by K Larsen
Tristan was an anomaly, so rugged in appearance, shy and sweet in personality, so much so that it made no sense he’d sequestered himself away from society. He had no traits or tendencies she could detect that would make his company intolerable—on the contrary, being around him was so easy she’d gone as far as picturing herself staying.
Meghan hobbled from room to room on her rough-hewn wooden crutches. Tristan had warned her to stay off her feet, both to prevent swelling and the likelihood of falling. The cabin felt bigger without his presence in it. Perhaps he was a recovered alcoholic or drug addict and removing the temptation completely was the only way he could function. But you could get drugs anywhere these days and he wasn’t that far from town. Besides, he had nice teeth and was muscular not wasting away. She smiled at his movie collection and looked through his bookcase again. At the bottom she noticed a leather-bound photo album and she lowered herself to the floor, leaning the crutches against a small side table. It had enough dust on it to lead her to believe Tristan had not taken it out for a while—if ever. There was no way she was lugging the heavy album around with her on a bum foot so she made herself comfortable on the woven rug and opened it up.
It was a regular family photo album, she recognized Tristan right away from his soulful hazel eyes that hadn’t much changed. He’d been blond as a toddler, morphed to a sandy brown in grade-school. He looked happiest when his younger sister was born, Sears quality photos showed a pre-teen Tristan holding the baby with eyes full of wonder.
They looked alike and it seemed he doted on her. Altogether, the photos told the story of a healthy, all-American family. No skeletons in the closet that she could see, just Halloween costumes, church on Sunday, and stockings over the fireplace. He wasn’t lying about his mother falling sick when he was a young teen. She ran a finger over the images of Tristan with fear in his eyes and his lovely, young mother always trying to rally a smile for the camera, with a kerchief on her head and eyes sunken from weight loss.
Meghan noted that his mother passed before his younger sister was old enough for her menses, too young to do her own hair, or absorb all the secrets of womanhood that her mother likely wanted to fill her with before she left. The idea alone, coupled with the sadness in their pretty faces made her cry. Maybe it was that deep loss that made him retreat into himself and hide away the jewel he was from the rest of the world.
Newer images toward the end showed her a young man in college who played football, had long wavy hair, and had some impressive cheekbones and strong chin that he hid under that beard. He was the type of young man who wore a scarf in school colors and belonged to a fraternity. He seemed happy and carefree in those days, but there was always that air of insecurity—that slight touch of sadness that hung like a veil over his smile.
To her great chagrin, a woman began to appear in all of the photos with Tristan. And not just a girl, but a beautiful one, with long, shining chestnut hair, flawless skin, and almond shaped eyes. She looked like a young movie star and brought to every photo a charisma that leapt from the page.
“Julie” was her name, Meghan learned from the image in front of the Eiffel Tower that was captioned “Tristan and Julie, Paris 1998.” Jealousy seared nearly as hot as a cauterizing spoon. She laughed out loud at her ridiculous feelings, being jealous of a mystery girl in a photo. But shrugging it off didn’t stop Meghan from doing all the destructive things that women do, like comparing her body, her hair, even her teeth to those of the girl, twenty years her junior, in the photo. Julie had apparently skied with Tristan, hiked and canoed. Julie was outdoorsy, adventurous and from all appearances, seemed the perfect companion for the strapping young man.
She came to photos that, in her gut, purported to be from an engagement party, the banner, “Congratulations Julie and Tristan,” the champagne, the ring, the college friends. She recognized his now white-haired father and his little sister who’d blossomed into a beautiful woman—the spitting image of her mother.
Meghan sighed audibly, and the sound struck her as the only noise she’d heard in an hour besides the screech the sticky plastic between pages made as she’d turned them.
She felt like a spy. He’d been nothing but kind and here she was invading his privacy.
He could be divorced. Jesus, maybe Julie died and the loss of the only other woman he’d ever loved besides his mother tore too deeply at his heart and caused him to flee from society. He couldn’t bear to have his heart broken again. Her nose ran and she sniffed back more tears. She hoped he was just divorced and the sex had been terrible so they parted ways. The alternative was too hard for her heart to take.
He’d be back shortly and she could just ask him. Certainly not tell him she’d been snooping, but ask if he’d ever been married. That was a normal inquiry for small talk. “How come you never settled down, started a family?” She practiced the words aloud and her voice sounded strange as it reverberated throughout the cabin.
Maybe Julie was here, buried under the floorboards. She shuddered at the thought. What if Tristan never came back and she would be forced to eat her remaining toes for nourishment until the big thaw. Even then she probably wouldn’t be able to make the walk all the way to town. She’d end up burning down Tristan’s cabin as a beacon, creating smoke signals for rescuers. What if Tristan’s plan were to steal her identity? He could go take her car, move into her house, and no one would be the wiser until the boys came home for the summer. It wasn’t like she had a ton of friends, Bruce had taken all of them in the divorce.
Meghan realized that being with Tristan had kept her from ruminating about Bruce for what had to be a record length of time. If Tristan and Julie had divorced, maybe he was just jaded and bitter like she was. Julie could have run off too and never realized what a gem she had in the reserved and thoughtful Tristan. Lord, if she’d owned a pair of eyes, you’d at least think she’d appreciate how good-looking he was, strong and athletic, capable of performing emergency surgery on the fly and making a mean pot of stew.
She missed the guy like crazy and he’d only been out of earshot for barely an afternoon. Meghan pulled herself to standing after replacing the photo album. It was heavy like the guilt that piled on her shoulders for being such a snoop.
Tristan had said there were cheese and crackers, eggs to make, or beans in the pot on the back of the stove. She wasn’t hungry, the Ibuprofen had taken care of the pain. Her hunger was overshadowed by her curiosity. Now that she’d seen Julie, she had even more questions about this man and the choices he’d made.
Meghan told herself she was chilly and needed a sweater. It wasn’t a lie, the cabin had cooled as the fire dwindled in the woodstove. She’d admired the large chest of drawers in his bedroom, wondered how he’d gotten it up here without a road and a truck. She tottered back into his room and let herself belly flop on his bed. His room smelled of cedar and the manly scent that she’d come to associate with Tristan. He had no photos in the room or any framed pictures, minus an abstract painting above the bed that looked like a mess of fall leaves after a rainstorm. She rolled across the bed like a child to the side of the room that held the dresser. Admired the glass knobs and guessed which each drawer held, and where he hid his sweaters. Or perhaps possible keepsakes, like a discarded wedding band, or a death certificate, or Julie’s digits—then she’d really know she was in for it. And what if Tristan surprised her while she was going through his things? She was too far from anywhere for someone to hear her scream.
Still, her curiosity wouldn’t be deterred, she pulled open the two smallest drawers at the top to find his underwear and socks all folded and orderly. Shirts, long sleeved and short, then pants and long johns, it wasn’t until she opened the bottom drawer that she found something other than clothes. Once again, she pulled herself to standing using the open drawers like a ladder, peered out to the line of trees that bordered the property looking for figures. It was just her, a mountain, and a boatload of white snow.
She pulled out a Fair
Isle sweater and slipped it over her head. It was soft and thick, and even cozier touched with Tristan’s scent. There were letters, correspondence, a bundle of mail. She could just peek through the envelopes and see if there were anything of interest more than bank statements and bills. The end of her nose tingled like it always did when she was nervous. The decent thing to do would be close the drawer and leave it alone. But she snatched the pile of letters and fell back again on the bed. She stuck her feet in the air to elevate the toe.
Meghan leafed through a dull pile without any surprises, old bills, change of address forms, bank records, a title for the property—he owned thirty acres of raw wilderness—the mountain man did. He had a PO box in town, as was to be expected, was a member of the local community food buying club, registered green party, a member of Sierra Club, Greenpeace and Seed Savers. She liked him more and more as she riffled through his most personal belongings. She was the worst house guest ever, but only because her crush was all-encompassing.
Then, when she expected only to come full circle and recognize the first letter she’d seen, she happened upon a real hand-written letter from one Julie Balanchine, return address Oregon, dated sixteen years ago. Her nose tingled some more and her hands shook as she held the letter in her fingers.
Should she open it? No. He’d saved her life—twice. Operated on her for free. She should put it back where she found it and let him have his privacy. The poor guy didn’t ask for her to come barging into his life. He had every right to be a recluse.
But Meghan’s treacherous fingers opened the flap and pulled out the yellow legal pad lined paper filled up—both sides—with pretty cursive lettering.
Twenty-Five
Tristan
The memory of Meghan’s face just before she disappeared from view stuck with him as he skied. It was a clear, gorgeous winter day. The snow had an icy crust from the sleet the night before, making it a pain in the ass to keep his momentum going. This was no downhill groomed trail after all.
Those lips, the fullness, the warmth, the way they seemed to fit against his so perfectly spurred him on despite his thighs burning. He was only twenty minutes, give or take into his trip to town but his perma-grin wouldn’t subside. He adjusted his hat before slowing to a stop. His legs needed a break. He still had half the trip to go.
Side stepping to the nearest tree he stabbed his poles into the snow and shook off his pack to rest for a moment. He stared up at the canopy created by the mighty copse of pine trees. It was peaceful and serene and served as a reminder of why he loved living out here. It was the vast beauty of it; the way it reminded a person that they were but a mere speck in the universe; that nothing—no matter how big it felt—was as big as nature was vast.
A branch snapped behind him. Tristan whipped around, too fast, and his boot came loose from the binding. He teetered a moment before landing in the snow with a muted thud. He snapped out of his other binding and shook his head.
“Figures,” he muttered. The thin layer of ice coating the snow crunched and he swiveled his head around toward the noise. Three wolf pups peered around the neighboring tree at him. Tristan’s breath lodged in his throat. They looked harmless, cute even, but he knew, where there were cubs, there was a protective mother. Babies in the wild meant one thing, an irrational and pissed off mother. He pulled himself upright and hollered.
“Go on. Get out of here.” His voice boomed through the trees. All three dogs looked at him and whined, lifting up and setting down their two front feet. He hollered at them again. Two of the pups cowered and moved back. But that damn third one was curious and stood his ground, played with baring his baby wolf teeth. Tristan took a step toward it, flailed his arms and yelled again. The little one’s hackles rose and it backed up. Tristan took a step back and silently reminded himself to breathe. His pulse raced, he could feel it in his neck.
The low growl that sounded as the pups disappeared caused the hairs on his neck to stand up. He leaned forward and peered into the trees where the pups had just been. Slowly he reached for his backpack. A mature wolf stepped forward, hackles up, and sniffed the air. She was scrappy and near starvation, teats hanging low with milk for her pups. In his ski boots he couldn’t run. He couldn’t scale the tree. His best bet was to try and scare it off. The mother wolf took another step in his direction, shoulders low—ready to pounce.
“Get!” he yelled. He pulled off his gloves and clapped his hands. “Go on! Get out of here!”
The wolf’s lips seemed to detach from her snout as they pulled back, away from her teeth. Saliva dripped from her mouth as her ears flattened to her head. Wrinkles littered her muzzle as she snarled in warning. She wasn’t going to let him walk away, not in the state of defensiveness she was in. Mother wolves could be unpredictable when protecting their babies. He waved his arms, made more noise, and prayed it would run off. He was bigger so his only hope was that he posed too much of a risk for her to try.
He heard her low growl again and his heart plummeted in his chest.
The curious baby appeared by its mother's side. She gave him a cursory bark and a warning nip which caused the cub to yelp and move away. He shifted his weight while she appeared distracted and reached for his hunting knife.
He wasn’t fast enough. The wolf growled and lunged at him as soon as he moved. All speed and grace, fangs bared. She snarled as she flung herself at him without reserve. He used his backpack to bear the brunt of the impact. Wolves weren’t killers—not like people are led to believe anyway. They were more likely to inflict a bite and run off over mauling a person to death. Tristan couldn’t afford to be wounded. He landed on his back at the force of her attack. The back of his skull hitting the tree near his poles. Fear coursed through his veins. He didn’t have time to pull his knife from its holder as the mother jabbed her mouth forward. Searing pain shot through his shoulder—unprotected from the backpack which shielded his chest and neck. A scream tore from his throat and echoed. Her head thrashed left and right with whiplash speed before releasing him and disappearing into the forest. He didn’t blame her. Even if he’d had a gun, he wouldn’t have shot her.
His breath pounded out of him so fiercely that for long moments, it was all he could hear. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare do anything but stare up at the pines and sliver of clear blue sky above. Tristan closed his eyes against the pain.
The sun had moved when he opened his eyes. It was lower in the sky. How long had he been out? His vision blurred as his adrenaline eased. His fingers burned with cold. Pushing the backpack off his chest he gingerly felt the back of his head.
A goose egg the size of a golf ball had already formed, and his hand came away covered in blood. He gathered the courage he needed through a series of deep breaths to sit up. The pain in his shoulder nearly knocked him unconscious but he managed. His jacket was shredded—whether from claws or teeth he wasn’t sure. Slowly he unzipped his coat to assess how bad the damage was.
Clear through his sweater and long johns, flesh and blood mixed together in an unsettling way. Visible bite mark, flesh punctured and drawn in strips toward the rounded crest of his shoulder. With one hand he unzipped his pack and fished around for the extra shirt packed. Using his teeth and good arm he managed to shred a strip long enough to tie around the shoulder to help stop the bleeding some. Drops of his crimson blood littered the fresh white snow at his feet. He pulled his coat back over his shoulder and zipped it. His arm and bicep throbbed and despite the low temperature, a sheen of sweat covered his brow.
He stood, slowly, using the tree for balance. He felt dizzy and nauseated. Should he continue on or go back? He was nearly dead center in his trip. The idea of skiing into town, broken and in need of help versus going home to Meghan made his heart constrain in his chest. He’d lost time. It would be dark sooner than later. He’d promised he would be home by late lunch time. He needed to go back and he needed to go now. He snapped one foot into his ski. When he tried the other the binding wouldn’t lock
into place. Tristan grunted in exertion as he bent to inspect it.
“Fuck!” he screamed at the forest.
His binding was broken, not beyond repair, but the tools he needed resided at the cabin. He drew in a calming breath. He’d have to walk back. It would take twice as long, considering he was in ski boots, and being injured would only add to that time. It would be dark then. His blood raced, knowing Meghan would start to worry when he wasn’t back by lunch. He was used to testing the limit of both his physicality as well as his will power. Head down against the wind, he put one foot in front of the other. All he needed to do was get home. He’d promised her and he wouldn’t let her down.
Meghan, I’m coming.
Twenty-Six
Meghan
“Tristan,” the letter began. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me.” For some reason a knot formed in her throat at the very first line.
By the time she’d read it twice through, she’d saturated Tristan’s pillowcase with salty tears for someone else’s heartbreak.
It was a letter of regret, a letter not asking for forgiveness, but trying to explain the unthinkable, undo the mistakes of the past. The lovely Julie Balanchine it appeared had left the strapping young Tristan at the altar of their hometown church in which they were to marry. She hopped a Greyhound bus with a one-way ticket to Vegas. Tristan made it all the way to the church in his tux, so had his best friends from both childhood and college, his sister had flown in from Florida and his sweet father couldn’t have been prouder.
Julie had been living a lie. It wasn’t another man, Meghan was not surprised to learn, because, really, who could compare? But Julie had been lying to herself. Lying about love, her feelings, even what brought joy to her world. While Tristan loved camping and hiking, rock climbing and exploring, Julie loved shopping, the disco, the country club, and cruises. She’d gone along with the outdoorsy image and trudged behind him on the trails all for the sake of snagging a husband—getting a ring on her finger and a bun in the oven. Julie lied for so long that she almost believed it herself, until a girlfriend got a job in Las Vegas as a showgirl. Julie saw the photos and salivated at the life, by the pool, men fawning and buying drinks, parties every night. Concerts and casinos and living the high life. She wanted those things more than she allowed herself to admit. It came to a head when her girlfriend ended up pregnant and a replacement was needed for her part. She had an extra bedroom, they could share a car. It was the week she was supposed to get married, and the fluke made her realize she wanted something else. She’d sent Tristan a picture of her in heels and a rhinestone bikini, a feathered headdress, and a jewel in her bellybutton. She was happy. She was sorry. She encouraged him to follow his dreams—to find someone else.
