Chasing Fire
Page 35
“We crossed into the black yesterday.” He hit the button to bring up the roof. “It’s harsh, and it’s hard. But you know it’s going to come back.”
They got out, and he opened the hood with its marginal storage space.
“Jesus, Gull, you weren’t kidding about big-ass hamper.”
“Getting it in was an exercise in geometry.” He hefted it out.
“There’s just two of us. What does that thing weigh?”
“A lot less than my gear. I think I can make it a mile on a trail.”
“We can switch off.”
He looked at her as they crossed to the trailhead. “I’m all about equal pay for equal work. A firm believer in ability, determination, brains having nothing to do with gender. I’m even cautiously open to women players in the MLB. Cautiously open, I repeat. But there are lines.”
“Carting a picnic hamper is a line?”
“Yeah.”
She slid her hands into her pockets, hummed a little as she strolled with a smirk on her face. “It’s a stupid line.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less of a line.”
They walked through the forested canyon. She heard what she’d missed during the fire. The birdsong, the rustles—the life. Sun shimmered through the canopy, struck the bubbling, tumbling waters of the creek as they followed the curve of the water.
“Is this why you were studying maps?” she asked him. “Looking for a picnic spot?”
“That was a happy by-product. I haven’t lived here all my life, and I want to know where I am.” He scanned the canyon, the spills of water as they walked up the rising trail. “I like where I am.”
“Was it always Northern California? Is there any reason we have to wait for the food to start the life story?”
“I guess not. No, I started out in LA. My parents were in the entertainment industry. He was a cinematographer, she was a costume designer. They met on a set, and clicked.”
The creek fell below as they climbed higher on the hillside.
“So,” he continued, “they got married, had me a couple years later. I was four when they were killed in a plane crash. Little twin engine they were taking to the location for a movie.”
Her heart cracked a little. “Gull, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. They didn’t take me, and they usually did if they were on the same project. But I had an ear infection, so they left me back with the nanny until it cleared up.”
“It’s hard, losing parents.”
“Vicious. There’s the log dam,” he announced. “Just as advertised.”
She let it go as the trail approached the creek once more. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to revisit a little boy’s grief.
“This is worth a lot more than a mile-and-a-half hike,” he said while the pond behind the dam sparkled as if strewn with jewels.
Beyond it the valley opened like a gift, and rolled to the ring of mountains.
“And the hamper’s going to be a lot lighter on the mile-and-a-half back.”
Near the pond, under the massive blue sky, he set it down.
“I worked a fire out there, the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.” He stood, looking out. “Standing here, on a day like this, you’d never believe any of that could burn.”
“Jumping one’s different.”
“It’s sure a faster way in.” He flipped open the lid of the hamper, took out the blanket folded on top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.
“What’s on the menu?”
He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed. “That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”
“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”
“Best there is.”
“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”
“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with you.”
“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”
She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and James Bond’s champagne.”
“I have heroic taste. Hold out the glass, Rowan.” He filled it, then his own. “To wilderness picnics.”
“All right.” She tapped, sipped. “Jesus, this is not cheap tequila at Get a Rope. I see why 007 goes for it. How’d you get this?”
“They carry it in town.”
“You’ve been into town today? What time did you get up?”
“About eight. I never made it to the shower last night, and smelled bad enough to wake myself up this morning.”
He opened one of the containers, and after breaking off a chunk of the baguette, spread it with soft, buttery cheese. Offered it. “I’m not especially rich, I don’t think.”
She studied him as flavors danced on her tongue. Caught in a pretty breeze, his hair danced around his face in an appealing tangle of brown and sun-struck gold.
“I want to know. But I don’t want bad memories to screw your picnic.”
“That’s about it for the bad. I’m not sure I’d remember them, or more than vaguely, if it wasn’t for my aunt and uncle. My mother’s sister,” he explained. “My parents named them as my legal guardians in their wills. They came and got me, took me up north, raised me.”
He took out plates, flatware as he spoke, while she gave him room for the story.
“They talked about my parents all the time, showed me pictures. They were tight, the four of them, and my aunt and uncle wanted me to keep the good memories. I have them.”
“You were lucky. After something horrible, you were lucky.”
His gaze met hers. “Really lucky. They didn’t just take me in. I was theirs, and I always felt that.”
“The difference between being an obligation, even a well-tended one, and belonging.”
“I never had to learn how wide that difference is. My cousins—one’s a year older, one’s a year younger—never made me feel like an outsider.”
They got out, and he opened the hood with its marginal storage space.
“Jesus, Gull, you weren’t kidding about big-ass hamper.”
“Getting it in was an exercise in geometry.” He hefted it out.
“There’s just two of us. What does that thing weigh?”
“A lot less than my gear. I think I can make it a mile on a trail.”
“We can switch off.”
He looked at her as they crossed to the trailhead. “I’m all about equal pay for equal work. A firm believer in ability, determination, brains having nothing to do with gender. I’m even cautiously open to women players in the MLB. Cautiously open, I repeat. But there are lines.”
“Carting a picnic hamper is a line?”
“Yeah.”
She slid her hands into her pockets, hummed a little as she strolled with a smirk on her face. “It’s a stupid line.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t make it less of a line.”
They walked through the forested canyon. She heard what she’d missed during the fire. The birdsong, the rustles—the life. Sun shimmered through the canopy, struck the bubbling, tumbling waters of the creek as they followed the curve of the water.
“Is this why you were studying maps?” she asked him. “Looking for a picnic spot?”
“That was a happy by-product. I haven’t lived here all my life, and I want to know where I am.” He scanned the canyon, the spills of water as they walked up the rising trail. “I like where I am.”
“Was it always Northern California? Is there any reason we have to wait for the food to start the life story?”
“I guess not. No, I started out in LA. My parents were in the entertainment industry. He was a cinematographer, she was a costume designer. They met on a set, and clicked.”
The creek fell below as they climbed higher on the hillside.
“So,” he continued, “they got married, had me a couple years later. I was four when they were killed in a plane crash. Little twin engine they were taking to the location for a movie.”
Her heart cracked a little. “Gull, I’m so sorry.”
“Me too. They didn’t take me, and they usually did if they were on the same project. But I had an ear infection, so they left me back with the nanny until it cleared up.”
“It’s hard, losing parents.”
“Vicious. There’s the log dam,” he announced. “Just as advertised.”
She let it go as the trail approached the creek once more. She could hardly blame him for not wanting to revisit a little boy’s grief.
“This is worth a lot more than a mile-and-a-half hike,” he said while the pond behind the dam sparkled as if strewn with jewels.
Beyond it the valley opened like a gift, and rolled to the ring of mountains.
“And the hamper’s going to be a lot lighter on the mile-and-a-half back.”
Near the pond, under the massive blue sky, he set it down.
“I worked a fire out there, the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness.” He stood, looking out. “Standing here, on a day like this, you’d never believe any of that could burn.”
“Jumping one’s different.”
“It’s sure a faster way in.” He flipped open the lid of the hamper, took out the blanket folded on top. She helped him spread it open, then sat on it cross-legged.
“What’s on the menu?”
He pulled out a bottle of champagne snugged in a cold sleeve. Surprised, touched, she laughed. “That’s a hell of a start—and you just don’t miss a trick.”
“You said champagne picnic. For our entrée, we have the traditional fried chicken à la Marg.”
“Best there is.”
“I’m told you favor thighs. I’m a breast man myself.”
“I’ve never known a man who isn’t.” She began to unload. “Oh, yeah, her red potato and green bean salad, and look at this cheese, the bread. We’ve got berries, deviled eggs. Fudge cake! Marg gave us damn near half of one of her fudge cakes.” She glanced up. “Maybe she’s in love with you.”
“I can only hope.” He popped the cork. “Hold out your glass.”
She reached for it, then caught the label on the bottle. “Dom Pérignon. Iron Man’s car and James Bond’s champagne.”
“I have heroic taste. Hold out the glass, Rowan.” He filled it, then his own. “To wilderness picnics.”
“All right.” She tapped, sipped. “Jesus, this is not cheap tequila at Get a Rope. I see why 007 goes for it. How’d you get this?”
“They carry it in town.”
“You’ve been into town today? What time did you get up?”
“About eight. I never made it to the shower last night, and smelled bad enough to wake myself up this morning.”
He opened one of the containers, and after breaking off a chunk of the baguette, spread it with soft, buttery cheese. Offered it. “I’m not especially rich, I don’t think.”
She studied him as flavors danced on her tongue. Caught in a pretty breeze, his hair danced around his face in an appealing tangle of brown and sun-struck gold.
“I want to know. But I don’t want bad memories to screw your picnic.”
“That’s about it for the bad. I’m not sure I’d remember them, or more than vaguely, if it wasn’t for my aunt and uncle. My mother’s sister,” he explained. “My parents named them as my legal guardians in their wills. They came and got me, took me up north, raised me.”
He took out plates, flatware as he spoke, while she gave him room for the story.
“They talked about my parents all the time, showed me pictures. They were tight, the four of them, and my aunt and uncle wanted me to keep the good memories. I have them.”
“You were lucky. After something horrible, you were lucky.”
His gaze met hers. “Really lucky. They didn’t just take me in. I was theirs, and I always felt that.”
“The difference between being an obligation, even a well-tended one, and belonging.”
“I never had to learn how wide that difference is. My cousins—one’s a year older, one’s a year younger—never made me feel like an outsider.”
