Summer on the Mountain (13 page)

She didn’t want to leave this cabin, and it appeared she might be leaving soon.  Gwendolyn suddenly broached the subject again.

“Summer, I’ve been thinking, that painting is gorgeous—so gorgeous, in fact, I’m wondering if you’d consider painting a second one for Leonard, and … maybe even a third.”

“What did you have in mind, Mom?” Jarrod asked, smiling widely, since he understood the implication of her request.  Summer would be staying longer.

“Yes, what did you have in mind?” Summer asked eagerly.

“Well,” Gwendolyn began, daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth with a napkin, “I’m thinking Leonard would love several scenes from his favorite place on the earth—here,” she said, spreading her arms wide.  “We can devote a wall to a veritable collage of sights and scenes from Leonard’s mountaintop.”

“That sounds great, Mom,” Jarrod enthused.

“I thought you might think so,” she said with a chuckle, and he watched her curiously.  What did she mean by that?  He didn’t ponder the question for long, since Summer spoke.

“Are you sure about this, Gwendolyn?  I mean, I do believe I can paint something much nicer than the lake scene…”

“It’s perfect, and you know it,” Jarrod cut in.  “You’re immensely talented.”  He pinned her with his eyes.  “Are you fishing for compliments?”

She shot him a withering glance.  “No, it’s just that I
can
do better.”

“Paint whatever you like, dear,” Gwendolyn urged.  “Leonard will be so happy when he receives several paintings of this … beautiful place.”  With that, she rose from the table.  “I must be going.  The gallery is so busy.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me?” Summer asked.

Yes, I need you, but my son needs you more. 

Gwendolyn didn’t speak the words, but said instead, “We’ll muddle through until your return.  We always manage to … manage.” 

She hugged Summer, kissed Jarrod on the cheek, and then sauntered to her car, waving a hand above her head to ward off flying insects. 

Jarrod watched her departure with a grin.  “She hates it up here.”

“I know,” Summer mused.  “I can’t imagine why.”

“Living up here isn’t for everybody,” he said, meeting her gaze.  “It’s beautiful, and the summers are nice, but…”

“What?” she prompted.

“Winters can be brutal, and cabin fever can set in fairly quickly.”

“Really?” she said, glancing around as if imagining the place as a jail cell rather than a cheerful retreat.  She couldn’t see it.  Instead, she envisioned a frosty picture window framing the lake, and trees dusted with snow—a veritable winter wonderland.  “I would think it would be beautiful here in the winter,” she said. “I can imagine hunkering down by the fire, sipping hot chocolate, and reading a good book.  It would be so cozy in the cabin.”  She sighed contentedly.

“I can imagine all sorts of possibilities for indoor fun myself,” Jarrod said, grinning wickedly.

Summer silenced him with a cold stare.  “Must you turn my picture postcard into a…”

“Okay, okay.  Sorry,” he said contritely.  “Gotta go anyway.”  He turned to leave, but spun around and kissed her soundly on the lips.  When she gasped in surprise, he grinned.  “I’m no longer contagious.  The doctor said so.”

“Jarrod…,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.  He was watching her with the most ridiculous expression, a combination of fear and hope shining in his crisp blue eyes.

As if pulled by an invisible string, she moved forward.  She stared into his eyes, reaching up to tenderly check his forehead for fever.  She smoothed the hair off his brow, and then stood on tippy toes and kissed him gently.  Suddenly, he reached out and pulled her against him, claiming her lips in a lovely kiss.  She responded, enjoying the exquisite pressure of his firm lips against her own.

“It’s about time,” he practically shouted when they parted.  “I’ve been waiting for that.” 

“Jarrod,” she said, ever the voice of reason.  “What are we doing?  We shouldn’t…”

He smiled reassuringly.  “Of course, we should.  Heck, we’re both a couple healthy young people in…”  His eyes widened in surprise.  He’d almost said the word. 
Love
.  Thankfully, he’d pulled back in time.  He had no idea how she might respond to that particular revelation, and in fact, needed time to sort through his feelings before declaring himself or his intentions.  He hadn’t known her long enough to propose … anything.  “Gotta go,” he said suddenly. 

And then he was gone, leaving Summer standing in the doorway and watching the back of his vehicle recede into the distance. 

Had Jarrod almost said what she thought he’d said?  Or, had he simply misspoke?  She sighed.  Did he have feelings for her?  She had feelings for him, though she couldn’t quantify them as yet. 

She sighed and aimed a glance at her easel, forcing away the disturbing thoughts.  For the first time in her life, she decided she would simply let nature take its course.  Who knew what might develop between her and Jarrod?  Only time would tell.

She forced her thoughts to her art.  She considered starting a second painting, however, she quickly changed her mind.  She wanted to go fishing.

She retrieved her gear and fished for several hours from the dock, tossing back several small Blue gill, but grinning delightedly when she landed a large trout.  She had prepared a large plastic bin by filling it with water and she carefully put the trout inside, where she admired its gleaming scales.

Soon she grew bored of the dock and decided to try her hand at fishing another spot.  She grabbed her pole and tackle box, and then hoisted the cumbersome bin into her arms for a hike around the lake. 

She passed Jarrod’s property, entering federal lands, but she knew the fishing license allowed her access.

Soon she was standing lakeside, enjoying the unspoiled beauty around her.  The pristine lake glistened, its crystalline waters calling her name.  With a smile, she put her pole aside and then shed her shoes.  She stepped into the lake, gasping as the cold enveloped her feet and ankles. 

It was freezing, colder than anything she had ever felt before.  She glanced around, wondering when the waters would warm enough for swimmers to dive in.  She decided it was simply too cold now and she stepped carefully out of the lake, realizing immediately her feet had grown numb.

When she attempted to tug on a shoe, she toppled over, just managing to catch herself before she went face first into a cluster of bushes.  Thankfully, her hands instinctively flew forward to brace her fall.  She realized she’d better sit down in order to tug on her shoes, and then she stepped to the side of the lake and dipped her hands into the water to clean off the debris she’d picked up when she fell.

Once done, she decided to try her hand at fishing again and was soon casting out on the lake.  Before too long, she had caught two trout, but soon after, she began to feel an annoying itch on her arms and legs that no amount of scratching seemed to alleviate.

 Finally, she glanced down, and her eyes widened in horror.  Her arms were covered with red welts.  She dropped a tentative glance to her legs.  They were also covered in a rash.  She groaned aloud.  “Poison oak,” she muttered.

She gathered up her gear as quickly as she could, remembering she had read somewhere that it was important to bathe in warm soapy water if exposed to poison oak … or ivy… or both … or neither. 
What exactly were
these welts?
  She racked her brain, and then groaned.  She decided to shower just in case and hurried for her cabin.

Inside, she washed carefully, afraid of spreading the rash.  She dried off and scanned the medicine cabinet.  She found calamine lotion, but hurried to her bedroom before applying the lotion.  She realized it would be best to dress in shorts and a t-shirt before applying the medicine.

Once done, she globbed on the pink ointment, grimacing when she spied herself in the mirror.  She looked ridiculous, but counted herself fortunate she had managed to keep her face from touching the bushes when she fell.

She suddenly remembered the fish outside in the bin and she hurried to retrieve them.  She stepped onto the porch just as Jarrod climbed the stairs.

He glanced at her, smiled, and seemed to slowly register that she looked like a large piece of pink bubble gum.  “Oh, Summer.  Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” she said.  Suddenly, the welts seemed to demand to be scratched, the itching persistent.  “Oh, no!”

She couldn’t stand the itch and to her horror, she found her hands going to her arms.  She would have raked the welts with a vengeance had Jarrod not carefully intercepted her hands.  He laced his fingers in hers, forcing back a smile as he met her miserable face. 

“Are you sure you should touch me?” she asked fearfully, biting back a sob.

“I’ll risk it.  What do you think of our mountain now?” he asked, smiling softly. 

“It’s not the mountain’s fault I’m a moron,” she muttered.  “Let go of my hands.  Really.  You’re liable to catch this.”

“Are you going to scratch?”

“I don’t know,” she moaned.  “It’s awful, Jarrod.”  Her voice held a plaintiff note, and he wanted nothing more than to envelope her in a hug and kiss away the pain.  Instead, he bent slightly to catch her gaze. 

“It’ll go away soon,” he told her, his eyes boring into hers.  “You’re going to be fine.  How’d this happen?” he asked, backing away for another look.

“I went fishing and I fell,” she moaned.

“Where’d you go?”

“I walked several hundred yards past your place,” she told him.  “I decided to wade a little bit into the water, but it was so cold, and then when I was trying to put my shoes on my numb feet, I fell…”

“Into poison oak,” he said knowingly.  “It’s all over this mountain.  I’ll have to give you a guided tour of the place, and point out which plants to avoid.  I should have already done that,” he said with a guilty wince.

“It’s not your fault I’m a moron,” she sniffled.  “Oh, Jarrod.  The fish!  I caught several.  They need to be cleaned.”

“You mean, I need to clean them,” he said, grinning knowingly.

“Well, yes,” she sniffled. 

He hurriedly cleaned the fish, and then stepped into the living room where she was sitting stiffly on the edge of the couch.  “I’m going to fry up the fish,” he said.  “Hey, what did you do with the clothes you were wearing earlier?”

She grimaced, realizing she’d left them in the bathroom.  “Oh, darn it, I’ll get them,” she said.

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, watching her through sympathetic eyes.  “We’ll need to wash them to avoid anyone coming into contact with them.”

Soon, he strode out of the bathroom in gloves, and carrying the clothes in a sealed plastic bag.  “I’ll wash them at my place,” he said.

“No, I’ll do it.” 

“You don’t look like you feel much like running the washer,” he observed. 

 Summer shook her head.  He wasn’t getting any argument from her.

Summer studied her reflection in the mirror, relieved to see the horrible rash on her arms and legs had all but vanished.  Several doses of antihistamine taken during the week had not only helped with the rash, but had served to knock her out at night so she could manage to sleep—for brief periods of time anyway.  She hoped never to experience poison oak, or ivy, or poison anything ever again.

She glanced at the clock above the mantle.  It was nearing six and she had expected Jarrod at five-thirty.  She frowned, hoping he was all right.  She had promised him a dinner of lasagna and her special garlic bread.

She worried about him, particularly since poaching incidents on the mountain had increased in number.  He had found the dismembered body of a bobcat at Janson Ridge two days before.  He had arrived home, somber and uncommunicative, and she had understood why when he’d told her about the grisly discovery.

When he finally strode onto her porch, she could see by the grim set of his jaw that he’d had a rough day.  She watched him sympathetically, and he mustered a smile.

“How are you?” he asked, stepping back to assess her arms and legs.  She wore shorts all the time now, since the weather on the mountain had warmed significantly over the last week.

“Nearly rash free,” she said.  “And I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for helping me during my poison oak induced misery.  Not many men would have stood by me through the…”

“Scratching and moaning and whining and…”

“Hey,” she protested.  “I wasn’t that bad.  Was I?”

“No, you weren’t.  You were a brave little ranger.  What else would you be?”

Summer followed him into the kitchen where he promptly dropped onto a chair.  He reached out and snared her around the waist, pulling her onto his lap.  He burrowed his face into her hair.

“Are you all right?” she asked him, pulling back to read his face.

“Bad day,” he muttered, meeting her gaze. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He smiled tightly and kissed her on the lips.  “Nope.  Something smells good in here?  Besides you,” he added, grinning mischievously.