by Susan Wiggs
“It’s beautiful here,” she said. “Very private.”
“That,” he said, glancing at his watch, “is the whole idea. We’d better get to the airport.” As he turned the car, he felt her staring at him.
“Nice view,” she said, “but what’s the significance?”
He made himself look straight ahead, watching the dusty road. “Lovers’ Lane,” he said casually. “It’s where I lost my virginity.”
A little gasp escaped her, but he heard the smile in her voice as she said, “You know, I could have gone all day without hearing that.”
They drove along in silence for a while, following the Shoshone Highway to the county airport. Finally, Rob said, in all sincerity, “You’re a good listener, Twyla.”
A smile lit her face. “You think so?”
“Yeah. I definitely think so.”
“I’m flattered. I always thought—” She shook her head and watched out the window as they entered the airport and headed for the tiny rental car kiosk.
“Thought what?”
“Never mind.”
He got out of the car, retrieving their bags from the trunk, then opened Twyla’s door. “Sorry, lady, but you’ll have to spill. No fiancée of mine keeps secrets from me.”
He didn’t know many women who blushed quite as often as Twyla did. It must drive her crazy, trying to be a smart-ass when your face kept giving you away.
“So?” he prompted.
“It’s nothing, really. Just that, back when I’d planned on going to school, I always thought I’d go into psychology or social work, some field that would require a lot of listening and problem-solving and people skills.” She sent him a self-deprecating grin. “As it turns out, I am in that field. Sort of.”
As they boarded the small commuter plane for Jackson, Rob realized he was worried about himself. For a physician, he was having a hell of a time describing his condition. All his life, he had felt an invisible weight pressing on his chest. No one could see it, no one but he knew it was there, always, pressing on him with the tension of failed hopes.
After one conversation with Twyla, the burden felt about one brick lighter.
When they were settled into their seats, he had to smile at her almost childlike curiosity about the plane, the contents of the seat pocket in front of her, the seat belt mechanism and the blinking panel of dials and gizmos visible through the open door to the cockpit.
“You like flying?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
He frowned, not understanding.
She looked out the small oval window and laughed. “I’ve only flown once before, in an open crop duster with my father. It wasn’t quite the same as this.”
He sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, letting the news sink in. Air travel was so commonplace he was sure he’d never met anyone who hadn’t flown. Finally, he said, “That’s something, Twyla. That’s really something.”
“What you mean is, that’s really pathetic.” She grew serious. “Rob, I don’t think you realize what you’re getting into, taking me to this reunion.”
The door shut, and the plane taxied toward the runway. “Honey, we’ve got nothing but time.”
She laughed. “I don’t think I need to bore you with my small-town hard-luck story.”
“Who said I’d be bored?”
The plane gathered speed and, with a lurch, became airborne. Twyla gasped and reflexively grabbed for his hand.
Rob didn’t let go for the entire forty-five-minute flight to Jackson.
In that short amount of time, he came to know her with a clarity and understanding that was rare for him. Something about Twyla intrigued and challenged him. She wasn’t so different from him in some ways. She dreamed big dreams, but unlike him, circumstances hadn’t permitted her to see them through. When she spoke of the past, her pride and ambition shone through. When she talked about her current situation, it was with self-deprecating humor and a strange, touching, square-shouldered stoicism.
“I feel funny, getting all moony-eyed over the past,” she said. “I guess it’s just that the reunion has dredged up some old things I haven’t thought about in a long time.”
“Moony-eyed?”
She sniffed. “And how would a college-educated doctor say it?”
He thought for a minute. “Moony-eyed, I guess. But why do I hear such contempt in your voice when you call me a college-educated doctor? Is there any other kind?”
“I hope not.” She stared down at their linked hands. “I try hard not to be bitter about my marriage. But the truth is, I’m pretty wary about men.”
“Sounds like it, if your friends have resorted to sending you on a forced date.”
She smiled thinly. “It’s a mercy date, Rob, and we both know it.”
“Look.” He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “It’s not a mercy date, it’s fun.” He grinned mischievously. Changing subjects, he said, “So tell me about flying with your father. Was he into aviation?”
“He was into everything for about fifteen minutes.”
“And you say he died suddenly?” Rob felt himself entering alien territory. Her personal life should be off limits, but she’d been so open with him up to now. He wanted to know her even better. “Tell me about it, Twyla.”
CHAPTER TEN
TWYLA WAS SAVED by the bell—literally. She had really put her foot in it, bringing up the past, and Jake, and her father, and all that it implied.
Rob Carter’s expression changed from friendly and interested to deeply suspicious. She hadn’t hidden anything from him, not really, but the fact that she’d made no mention of the way her father had died until there was no turning back was probably a little incriminating.
Fortunately for her, a soft bell dinged and the pilot announced their approach to the airport in Jackson. He also said, in the mildest of terms, that due to reported wind shears in the area, passengers should expect “a little jiggle now and then.”
The first “jiggle” left Twyla’s stomach somewhere in the vicinity of twenty-thousand feet. The next jiggle left the imprint of her ruby-slippered fingernails in Rob’s forearm. The jiggle after that might have severed her tongue, except that she had her teeth clamped together too tightly to move.
Some of the other passengers added sound effects to the flight pattern. Oohs and aahs and little shrieks and snatches of prayer rose above the general cacophony.
Forgive me, Brian, Twyla silently pleaded. Forgive your pathetic mother for coming to this stupid reunion just to prove some stupid point to the stupid town that witnessed her humiliation. She pictured her own headstone: Here Lies Twyla Jean McCabe. Died Young of Having Too Much Pride.
Then, before she knew it, a loud rush of wind drowned out everything else. She plastered herself back against the seat and shut her eyes, waiting for the end.
The plane touched down with a slow-motion bounce, then roared along the runway, finally slowing to a leisurely taxi to the jetway. Twyla couldn’t believe it. She’d survived.
And she was deeply embarrassed.
But when she turned to Rob to apologize for being so clingy, she was amazed to see that his face had gone ghost-white. Beads of sweat covered his brow and upper lip. When he saw her looking at him, he cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Are we having fun yet?” he asked.
Twyla laughed shakily. She used her free hand to pry her fingers off his forearm. “I think I’ve scarred you for life.”
He waved away her concern. “If that’s the worst a woman ever does to me, I’ll count myself lucky.” Before she could question him about that comment, he said, “So here we are. What do you want to do first?”
“Drink my face off,” she said.
“I’d be glad to join you.” He stood and moved back to let her go in front of him. “Let’s check into the lodge. Mrs. Spinelli claims it has a well-stocked bar.”
Trying not to wobble on her weak knees, Twyla made her way to the exit. “What lodge?”
she asked over her shoulder.
“I have no idea. Something called Laughing Water Lodge.” He patted his carry-on bag. “I’ve got a map and the key right here.”
Sugar Spinelli had left no detail untended. From the moment they’d stepped into the airport lobby and spied a rental car employee holding a placard with Dr. Carter written on it, Twyla had wondered what else Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth had planned.
A twenty-five-minute drive in the rental car—a late-model red Jeep with a roll bar—took them out the winding farm-to-market road that stretched between Jackson and Hell Creek. They turned into a drive indicated only by a discreet stone marker beside a small, fast-moving mountain stream. Swaying willows and silvery aspens lined the pebbled drive.
The lodge itself was a grand old thing, built of thick logs with small-paned windows and angular buttresses under the eaves. Inside was a great room done in a lowkey new-West motif. Twyla tried not to gawk as she inspected the river-rock fireplace with the requisite thick pile hearth rug, the overstuffed furniture in subdued forest hues, the enticing library shelves filled with books she’d never read. Two bedrooms, she noted with satisfaction. They were located side by side, but she’d keep the door shut.
The fridge in the kitchen held a cold roasted chicken, an assortment of side dishes and desserts, several bottles of Moët Chandon and fruit and muffins for breakfast. As promised, the bar was nicely stocked.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Twyla murmured.
“I love rich people,” Rob said. “I really do.”
“Even meddlesome, matchmaking rich people?”
Expertly popping the top of the Moët, Rob said, “Mrs. Spinelli must really like the way you do her hair.”
Twyla flushed, overwhelmed by the intimate setting. It seemed almost criminal to be in this wildly romantic place, with every detail attended to, for the sake of a deception. “You know it’s more than hair.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. You going to tell me about it?”
“She had a pretty terrible time when she was sick a couple of years ago.” Twyla said no more, because it was personal. There was a time when Mrs. Spinelli would only see Twyla on a house call. A radical cancer treatment had caused Sugar to lose most of her hair. Though her prognosis was good, she was miserable, and she looked it. Every other day Twyla visited her, styling a wig to look just right and doing her makeup. But the work was more than cosmetic. Mrs. Spinelli talked, and Twyla listened, and a deep bond formed between them. When Mrs. Spinelli felt up to going out again, she credited Twyla with all the compliments she received on her recovery.
“Let me guess.” Rob handed her a flute of champagne. “You helped her through the illness.”
They clinked glasses and Twyla took a sip. The champagne bubbles danced deliciously over her tongue with a taste she hadn’t experienced in years.
“She claims I was a big help,” Twyla said. “Mostly I just did her hair and listened.”
They were silent, drinking their champagne. After a while, he said, “You like helping people, don’t you?”
“Always have, I suppose.” A wistfulness settled over her. “I wish—” She stopped and took another drink of the Moët.
“Wish what?”
She regarded him levelly. “What is it like for you when you have a case you can’t cure?”
“Everyone can be helped,” he said. “But some can’t be cured, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I think I am. What’s it like?”
“Frustrating, demoralizing, and it motivates me to work harder and dig deeper.”
“How deep?”
“Until I figure out the problem. Why do you ask?” He winked at her. “Experiencing any strange symptoms?”
“My mother is agoraphobic,” she blurted out, her tongue loosened by the champagne. “She never leaves the house.”
He gulped the rest of his drink, swallowing hard. With a slow, deliberate movement, he set down his glass. “You’re kidding.”
“I wouldn’t joke about this. She started having panic attacks after my father died. They got worse until…she simply stopped going out. We’re…working on it.”
She didn’t admit that they had been working on it for years, that most of the time lately they simply pretended the problem wasn’t there. It was baffling and heartbreaking to her, and it caused deep shame for Gwen. With a familiar, pervasive sadness she pictured her beautiful mother, stitching her museum-quality quilts, never leaving the old, secure house where Twyla had brought her when she’d lost everything else in her life.
“Damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, Twyla.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload that on you, but I started to feel so comfortable with you today, Rob. When you showed me around Lost Springs, I felt I really got to know you.”
He touched her arm briefly, but it was enough to heat her skin. “Did you get her diagnosed?” he asked. “This sort of disorder responds well to a number of drug therapies.”
“Our family physician gave her a referral, but she refuses to follow up on it.” She waved her hand impatiently. “I have no right to burden you with my troubles.”
“You’ve got to put that load down somewhere,” he said. “I don’t mind. Honest.”
Dear God, she thought, reveling in the comfort of honest conversation with this man. It would be so damned easy to pretend this growing friendship was real.
“So, about your invitation,” he said.
“What invitation?”
“About drinking our faces off.”
She laughed. “I think I’m over the desire to do that.”
“All right then, dinner. I think we should eat here rather than go out.”
“Are you ashamed of being seen with a hairdresser?”
“Very funny. No, we have work to do.”
“What kind of work?”
Rummaging in his duffel bag, he took out a yellow legal pad and a pair of pencils and tossed them onto the pine plank table. “On paper, we’ve got to become the perfect couple.”
THEY SWITCHED FROM the Moët to a dry Vouvray to go with their meal. Twyla loved it all, the rosemary-flavored chicken, the exotic chilled salads with noodles and hearts of palm, fresh rolls warmed in the oven. Feeling relaxed, she sipped her wine and fiddled with the pencil.
“Okay,” she said, “where do we start?”
“Where do all couples start?”
“First meeting. Where did we meet?”
“A medical convention,” he said. “I meet tons of people at medical conventions.”
She had a swift and discomfiting image of Rob Carter having a stimulating technical discourse with a beautiful thoracic surgeon or pediatrician, followed by an even more stimulating sexual discourse. “No,” she said. “What would someone like me be doing at a medical convention? Fixing hair?”
“Fine, then how did we meet?”
“Should we go for something exotic, like a scuba-diving rescue in Hawaii, or something simple, like we were introduced by mutual friends?”
“Friends, definitely. We can blame it on Mrs. Spinelli. A party at her house.”
“Okay, so when was that?”
He gazed at her across the table, looking mellow and untroubled, disquietingly appealing. “Let’s see, we’d better get this straight. We want everyone to know we’re doing the right thing, not just acting on a rash animal attraction that will fizzle in a couple of months.”
Congratulations, Mrs. Spinelli and Mrs. Duckworth, Twyla thought. You’ve finally done it. You’ve finally found one I could fall for.
“Heaven forbid.” She chuckled, but at the same time, discomfort twisted through her, because when she looked at Rob Carter, she felt nothing but animal attraction.
“On the other hand, we want to be in the first flush of new love. So much more romantic that way.”
“Of course.”
“Six months?”
“Perfect.” She noted it on the legal pad. “Six months it is. Long
enough to know it’s the real thing, but recent enough to still be starry-eyed about it.”
“Damn, we’re good.”
They finished the Vouvray and moved on to a bowl of chilled strawberries and snifters of calvados.
“So what are our plans? Do we want to live in the city or country?” he asked.
“Country, definitely. Healthier for the kids.”
“Ah, so we want more kids?”
“Don’t you?” She took a gulp of the apple liqueur.
“Yeah. I guess. Someday.”
She caught herself wondering if he meant it. No, she thought, it was probably another lie to add to their story. “What’s our favorite song?” she asked impulsively.
“The theme from Rollerball?”
She giggled. “That’s not what you said in the bachelor auction brochure. You said ‘Misty.”’
“Who’s Misty?”
“It’s a song. The brochure said it was your favorite.” She hummed a few bars.
He shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
“So who wrote that profile of you in the brochure?”
He hesitated, refilling their glasses. “A friend. Hey, we should come up with a new favorite. Isn’t that what people falling in love do?”
It had been so long, she wasn’t sure she could remember. “I think it should be a romantic song.”
“Like what?”
At the moment, all that came to mind was “The Rainbow Connection,” which was Brian’s favorite. “Let’s take our chances.” She got up from the table and switched on the radio. “Next song that comes on, that’ll be our song.”
A decidedly country twang wailed from the speakers, and then came the words “Ever since we said ‘I do,’ there’s so many things you don’t.”
“Lovely,” she said, humming along to the outdated ballad. “Let’s just hope nobody asks.”
They brainstormed a small, private wedding. Honeymoon in Paris. Laughing, feeling easier by the moment, they constructed a fictional relationship that was so romantic and so entertaining that Twyla felt inordinately satisfied by the notes she had made.