Porter has his heart set on outlet covers that will match the period of the house. But they didn’t have electrical outlets back then .
Porter stared at the screen, his teeth working inside his mouth, shredding the sides of his cheeks until he tasted blood.
His wife had complained about him to another man. While Porter had scoured catalogs of upscale hardware stores so that the new half bath would blend in with the renovation of their historic home, his wife had been sending smile emoticons to a married man.
They had shared a joke at Porter’s expense.
Porter felt a familiar itching along his jaw, as though each hair follicle in his beard was on fire. He raked his fingers through it and rubbed savagely, knowing this would only worsen the hives that were taking root.
He ordered the “Sent Messages” folder by date. There were half a dozen addressed to tf_activewearmodesto dating back almost two years. And these were just the e-mails Caroline had saved. To read and reread.
Porter slumped in his Eames chair, shaking his head. He closed his eyes, slipped his fingers underneath the steel rims of his glasses, and massaged the sore spot on the bridge of his nose. Then he continued reading.
He discovered a series of messages dated the week they returned from their honeymoon.
“Here’s a joke,” tf_activewearmodesto had written in the original e-mail, which had been copied to several other names Porter recognized as GW alum.
Caroline had e-mailed her reply only to Tom.
“I always thought you were hot,” her message began.
Porter felt a slow burn start down low and deep in the pit of his stomach.
You were not too skinny in college and judging by the photo I saw you look great now.
Slut, Porter thought. How could she do such a thing? The heat inside Porter spread, like a fire that has been doused with gasoline.
What sort of man would ask a newly married woman if she remembered his body?
A man who was hell-bent on avoiding his own intimacy issues, that’s who. And Caroline, with her unresolved conflicts about giving and receiving love, was a ready-made target for the attentions of such a man. Caroline would have been titillated by sharing secrets, too naïve to see the fissure she was opening in her own marriage. The thought of Caroline as victim was preferable to thinking of her as a willing adulteress.
But only just.
Porter continued to scroll. Later that year, Caroline had initiated another round of e-mails, asking tf_activewearmodesto how come he hadn’t written. Porter’s gut contracted when he read the text of yet another message that had originated with his wife.
“To my forever Valentine,” she had written. There was no text. It had been intended as a simple greeting so Tom would know he hadn’t been forgotten.
She had e-mailed him on the first Valentine’s Day of her marriage to Porter. How hateful. His gut churned with hot jealousy as he remembered the strings he pulled to get a reservation at the hottest restaurant in town that night, how much he had paid Akua to come to the condo in Dupont Circle while they were out to sprinkle rose petals on their bed and leave his gift on the pillow, a pair of sapphire earrings from Tiffany. Porter took a slow breath and tried to calm himself.
He clicked into Caroline’s “Deleted Messages” folder and found Tom’s reply.
You are as sweet as I remember from GW. Porter is one lucky guy. I hope he appreciates what he has. Gotta run, get Lisa some chocolates or something on the way home.
That son of a bitch. Poor, tired Lisa should know how her husband spent his time at work.
A heavy weight descended on Porter, as though he were a thousand feet below sea level, as he considered the implications of this e-mail. Tom Fielding felt comfortable telling Caroline that her husband didn’t appreciate her.
Which meant she had invited his criticism of her marriage.
Porter’s shoulders slumped. He heard a buzzing. It took him a moment to realize it was the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. “Why?” Porter moaned softly. “Caroline, why?”
But he knew the answer. The human ego was the most elaborate defense mechanism ever mapped by man, capable of weaving a web of deception to protect itself. Such was the work of an undisciplined mind.
Porter clicked back to “Sent Messages.” There it was. Caroline’s reply.
P is moody as ever. Physician heal thyself!
Porter shook his head in disbelief. Could Caroline have written this? Porter had cleaved unto his wife, revealing to her the most intimate aspects of his innermost self, laying bare his innermost feelings. All he had asked in return was that she do the same.
And instead she had mocked him in e-mails to this man.
Porter scrolled through the remaining exchanges with a sinking heart.
They spoke in familiar tones, asking about each other’s lives and exchanging news about people they had gone to college with. Tom confided details of his lack of sexual intimacy with his wife. He had asked Caroline about hers.
Porter hardly dared to breathe.
Caroline’s response was simple.
;-) Let’s not even go there.
But she had. The winking icon said it all. She even went on to tell Tom she wasn’t sure she was cut out for marriage.
Porter let out a long breath and felt everything in his gut liquefy. He was glad when he reached the bottom and only one e-mail remained. He couldn’t take much more.
In the end, he was very glad he had read them all.
I still think of your cross-country trip, with you and your Rocky Mountain high when I get stressed out. Somewhere over the rainbow…
That was it. The trail ended. The e-mail was less than two weeks old.
Your Rocky Mountain high.
The buzzing in Porter’s ears grew louder. The pieces of the puzzle had been there all along. He just hadn’t put them together. Beginning with Caroline’s fascination with modernist American landscape artists, something Porter had written off as childish, simply one more aspect of her personality that revealed her lack of maturity. She had removed their passports as a ruse, to throw him off the trail. He’d realized the implications of that when the policemen left that morning, seen of course that Caroline had not traveled overseas, although she would have been wise to do so.
But of course she’d had no interest in Europe.
She’d gone West.
Porter saw that now. She’d sought refuge in a small town, something of a size that would have presented a manageable counterpoint to the chaos that was raging inside her.
Another thought followed quickly, snaking through him and laying waste to everything in its wake. What if she had arranged to meet Tom Fielding?
Porter checked his watch. Not yet ten P.M.
Early enough to find someone in his office on the West Coast if he was working late, if he wanted to avoid going home.
Porter directed his browser to Google and within seconds located the phone number and address of a sportswear manufacturer in Modesto. He dialed, expecting to get an after-hours voice mail greeting.
He was shocked when a woman answered on the second ring. “Hello?” As an afterthought, she stated the name of the company.
Porter tightened his grip on the receiver. “Uh, hello,” he said, his mind racing. “I, ah, didn’t expect anybody to be there at this hour.”
“We’re officially closed.”
“I was trying to get in touch with Tom Fielding. Voice mail’s fine,” Porter said, trying to sound bright.
“He’s here. I’m his wife.”
So it was a family business. Which meant, according to California law regarding community property, Tom Fielding was in no position to file for divorce.
There was another pause. “Can I help you?”
Her voice had acquired an edge. As though she was practiced in snooping.
No wonder. Porter cleared his throat, grasping wildly. When he spoke, he forced his words out fast so they tumbled free and easy. “Well, uh, actually I haven’t
met him. One of my, uh, sales guys must have met him at some point. My guy just came back from a trade show just, what? This past week in Vegas.”
“My husband wasn’t in Las Vegas this past week.”
My husband.
Mrs. Tom Fielding’s tone was sharper now, so each syllable dug in and hung on. She was losing patience.
“Hold on a sec, lemme see. I got chicken scratch here.” Porter gave a smooth, throaty chuckle. “I can barely read this guy’s handwriting. Hey, maybe I was supposed to look your husband up next week in Phoenix. I’ve got a kind of a mini-trade show thing there.” He let it hang in the air like a question, hardly daring to breathe.
“Sorry.” Mrs. Tom Fielding allowed the irritation to show in her voice. “Tom’s in the office all month. I can put you through to leave a message but it’s after hours so he won’t pick up. Do you want his voice mail?”
Relief flooded through Porter. He felt a loosening in his shoulders and the buzzing in his ears dimmed. Caroline still belonged to him. She had not yet acted out her fantasy of betrayal. Which meant there was still hope. He smiled, giddy, even though she could not see him through the receiver. “That’d be great.”
“No problem.”
Porter waited until he heard the click that indicated she was transferring the call. Then he hung up.
He turned his attention back to the computer screen, pointed the mouse back to Caroline’s inbox, and stared.
Wassup?
He fingered the mouse, reviewing his options. What he was about to do was risky, he knew, and yet it was his best option. And most likely the only one that remained.
Taking a deep breath, he clicked on the button marked reply.
Hey handsome. Just checking in. Hope to get out of Dodge, maybe see some leaves turn. Road trip!! What was the name of that place in the Rockies? Chat soon C.
Porter hit send and waited.
He’d bet anything that prick in Modesto would keep his wife and twins waiting until he’d replied to Caroline.
CHAPTER 10
STORM PASS, COLORADO
Caroline awoke to a room bathed in soft amber light. Mornings came suddenly here, more than eight thousand feet above sea level. Stretching luxuriously, she pushed the patchwork quilt aside and slid out of bed.
With a whine of protest, Pippin jumped off and followed her down the hall, his toenails clicking on the polished wood floor. Caroline surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror while she brushed her teeth. She was no longer startled by the face that looked back. She had grown used to her short blond hair. But the biggest change was her eyes. They no longer looked haunted.
There were scrabbling noises on the floor behind her. Nan’s dog, Scout, had come to greet them in his usual way. He rubbed himself, catlike, against Caroline’s legs and then tackled Pippin. Pippin was the smaller and more docile of the two, and no match for Scout.
“Morning, boys,” Caroline said. “Break it up or take it outside.” She nudged the wiry Jack Russell terrier off Pippin with her foot, and reached for a plush bath towel from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. She shook the towel at them to break it up and they scurried ahead of her down the back staircase.
The sun was just rising next to the massive peak to the southeast, sending rays of warm pinkish light into the large kitchen. The pasture behind the house was becoming visible through the wall of windows, and the pine forest beyond the split-rail fence. A fieldstone fireplace, big enough to stand in, lined the interior wall. A long oak table and an assortment of antique chairs took up the center of the room. Large stone tiles lined the floor, giving the place the feel of a genuine frontier homestead.
But it was an illusion. The ranch house had been maintained in top condition and fully renovated, right down to the professional-grade appliances. Nan’s late husband, Colonel Charles Birmingham, had been a gourmet cook, among other things.
Caroline busied herself with the imported espresso machine now, measuring out French roasted beans and grinding them with the flip of a button before setting the dial to brew.
The dogs raced around her feet, excited the day had begun. They tripped over themselves on the way to the door. Caroline collected a fleece parka, shoved her bare feet into moccasins, and opened the back door. The dogs raced past, out onto the grass that was rimed with frost.
The air was sweet and sharp, carrying the first hint of autumn. Caroline saw steam when she exhaled, following the dogs along the path across the pasture and into the woods. The aspens had already dropped most of their leaves. Austrian pines stood shoulder to shoulder with mature cedars. Birds chattered above, including the family of blue jays that lived at the back of the pasture.
The dogs raced along ahead of her, barking at birds and everything else, until the path opened out onto a small clearing. The unmistakable scent of sulfur gained strength as Caroline approached a small, rocky pool. Heavy mist rose from the surface, which bubbled like stew underneath.
She climbed onto a large, flat boulder at the water’s edge, took off her clothes, and slipped in.
The dogs darted around the rocks at the edge of the pool as Caroline swam a few strokes through water that was warm like a bath in some places, roiling like a hot tub in others. When she reached the middle, she flipped onto her back and did a survival float, watching steam rise from her stomach.
The entire experience was incredible.
Caroline had never imagined a place such as this. She knew she had less to fear in the wilderness than she’d had in the life she’d left behind. Big animals, she learned, took great care to keep themselves hidden. Nan reassured Caroline she could spend years on the mountain without seeing one in daylight.
Nan had inherited the ranch from her husband, whose family had settled here four generations ago, making them the oldest Anglo family in Storm Pass, Colorado. None of which amounted to a hill of beans in these parts, Nan pointed out. The site had been selected for its proximity to this hot sulfur pool, considered by the indigenous Ute people to have mystical properties. Miners and ranchers settled the area next, followed decades later by a smattering of tourists who soon discovered the healing properties of the bubbling springs.
Nan’s swimming days were behind her, but she told Caroline she still made the short hike in summer. The Utes believed breathing the mineral-laden air could push evil spirits away. Caroline drifted now, taking in deep lungs full of air and holding them. She exhaled each as fully as she could, imagining she was pushing out all remnants of her marriage to Porter.
When she was too breathless to continue, she paddled to the edge and toweled off, showering the dogs with droplets from her hair.
She dressed quickly and headed back, her skin tingling and alive with energy. The forest had come to life around her, bright with the light of morning, the air so still she could almost hear the beating of her heart. The breezes that were a constant at this altitude would not pick up until later in the day.
Emerging into the pasture where the last of the tall summer grasses still stood, yellowed and dry now, she spotted Nan in her teak rocker on the porch, nestled under a wool blanket. Her long hair, the color of brushed steel, flowed down her shoulders, not yet coiled into her usual braid.
Nan smiled as Caroline approached. “Mornin’, Alice.”
Caroline smiled back, pausing at the bottom of the steps. “Good morning. Looks like another beautiful day.”
The older woman nodded in agreement. “This is my favorite time of year. Things will start to change in another week or two. October is a tricky month. That’s when storms start to brew up in the mountains.”
Caroline followed Nan’s gaze to the jagged peaks visible above the tree line.
“Cold air comes down from the north and collects here below the pass. This time of year it collides with the warm air from farther south. Most every afternoon in fall, the gods put on quite a show,” Nan explained.
Caroline contemplated the peaks. She had never experienced anything like the constant bre
ezes that were a part of everyday life this high up. She shivered now to imagine what the coming weeks might bring.
Nan chuckled. “We’ll make a mountain girl out of you yet. If you make it through a winter here, you’ll be a native.”
It was the most obvious reference yet to Caroline’s sudden appearance in Storm Pass, and she chose to ignore it. She climbed the steps and rested at the top, winded. The locals were right, she decided. Altitude sickness was a small price to pay for living here.
Nan seemed to read her mind. “This high up, we’re close to God, as the Colonel used to say.”
Caroline considered this. “He must have been a special person.”
Nan’s smile deepened. “He was. I was lucky to have him.”
“You were lucky to have each other. A lot of people don’t have that.” It was more than Caroline meant to say, and she looked back out over the pasture to avoid Nan’s gaze.
Nan made no comment.
Caroline was growing to appreciate the Western custom of talking less, listening more.
“We both loved this place the best in all the world,” Nan said reflectively. “I have no intention of leaving. My niece wants me to spend the winter with her in Florida.” Nan grimaced. “She sent me a round-trip airline ticket, even one for Scout. But I told her I can manage just fine.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Caroline said with a smile.
“I might go for a short visit. You could stay here and look after things.” Nan caught the round-eyed look on her employee’s face as she surveyed the big house and surrounding land. “It’d be good for you to have some time on your own.”
The young woman nodded, thoughtful. “I guess.”
There was no mistaking the lightening of her expression. “You’ll have it easy,” Nan said with a smile. “I’ll bring Scout with me.”
At the mention of his name, Scout trotted over with Pippin close behind.
Pulling liver treats from her pocket, Caroline began their morning ritual. She directed Pippin to sit, lie down, and shake, rewarding him with a treat. Scout was not as easy, but Caroline worked patiently with the stubborn Jack Russell, repeating the commands until the little white dog gave in at last.
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