On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (13 page)

“Okay,” the girl behind the
counter said flatly.

The pie-lady turned to Baskia.
“Can I interest you in an apple or pumpkin pie? Fresh baked, just in time for
Thanksgiving.” Her rosy cheeks lifted eagerly.

As tempting as it was, Baskia
couldn’t afford to eat pie
and
ice cream with the show coming up. “No
thank you,” she said briskly.

The woman winced as if she’d
expected her to ask for a plate and a fork on the spot. “Well, here, take my
card in case you change your mind.” She waddled out of the shop.

“They do smell good,” the girl
behind the counter said longingly. “My stepdad hates pie so I’m always stuck
eating rum raisin pound cake.”

“Who could hate pie?”

“I think the better question is
who’d like rum raisin pound cake, but you’d be surprised what he hates.”

Baskia chuckled.

 The girl’s lips turned down as
if she sunk more deeply into herself, shrinking at the sound of her own her
words.

“I say you sneak one of those
home with you,” Baskia said.

The girl didn’t answer as she
rang up the items on the counter. “Will that be all?”

Baskia eyed the pie, arguing
against buying one to eat alone. “Yes.” After paying, she offered a Happy
Thanksgiving.

“Thanks,” the dismal look on the
girl’s face made Baskia wonder how happy a celebration it might be for the two
of them. She was on her own after all, except for the companionship of a basket
of questionable, readymade food, and an old movie that sparked, dangerously,
with romance.

Chapter Thirteen

When Thursday night rolled
around, Baskia pushed around the flaky mashed potatoes and the string
beans—with freezer burn—on her plate. After one bite of the frozen meal in the
little plastic tray, she deemed it inedible. A cube of lasagna still sat in the
fridge from the dinner Trace had made. Baskia heated it up, warmth spreading
through her at the thought of their hot night together. But, he wasn’t there to
eat it with her. He’d ditched her again. She was probably just a booty call.
Yes, he drove a significant distance to hook-up, but still. Like so many other
guys, he only wanted to get laid, and she happened to be in the right place at
the right time. Or in her case, the wrong time. She pushed the plate of lasagna
away, gazing at the cold, empty fireplace, wishing for someone, or something,
to ignite the fire in her that would point her toward her passion and purpose
and away from guys and so many conflicting feelings.

She wondered if she could find a
tutorial online for how make a fire in the stone hearth. But, it wouldn’t last
long; there were just a few logs leftover from the previous winter. She
wondered if Wes would bring by the wood he’d promised. She doubted it, after
their strange interaction the last time they were together and Trace’s second
appearance wearing nothing but a towel. She wondered if retreating to the cabin
had somehow messed up her magnetism, causing her attractiveness to guys to grow
and fade like a mutant character in a comic book.

An owl hooted in the dark night.
After putting in the old film, Baskia drew a velour throw around her shoulders.
Cars honked and someone yelled in French when a knock on the door startled her.
Her heart raced at the possibility of Trace’s return. But if it was him, she
wished she’d bought one of those pies so she could smash it in his face. The
pot of nasty mashed potatoes might work. She pulled open the door to see Wes
standing on the threshold holding a goofy looking cupcake made to look like a
pilgrim hat.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said,
handing it to her. “A, uh, nurse I know made it. I had a minute to get away and
thought you might like one.”

“Thanks,” she said, inviting him
in.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be
here. Thought maybe you would’ve gone to see your family.”

“Nope, for the rest of the season
the mountain has claimed me,” Baskia said, sitting back down.

He glanced at the barely touched
plates on the coffee table. “Looks like you had yourself a regular feast.”

“Want some ice cream?” she asked.

“No thanks. I’m stuffed. And it’s
already cold enough. I, um… I came over to apologize if I was being weird the
other day, when we went out to dinner—” He hung on the edge of saying more, but
Baskia quickly cut him off, if only to put him at ease.

“Everyone has an off night.”

He mumbled, “An off couple of
years is more like it, but hey, while I’m here why don’t I start a fire. That
way you can eat your ice cream and keep warm.”

“Thanks. There’s not much wood
though,” she said, pointing to the metal cradle holding a small stack of split
logs.

“That’ll get you through tonight.
Like it or not, winter is upon us, and keeping the cabin warm is a priority.
Pipes can freeze easily and then, well, that’s a problem you don’t want on your
hands.”

Wes crumbled up a few pieces of
newspaper and added kindling. “Just make sure the flu is open, okay. The fire
needs oxygen,” he said, showing her. When it caught, he added a couple of the
dry logs. “And the snow. Have you hired someone to plow?”

The details of winter flew far
outside Baskia’s frame of reference. She didn’t know what to say. “Do I need
to?”

He nodded. “And snow tires.
You’ll probably want them on your car if you plan on getting off the mountain
during the next four months.”

“Oh,” Baskia said, the impending
weather intimidating her. “I’ll be gone for the next couple weeks. I have a
show in Manhattan, but I’ll make sure to get it all sorted out before I leave.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you stranded
up here.” Wes warmed his hands by the fire. “I better head home.”

“Are you sure you don’t want any
ice cream?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be up
tomorrow with a load of wood. Happy Thanksgiving.”

Alone again, but warmer than
ever, Baskia stared into the firelight, listing what she had to be thankful
for.

Early the next morning, Baskia
woke to a loud crash. She worried about the fire and if there was something
important she was supposed to have done before going to sleep. She raced to the
living room and found everything in order.

Glancing outside, she spotted Wes
take a sip of coffee from a mug. He set it on the hood of his truck and then
walked around to the other side and started stacking an enormous pile of wood.

She hurried to the bathroom,
freshened up, and pulled on jeans and a sweater before putting on her coat and
a pair of gloves.

“Mornin,’” he called to her when
she appeared in the driveway. “I don’t usually stack it for customers, but I
figured you could use a little help.”

“I didn’t know it needed to be
stacked.”

He laughed. “Exactly. Okay if I
put it all here, that way you won’t have to shovel very far.”

“Shovel?” she echoed, never,
until the night before, thinking about how to prepare for winter. She’d only
ever considered which style of tall, black boots was essential for the season.

“And plow. Did you call anyone
yet?”

She glanced at his truck, noting
the yellow plow on the front. “Can I hire you?”

“I didn’t want to be pushy,” he
answered humbly, all the while continuing to stack the logs, moving swiftly
with capable hands that were calloused enough not to need gloves.

Baskia picked up a few stray logs
and brought them over, unsure if there was a method to stacking wood.

“Form uniform rows with
supports—Lincoln-log style—on the end. That way it won’t fall over,” he said
gesturing, as if she would someday do it on her own.

Baskia was on a soul-searching
mission, but as sure as the day was long, or getting shorter, as was the case, the
cabin on the mountain would not be her ultimate dwelling place. Nonetheless,
she welcomed the sweat that beaded along the back of her neck as she helped Wes
stack the wood.

When the logs were as orderly as
a box of matchsticks, Wes picked up his mug. It said,
Let her dream, for she
wakes, she’ll move mountains.
As he started to take a sip, he pulled it
from his lips. “Eh. Cold.”

“Want to come in? I have to make
a pot anyway,” she offered.

He shrugged, looked toward the
woods a moment, and then followed her in. They sat at the kitchen table,
chatting idly while the coffee brewed. Baskia used a pod, not risking a botched
pot, despite her instructions from Trace. She set two mugs on the table.

“No need to dirty another. I can
reuse this one.”

“Lucky mug?” she asked.

“Something like that.”

“I like the quote.”

Sadness, brimming in his eyes,
betrayed his grin. “Me too.”

She swiftly changed the subject,
sensing there was more, but these two confusing men, newly in her life, weren’t
eager to open up and as it was, she had herself to deal with.

“So the wood is stacked, I have a
plow guy lined up, is there anything else I need to do to prepare for the
winter?”

Wes cracked a knowing smile. “I’d
recommend stocking up on food, water, and stuff to do, if you plan on staying
after January.”

“Noted.”

They continued chatting until Wes
said he had a few other deliveries that day.

“Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” he said. A rare
grin appeared. “See ya in a couple weeks.”

The following days Baskia spent
packing and preparing for her return to the city. She amped up her workouts,
taking to running the trails that she’d hiked, thankful the snow hadn’t fallen
yet. Having spent a great deal of time during her modeling career wearing
designer clothes or very little, depending on the shoot, surrounded by mirrors,
and having countless people scrutinizing her body, she couldn’t wait to shed
the layers of clothing she had to wear up north and hit the runway. Then, as
she caught up on her Facebook and Instagram accounts, she recalled London would
be there. The text she’d accidentally received, with the words,
crazy bitch
,
blazed through her mind.

^^^

Driving south, Baskia found
excitement bubbling as the silhouette of familiar buildings came into view. It
was dusk and although she’d promised her mother dinner, she looked forward to
going out on the town later.

While riding the elevator in her
parent’s building, she sent a quick text in reply to London’s last one.

The crazy bitch is back.

She waited for her phone to
bleep, but it stayed silent as her mother gave her a stiff hug.

“You look well, dear,” she said.
“Ready for the show tomorrow?”

“The show is next weekend. I have
a meeting tomorrow, a fitting, just prep for the first few days,” Baskia
clarified.

“Of course. I always forget how
these things work.”

“Any chance I can stay at the
apartment?” Baskia asked gingerly.

“I don’t think so. It’s still
undergoing renovations. I opted for a more modern look this time. Renny, my
interior design specialist, thought it was time for an overhaul. But I’ve
arranged a campus tour at Columbia so you can get acquainted with the school
before the students return and sweep you up into their midst during the third
week in January.”

“Yeah, about that—” Baskia
started to say. Just then, the kitchen timer dinged. She’d decided, she’d stay
the winter. It was, without knowing why—or how—what she had to do.

“Why don’t you pour us some apple
cider? It was so nice of you to bring something from Vermont,” Anne said,
pointing to the jug. “Oh and I never was able to locate that crystal decanter.
Any idea where it vanished to?” she called over her shoulder as she took a dish
out of the oven.

Baskia’s phone vibrated as if on
cue. London had written back.

Party tonight at Iced.

She referred to a club that had
everyone buzzing over the summer. The rumor was the owner ran into some trouble
and had to delay the opening, making it even more enticing when it finally did
launch.

“Have you spoken to your
brother?” Anne asked.

She hadn’t, but she lied. “Yeah.”

“And Mellie. She’s doing
wonderfully. Made the dean’s list her first term, and she’s fast tracked to—”

Baskia stopped listening. She
hadn’t spoken to Mellie in an unforgivably long time. She knew she should call,
but the constant comparison by her mother had filtered into her consciousness
making her want to rebel in a storm of fire, tequila, and failure at the
mention of her old friend’s name. She still wasn’t sure about her future, but
it had to be on her terms, not her mother’s, and certainly not Mellie’s. Not
that the latter was at fault, but still.

Anne moved briskly around the
kitchen and set the table. “Your father should be here any second.”

“Don’t you ever get pissed off
that he’s always late? Or doesn’t show up?”

“Honestly, Baskia. You don’t have
to use that kind of language.”

“What, pissed? As in angered, as
in urine, or as in the British colloquial term for drunk? Or an alcoholic
beverage, beer that tastes like swill, or—”

“That’s enough. You sound like
your cousin Brighton. I always disapproved of how my sister just let her run
wild—”

“Or as in the truth,” Baskia
retorted bristling, a riot igniting inside.

“If this is something you want to
talk about, let’s do it after we have a civilized dinner, it would be so
unpleasant for your father to walk into a
discussion
.”

There were a dozen things Baskia wanted
to scream in response. Criticisms and questions burned her tongue. She wanted
to slam a drawer or door, but her mother wouldn’t have it. She launched into
different study options all the while fussing with the cooling platters of
food.

Baskia’s stomach grumbled.
Although she knew she couldn’t eat much, she scooped the salad onto her plate,
on principle.

“Don’t be disrespectful. We’re
waiting for your father.”

“If he doesn’t respect us enough
to show up for dinner on time then I’m going to—”

“Baskia Benedict, what has
happened to you? Are you this way around your friends? Are they bad influences?
I’ll have to talk to Mellie. She has impeccable manners. Her mother raised her
right. I don’t know where I went wrong with you.”

Baskia could think of a few ways.
But it wasn’t so much that. The real reason danced toward her lips. She
swallowed, afraid the truth might make her cry, and she was not going to ruin
her eye makeup. “I just wish—never mind.”