thundered, adrenaline thick as the judges notched the next cutting mark.

  Hazarding a look into the crowd, Roark didn’t see Amelia.

  “Ready?” Darek said, assuming his stance. This time, they started with Roark at the initial push.

  He nodded, took a breath. Tensed.

  At the gunshot he dove into his push, matching Darek, even perhaps besting him. He dug into Darek’s pace, faster than before. Back, forth, his arms burning.

  When the cookie fell, he hunched over, breathing hard.

  With a time of 10.8 seconds, they’d bested Seth’s team by 2 seconds.

  Darek grinned, and Roark imagined he heard Amelia’s cheer over the crowd noise. Sweat dribbled down his back, his heart still in his lungs.

  They notched the log for the final heat.

  “Under eight,” Darek said, straightening, shaking out his arms. “Right?”

  Roark nodded and took his position.

  Under eight.

  “For the win.” Darek hunkered down, pulling the saw out.

  The gun went off and they set a perfect rhythm, the saw biting through the log so fast, they were halfway through in seconds.

  Then suddenly the saw caught.

  It happened so fast, Roark didn’t know who to blame. He slammed the saw forward into the push, and it bowed. He nearly went over the log but righted himself, and Darek worked it free.

  He settled back into rhythm to finish the cut, but before he could cut through, the cookie broke off. Onl
y a lip remained. One fast cut and it too fell off, but the crowd had hushed.

  Clearly they’d finished their cut before the competitors, easily beating Darek’s eight-second goal. The board listed their time—7.6.

  Except Darek was shaking his head.

  “What?”

  “We broke the cut.”

  Roark frowned.

  “We’re disqualified.”

  Disqualified. The word landed like a punch to his sternum as Roark glanced at the leaderboard. Sure enough, their time blinked to red, then erased.

  Dropping their team to the bottom.

  Seth raised his fist in the air at his 8.2-second time.

  The crowd roared for the hometown favorite even as Darek came over to Roark, shook his hand. “It happens.”

  “It was me. I pushed too hard. I bowed the saw.”

  Darek clamped him on the shoulder, but Roark could see his disappointment. “Next year.”

  Roark had no words. He stepped back as Seb Brewster mounted the stage, taking the microphone to announce the winner. The totaled points appeared on the scoreboard. With Roark’s loss in the double buck and the catastrophe in the birling, he’d dropped to sixth.

  Seth’s name appeared at the top of the board.

  Roark mustered up a smile, harkening back to his schooling, fighting the urge to run from the stage. Or better, to take Seth off with him in a full-out American football–style tackle.

  Especially when Seth stepped up to receive his trophy and took the mic. “I told you all that I planned on winning for my girl, Amelia.”

  Roark rolled his eyes.

  “And in case I won, I had a little surprise . . . Amelia, could you come up here?”

  Roark’s chest began to tighten. He searched for her in the audience, which parted around her. Oh, there she was, hiding. In fact, she wore her sunglasses again.

  Amelia’s mouth opened and she gave the slightest shake of her head, but hands pushed her forward.

  She hesitated before she mounted the stage. Roark wanted to reach out, grab her hand, but she walked right past him without a word, a nod, an acknowledgment that he existed.

  And then, if this day could nose-dive further, he watched as Seth got down on one knee.