Clear to Lift (18 page)

“A natural.”

“I am? But with what I just— With the down part—”

“You are.” He returns his gaze to me, and just for an instant, his eyes burn a line straight through my soul.

My breath catches.
Holy shit.

Will breaks away, quickly turning his head. “Okay, who's next?”

*   *   *

Under a cobalt-blue sky and in “balmy” fifty-degree temperatures, members of our aircrew and the SAR team rotate through, and we climb for most of the day. I've found the “up” part of climbing to be exciting, energizing, and flat-out thrilling. But the “down” part?
That's
going to take some getting used to.

Will has belayed me several times this afternoon, and I've tried to keep that emotional distance, but the tension that strained our interactions this morning is gone. Probably because it's been hard to hide the joy I feel when climbing. Hard not to share it. Especially seeing the spark in Will's eyes when he lowers me to the ground after I've finished a route. The spark he tries to hide. The spark I pretend not to notice.

Jack has belayed me several times, too, but now we enjoy a break, sitting under the shade of a Jeffrey pine. I know the tree is a Jeffrey pine because Jack just told me. Tree trivia seems to be his thing, and I've learned more about these coniferous evergreens in the last few minutes than I thought I'd ever want to learn.

“Did you know Jeffrey pines can live to be five hundred years old?” Jack says.

“I had no idea.”

“They're strong trees, too. The roots penetrate deep.” He points to the more mature trees upslope of where we sit, ones that must be at least 150 feet tall. “The root systems for trees like those are massive. You'll find roots two inches in diameter more than eighty feet from the trunk.”

“No wonder they live for five hundred years.”

“Yep. It's one hearty tree. Even better, they smell good.” He opens his hand, showing me what he's holding.

“What are these?”

“Jeffrey pine needles. I just crushed 'em up. Go ahead. Smell.”

I bring my nose to his palm and take a whiff, a pleased smile spreading across my face. “It's like … vanilla? Can that be right?”

“Yeah. Or they can smell like apples or even butterscotch. I can't get enough of this smell.”

He dumps the needles into my palm. “You keep these. They're great for tea, you know.”

“Thanks. I'll have to try that.” I take another smell, a lingering inhale, before storing the needles in my pocket, then return my attention to Kelly, who climbs with Tawny belaying. Will was right. He said they were freakily good, but I would call it something else. Grace in motion.

When they switch places, Tawny rigs the rope in a way I haven't seen before, adding foot loops. She instructs several of our crewmen who gather around her as she begins to ascend using the rope only, not touching the rock.

“What's she doing?” I ask, watching as Tawny holds the handles to what look like carabiners that she slides up the rope.

“She's using mechanical ascenders,” Jack says. “But we just call them by their brand name, Jumars. They have a cam inside that allows them to slide in one direction, but if you pull in the other direction, they clamp down on the rope. Those foot loops are called aiders. You attach them to each Jumar. When you slide the Jumar up, the foot loop is raised as well, so it's like steeping up a ladder. You'd use this kind of setup for aid climbing.”

“Aid climbing?”

“When you need aid to get through a section of rock that's not climbable—like a smooth face with nothing to hold on to.”

“I see,” I say, craning my head upward.

“So what do you think?” Jack says. “One more climb?”

“Sure, I'll do one more.”

We rise and move to the granite slab, where five ropes are now anchored, so several people can climb at once. Will has just lowered Tito on the rope next to the one we approach.

“Off belay,” Will says. “Great climb, man.”

Jack rests his hands on his hips, which causes me to pause. I look at him closely. Hmm. A woolen cap covers his shaved head, and the redness and swelling on his face are considerably reduced since the accident two weeks ago. But he looks a bit drawn.

“Jack, are you okay?” I say.

“Doin' your perceptive thing again, huh?”

I notice that Will observes Jack, too.

“As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not quite at full strength yet. I'm just tiring out sooner than I'm used to.”

“That's okay,” Will says. “I'll belay her.”

“Yeah, Jack. Why don't you sit down. I'll do this quick and be done.”

I know how to tie in myself now, so I attach the figure-eight knot, and I'm off. The experience is exhilarating, as it has been all day, but this particular climb is by far the most challenging. By the time I reach the top, I'm a shaky, worn-out mess, my forearms and fingers done.

“Take!” I shout.

“I've got you!” Will says.

I pinch my eyes tight—as I've done every time I've been lowered today—while leaning back.

Relax, relax, relax.

This time, though, I'm not clinging desperately to the rope. I can't. With this last effort, my arms dangle, spent and useless, at my sides.

I land gently, opening my eyes. “I can't even feel my arms.”

“Good climb,” Will says.

Clark approaches and hands his harness to Jack. “Just wanted to let you know I'm taking off.”

I look beyond Clark to where Snoopy stands near the side of the road. Hand held high, he offers a friendly wave.

“The guy's flown over Lake Tahoe a million times, but never driven around it,” Clark says.

“Well, enjoy your time as a tour guide,” I say. “Just don't let him con you into any trades!”

He laughs out loud, remembering, I'm sure, the story about me losing my lunch in a cow pasture.

Clark walks away, but then—“Hey, where's everyone going?” I ask, looking at Beanie, whose backpack is slung over his shoulder.

“We have a date with dinner and the margaritas at Rosie's in Tahoe City,” Beanie says. “Wanna come?” I notice that Danny, Tito, Sky, and Hap have gathered their gear, too.

Is it dinnertime already? To my left, the sun hovers at the horizon, the last rays of the day splashing across the high-altitude granite. Holy crap. Completely lost track of the time.

“Um … no. Thanks, Beanie. Not today, but thanks.”

“Later, man,” Jack says to Will. “See ya, Alison.” Mojo circles a couple of times, offering his good-byes, before scampering down the path.

It happens so fast. The group that was milling about just minutes ago—Kelly, Tawny, the rest of the Mono County guys—is gone, leaving only Will and me, just as the sun drops behind Donner Pass. Oh, no.

I go to untie myself from the harness, but now my fingers don't work anymore. I stand, helpless, looking between the figure-eight knot and my hands that tremble with fatigue.

“Will? I can't work the knot. My fingers are just—”

“They should be,” he says, reaching down to untie the rope for me. “You only climbed a five ten just now.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it's a route not normally done by a beginner.”

“Really?”

He tugs at the rope, pulling it from my harness.

“Yeah, really.”

“You know, Will, I really like this.”

He meets my eyes just briefly before returning his attention to the rope. I take a seat on a nearby boulder and begin unlacing the rock shoes that Kelly let me borrow. Thank goodness, as they make all the difference.

“When I walked off the mat at the final gymnastics meet of my career at the ripe old age of thirteen, I had to do a lot of soul searching, wondering why I'd spent so many hours in the gym and for what.”

He stops and looks directly at me.

“But now, fifteen years later, I'm putting those skills to use for the first time, and it's the most empowering thing I've felt since I can remember.”

“You were a gymnast?”

“I was.”

“No wonder.”

“No wonder, what?”

“No wonder you're so good on the rocks. Strong, graceful … you have it all.” His voice noticeably falls at the end, his cheeks flushing as he averts his eyes.

But the way he said it—god, my insides are going to mush.

Ali, don't. Don't do this.

“So, did Rich ever reschedule his visit?” he asks.

He grasps the climbing rope, yanking it, hand over hand, bringing it down from the anchor above.

That's right, Ali. Remember him? Rich? Your fiancé. Let's remind ourselves about that. Why are you marrying him? He's the extrovert to your introvert, so you balance. He makes friends easily and is a great conversationalist. He's smart—a business degree from Stanford, an MBA from Harvard—and a hard worker. He does well with his company, is financially stable, he's happy with himself, happy with you, content with his life. Bottom line, unlike your father, he's not going anywhere.

“He's coming in two days. On Saturday.”

He stills, then begins pulling on the rope, harder this time.

“Well, I'm glad I got to watch you climb today. It'll give me something to think about when I leave,” he says.

Yank
of the rope.
Yank. Yank.

“Leave?” My head snaps up. “What do you mean, leave?”

“For my next trip.”
Yank.

“When?”

“Monday.”

“Where?” Bullet-point questions matching frantic emotions I shouldn't even have.

“Rope!” he says loudly, a standard call made by rock climbers for safety. I can see why when the rope comes skittering down as it slips out of the metal bolt that once held it secure at the top of the rock, to land in a heavy heap at the bottom. “Patagonia. It's the beginning of the summer climbing season in South America.”

“How long?”

He coils the rope now, while I remain stock-still in shock.

“I don't know. A month? Two? I get antsy if I stay in one place too long.”

“Two
months?
But you just got back.”

“I know.”

“Was this planned?”

“No. But I usually don't care to plan. I just do it. Just go.”

He finishes tying the rope, then shoves it forcefully into his pack. He hoists his climbing sling, racked with a wide array of colored nuts, cams, slings, carabiners, and Jumars, and stuffs this in next.

I stare, several paralyzing seconds, before I'm able to look down to my shoes to finish unlacing them.

He's leaving.…

“Some water before we walk down?” he asks—detached, a guide to his client—holding his bottle out to me.

“Sure.” I take several generous swigs. He kneels next to me when I offer the bottle back, drinking well, too.

“So, when are you leaving, again?” I ask, pulling off one shoe, then the other, mind still reeling.

“Monday night. And twenty hours later, I'll be touching down in Buenos Aires.”

“Monday?” I whisper.

He nods.

“Monday…,” I repeat, my heart in a vise.

Physical attraction or not, my heart shouldn't be in a vise.

Will resumes buckling the top flap of his pack, cinching it down with several firm yanks. The yanking again. “We'd better get down before it gets much darker,” he says, slinging his pack over his shoulders.

I hurry to put my running shoes back on and stuff Kelly's shoes in my backpack. He starts to move, but I touch his arm from behind, stopping him. He remains looking away, so I don't force it. I talk to his back. “Will … thank you for the climbing today, for everything. I haven't had this much fun in … actually, I don't remember when.”

“You're welcome,” he says, quickly turning down the trail.

My car is parked well down the road, but to get there, I have to pass Will's truck, which is parked in the dirt pullout at the base of the slab. When I catch up with him, he's opening the tailgate and throwing in his pack. But then, he just stands there, hands on hips, looking into the back of his truck.

It's hard not to stare. He cuts such a strong figure. Broad shoulders and a well-muscled back. He even wears a loose technical T-shirt, and yet, you can still see the firm musculature underneath. And his hands? They're real. Nicked and scarred, not manicured and neat. Tight waist. Sturdy legs. Scuffed, dirty hiking boots. I let my eyes drift up to his head. He's had a haircut recently, neat and trim around the back, a little longer through the top, still bleachy blond. He furiously works his jaw muscles, which is when I realize how rigid the rest of him really is.

I start to turn away toward my car, trying to be quiet, thinking I can slip away without him noticing.

“Do you have fun with Rich?” he asks.

The question jars me to a stop midstep.

He spins around to face me, but it's several long seconds before I can find the words.

“It's not Rich,” I say. “It's me.”

“You didn't seem to have any problem having fun today.”

“But that's because I was—” I stop myself before I say “with you.”

“Was what?”

“Rock climbing,” I say, attempting to keep my expression even. “It was new. Something different, and, uh, yeah…”

“I see,” he says, folding his arms.

I look away, focusing on my car, which is parked about a quarter mile below us on the switchbacked road to Donner Summit.

“So this is it?” Will says. “You haven't thought at all about how you've felt when we've been together? At Jack's house? At the hot springs? Hell,
any
time we've been together?”

“I'm sorry about what I did on the balcony,” I say, returning my gaze to him. “I never should have held your hand like that. And I shouldn't be feeling
anything.
”