Clear to Lift (22 page)

“You asked if I've ever had someone special. The answer is no … not until now, that is. But unfortunately, she's taken.”

He searches my eyes for a long moment, then returns his attention to his dinner. But rather than take another bite, he zips it closed, and stands, moving to his backpack. He pulls out a fleece sweater, some ski pants, and a silver space blanket, spreads the blanket near the wall, then rolls the pants and sweater together to make a pillow.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.

I haven't moved in all the time he was arranging his bed, and I can't seem to do it now, either, my brain still stuck on what he said before.

“Alison?”

I move my head slightly in the negative, so he turns, and drops to his blanket.

“You don't have a sleeping bag,” I say.

“That's okay. I'm good.”

He lies down, turning away from me, and rests his head on his makeshift pillow.

Any appetite I may have had vanishes. I draw the seal on the pouch closed and put it aside, then look across the fire to Will's form. He lies so exposed. He's dressed in his mountaineering gear, but still. The sleeping bag rustles as I adjust my position. He's given me all of his things.…

I stand—having enough clearance above—feeling a bit more wobbly than I would have expected. I remove Will's down jacket and cross the sandy floor on stockinged feet—his socks, too big by half—and kneel next to him. I place his jacket over the top of him like a blanket, and he shivers, startled, I think.

He cranes his head around as I remain kneeling. “Will you take this at least? I'm warm now.”

I say this as the wind rails outside, but I really am warm, next to the fire, next to him. He says nothing, so I decide it's best to return to my spot across the fire. I slide into his sleeping bag, zip it up all the way, but roll to face him. His back turned to me, I watch him breathe. Slow. Rhythmic. He doesn't wear a hat—it's on me. Always me. Always me first. He even put down his spoon before taking his first bite of food to make a radio call for me.

“Will?”

“Yes,” he says, not turning to look.

“Rich has never canceled a flight for me.”

His body stills. Many long moments later, he rolls to face me, meeting my eyes.

“In fact, he's never canceled anything for me. Not that that's a requirement to prove you love someone, but just sometimes … well, it would be nice to know you were the higher priority.”

He shifts, propping his head in his hand, his bent elbow on the floor. “Remember what you told me on the balcony? You said you were confused?”

I nod.

“I was wondering if you still felt that way.”

Invisible lines of energy arc across the fire, cinching the molecules in the air, surely closing the distance between us. All of me hums, on the receiving end of a plaintive yet powerful gaze.

I burrow a bit further into the sleeping bag. I don't
want
to be confused. I want to be objective. Practical. Make the correct decision, so I don't get burned like my mom. Not only that—and maybe even more importantly—I want to do what's
right
. After all, I made a promise to someone. A solemn promise.

Will waits patiently for an answer.…

I owe him the truth.

I owe myself the truth.

“Yes,” I say. “Very much so.”

 

24

Sunlight splays across the sandy floor, illuminating the granite walls inside the cave entrance. And just outside, a solitary figure stands, holding a thermos cup in his hand. Somehow, Will has cleared his sleeping place, packed it, and made something hot to drink, all without disturbing my sleep.

I stretch within the warm confines of my sleeping bag, the surrounding air colder this morning, as Will has not made a fire. The movement jostles Mojo, who lies curled up and pressed against my back. He sits up, shaking himself, before trotting to Will and offering a nudged greeting.

I push myself up, adjust the wool hat on my head, unzip the sleeping bag, and stand. Mojo senses the opening and returns quickly to nestle in the vacated warm spot.

As I approach Will from behind, he remains unmoving, a chiseled statue, surveying the mountainscape. I duck a little to move under the roof of the stone entrance, but when I rise, I see what holds him motionless.

Fresh snow stretches for miles, brilliant against the velvet blue sky. Will has been busy shoveling this morning, too, clearing space outside our “doorstep,” allowing us to see over what must be at least five feet of new snow. It settles, deep and creamy, splendidly undisturbed, all the way to the valley floor, over six thousand feet below.

“Magnificent…,” I say.

He turns, looking down to me. “Quite a sight.”

“I've never seen anything like this.”

He smiles, happy, I think, that I'm appreciating the view like he is.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, offering his cup.

“Maybe just a sip, sure.”

“We have a decision to make,” he says. “Either we can hike down or we can call the helicopter in.”

“I'd rather not involve the bird,” I say, handing back the cup. “How long a hike is it?”

“Well, with you using the snowshoes, probably about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. And that's just to where my truck is parked. Then we'd have to drive into town. That's another forty-five minutes to an hour.”

“I'm okay with it,” I say.

The radio crackles. “Whiskey One, Mono County Sheriff, over.” It's the distinctive slow drawl of Walt Hillerman.

Will pulls the radio from his chest strap. “Mono County, Whiskey One, go ahead.”

“Good mornin', lad,” Walt says.

“Good morning to you, Walt.”

“Uh, Will, we have a bit of a situation down here.”

Will and I look at each other briefly before he responds.

“Go ahead,” Will says.

“Lieutenant Malone's fiancé is here at the airport, and he's been raisin' a bit of a scene.”

Will stiffens.

“And, uh, that's actually putting it mildly,” Walt adds.

I put my head in my hands.

“He's demanding that the helicopter take off to get her. Boomer's here, but he wants to hear from you how you want to proceed.”

“Whiskey One copies. Stand by.”

“Oh, god…,” I mutter. If there's one thing about Rich, he's used to getting his way. It's probably why he's so successful. Although normally he does it with a smile on his face, greasing the skids, smooth as silk. So it comes as a bit of a shock that he's raising a scene. Definitely not his style. But then a queer part of me thinks—and likes the fact—that maybe it's because of me. Maybe he's
that
worried.

“What would you like to do?” Will asks, the annoyance clear.

“I don't want to waste government funds on a helicopter flight that's not necessary. If you say we can hike out, I'd like to hike out.”

“Mono County, Whiskey One, Lieutenant Malone would like to hike out, over,” he reports with a clear touch of satisfaction.

“Whiskey One, Mono County copies. I'll relay that.”

“I'll apologize to Walt and everyone later,” I say.

“Walt, I estimate about noon,” Will says.

“Copy that, Will.”

Will returns the radio to its holder and ducks into the tunnel. “Would you like some breakfast before we head out?”

“If you have something easy.”

He turns to his pack, unzipping the top pocket, searching.

In the meantime, I remove Will's socks, exchanging them for my own, and don my now-dry flight suit and boots.

“Granola bar?” he says, digging out two of them.

“Perfect.”

We sit on the floor, eating our bars and sharing his coffee in companionable silence, and I'm altogether content. I don't have the urge to
do
anything or
go
anywhere. Which, of course, doesn't make sense, since my fiancé is waiting for me at the airport.

Will doesn't seem all that pressed for time, either. But, surely, he's worried about his trip, his missed flight, making new arrangements.

His trip …

It still blows my mind that he canceled his flight for me.

“I don't think I've officially thanked you yet,” I say.

“Not necessary,” he says with a dismissive wave.

“It
is
necessary. You went
way
out of your way. So thank you.”

He shrugs mildly.

“Will you be able to get another flight?”

“There's another one on Saturday. Just haven't decided if that's the one I want to take.” He sips his coffee, taking his time swallowing. “Hell, the sponsors are probably so pissed, they won't want me anymore, anyway,” he says, setting down the cup.

“Sponsors…? What are you talking about?”

He pulls his knees up, loosely wrapping his arms around them. “I wasn't exactly truthful with you when we were rock climbing on Donner Summit.”

“What do you mean?”

“That bit about not planning. That I just up and go. I mean, sometimes that's the case, but this trip wasn't one of those spontaneous ones. Not totally.”

“Why weren't you truthful?”

“Because I was frustrated. Well, you remember. I threw a tantrum. It was stupid.”

“So the trip
was
planned, then.”

“Everything was set, I just hadn't fully committed to going, what with you—well, never mind. Anyway, a lot of money was on the line for this one. A first ascent. A documentary. A magazine spread. The whole deal.”

“Oh, no,” I say, my hands flying to my open mouth. “Oh, please don't tell me you gave up an opportunity like that for me. Please don't say it.”

“Okay, I won't say it.”

I stand, turning away quickly, my eyes burning.

“Besides, all that matters is you're okay,” he says.

The knife in my gut twists, and I have to lean over, hands on my knees, to steady myself.

“Alison?” He flies to my side, placing a hand on my back. “Are you all right?”

I straighten, turning away, so he won't see me wipe my face. “I'm fine. I'm fine.…”

But then he's in front of me. “What is it?” he asks.

“It's nothing, it's—”

“What's this, then?” He brings his finger to my cheek, wiping the single tear that got away.

He stands so close. Too close.

“Confused?” he asks softly.

I nod, slowly, honestly, my eyes never leaving his.

Ali, Rich is at the airport. He's waiting for you.…

I have to clench my fists when I say, “We should probably go.”

It's a long moment—an eternity—his eyes holding mine, his body inches away. He lets his finger drift down the side of my face, delicately brushing the skin, before removing his hand. “If that's what you want.”

My fingernails dig into my palms. “It is,” I whisper. And I step away.

*   *   *

I busy myself with my snowshoes, fiddle with my clothing, retie my boots, doing anything to avoid eye contact with Will, unless absolutely necessary, as we prepare to depart.

“Here, take this,” he says, handing me the bright orange combination avalanche transceiver/GPS unit. “The avalanche danger will be extreme following such a large snowfall with such high winds.”

I buckle the straps to secure it and turn the dial to transmit, relieved that Will has shifted into guide mode.

“We'll cross the couloir one at a time,” he says. “I'll go first. Wait until I signal, then move across fast. Got it?”

Facing the immediate threat of avalanche danger, I shove all other concerns to the back burner, and concentrate on a safe crossing.

We do it quickly, and begin our downward trek.

On the way, I inhale deeply—filling my lungs with that post-storm, crackly-clean air. Calming. Cleansing. I focus on these cleansing breaths as we make quick time down the mountain, him on skis, me on snowshoes. Will leads, tramping down the snow and laying a trail for me to follow, while Mojo brings up the rear.

Ninety minutes after starting, we arrive at his truck, which is buried above the level of the wheel wells. We free the truck after about twenty minutes of digging, and the subsequent one-hour drive is completed in silence, the air between us strained, stiff.

And now, as we turn onto the long single-lane road that leads to the airport, I squirm in my seat, wondering what scene we'll find upon arrival. I chance a peek at Will, who bristles with unease. Mojo senses it—he fidgets, as well—and I put my arm around him, more for my comfort than his, I think.

We make the final left-hand turn into the airport … and it's so much worse than I expected. Like the scene from a fully functioning command and control center in the midst of a natural disaster, police cars, fire engines, several sheriff's vehicles, and an ambulance all crowd the parking lot. Beyond, on the tarmac, the bright orange airframes of Longhorn 06 and Longhorn 07.

“Oh, no. This can't be for me.…”

“We would have heard it on the radio otherwise,” Wills says grimly.

Rich has rallied an entire legion of rescue forces on my behalf, it appears.

I give Will one last look, then open my door and step out. Mojo runs ahead, making a beeline for Jack, who stands with Boomer, our pilots and aircrew, and a crowd of sheriff's personnel, including many SAR team members I recognize. I pick out Kelly and Kevin, Thomas and Tawny. Walt, too.

Will and I walk together for about twenty yards, and then I see Rich jogging toward me. He wears an Armani pin-striped suit, totally out of place here. But this is how he dresses when he takes charge. Worry and relief, intertwined, are etched on his face as he pulls me into his arms.

“Ali, are you okay?” he asks, holding me tightly. It's many moments before he pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking me over. “I was so worried.”