Boys, Bears, and A Serious Pair of Hiking Boots

by Abby McDonald

  “The red sweater?” I straighten up, in my bikini top and shorts. “I think it was down in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” She pauses, looking at me for a moment. “Umm, OK.” Backing out quickly, Susie all but trips over herself to get away. I stare after her, puzzled, but it’s not until I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror that I see what made her so flustered.

  A hickey.

  I lean closer, already cringing with embarrassment. The small mark is just below my collarbone, out of sight — if I weren’t still in my bikini top! Tugging on a sweatshirt, I wonder if it’s possible to avoid Susie for, oh, the next five years.

  It’s not. After dinner, there’s a cautious knock on my door. “Jenna? You got a sec?”

  “Sure.” I turn the music down, but she’s still waiting. “You can come in now,” I call.

  She edges in with a weird look on her face. “About earlier . . .”

  I gulp. “Uh-huh?” My voice comes out squeaky and high-pitched.

  Susie takes a seat on the edge of the bed and fixes me with an understanding mom look. “It’s all right, Jenna. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. You’re practically a grown-up.”

  Oh, boy.

  “Really, Susie —”

  “You don’t need to tell me anything.” She ignores my protests, determined to say her piece. “Fiona mentioned something about Ethan a while back.”

  Ethan!

  I sit, silently mortified, while she continues, giving me this knowing, conspiratorial look. “I know what it’s like: having desires, experimenting. I’m glad you’re having fun.”

  At this moment, fun is so not on the agenda, but insisting I’ve never been beyond second base wouldn’t achieve anything right now. I have no choice but to sit, meekly listening to her be understanding about all the sex I’m not really having.

  “I just wanted to let you know, I’ve made a special drawer in the bathroom, full of, well, things you might want.” I’m gratified to see even Susie seem slightly freaked out now, despite her supportive act. “Come and see.”

  “No, really, it’s fine . . .” I try to fend her off, but Susie takes my arm and all but drags me to the green-tiled bathroom.

  “I know condoms can get expensive,” she chatters, pulling open the pretty wooden vanity to reveal a supply that would keep half the population of Stillwater child-free. For a year. “So I bought plenty. Look, even flavored ones!”

  There’s a moment of silent horror for both of us as we contemplate the implications of those words.

  “And, uh, it’s for Fiona, too,” she adds hurriedly. “So you girls just go right ahead and, well . . . just know it’s there.”

  “Thanks, Susie,” I murmur numbly. If only we were still doing construction up here — maybe then there would actually be a chance for the ground to give way and swallow me up.

  “And don’t worry about your parents. This is just between us.” She squeezes my hand reassuringly as I wander blindly back to my room.

  “Umm, OK.”

  “OK,” she echoes with a nod. “I’m glad we had this . . . talk. And you’ll come to me — if you need anything? Anything at all?”

  I can’t imagine what I’d ever need that isn’t already stocked in that “special drawer” of hers, but I nod along.

  “Great.” Susie gives me another supportive-yet-freaked-out smile. “See you for dinner!”

  The moment the door closes behind her, I hurl myself facedown on the bed.

  “Give me ten good reasons why I shouldn’t kill you right now!” Fiona bursts into my room minutes later, the murderous-yet-traumatized look in her eyes meaning only one thing . . .

  “She showed you the drawer.”

  “Yes!” she wails. “I don’t need to hear any of that. Especially from her!”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” I tell her.

  Fiona throws herself down on the window seat. “Why do parents have to do this? I mean, couldn’t they just give us a copy of Forever and leave well enough alone?”

  “Just be glad it wasn’t your dad,” I note darkly.

  “Oh, it was.” She shudders at the memory. “Like, two years ago. He had a textbook and a banana and everything. It was the most uncomfortable ten minutes of my entire life!”

  I’m tempted to ask about Grady, and all the kind-of-crush signals she’s been giving off, but I don’t want to push my luck. Instead, we sit for a moment, reflecting on parental sex-talk terror in a strange kind of companionship. I may not have Olivia, I realize, but it’s not as if I’m alone out here.

  “I don’t suppose you want to get out of town,” I suggest hopefully. “Even just to that ice-cream place in Pedley.” I name a small town about half an hour away.

  Fiona waits a moment before shrugging. “Sure, OK. I don’t think Dad’s using the car.”

  I look at her in surprise. I wasn’t expecting her to actually agree. “Great!” I grab my cardigan before she can change her mind.

  “Just let me get some CDs.” She heads toward her room, and I decide to follow.

  “Can I pick? From your music, I mean. Some of your stuff is, well, kind of depressing.”

  Fiona looks at me for a second, as if she’s deciding whether or not it’s worth the fight. “I guess,” she says at last. “CDs are on the shelf.” She pulls on a pair of flip-flops while I make my choice between angry emo guys and angry emo girls. Then I spy a Paramore label buried under the heavier stuff. Aha!

  “Ready!” I beam, brandishing my compromise. My eardrums, and fragile emotional state, are safe for another day. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  Now that Susie’s keeping her eyes on me — and my late-night activities — I find it impossible to sneak away and see Reeve, but part of me is relieved. The more time I spend with him, the more I get caught up in our kisses and strange, whispered intimacy. It’s getting harder to keep up the casual act, even with the end of summer looming closer all the time.

  Luckily the next few days before the big opening are so hectic, I barely have a moment to do anything except polish silverware, touch up paint-jobs, and launder seven bedrooms’ worth of crisp linens. Even so, as I throw myself into the chores, I can’t help but wonder if that day at the lake really was as final as it felt to me then: a moment out of place in the rest of my regular life. It was only three days ago, but I haven’t heard from him since. Already the breathless intensity is fading, and now it just feels like a dream to me, snapshots in somebody else’s photo album.

  “Please tell me that was the last of the ironing!” I make a return trip from the laundry room to find Susie perched by the kitchen table. Now that the decorating is finished, there are mismatched china plates propped up on an old cabinet, and faded sepia photographs framed on the wall. It looks homey and cute, just like something from those Anthropologie catalogs Fiona was hurling around.

  “For now, anyway.” Susie laughs, passing me a glass of cold lemonade.

  “Thank God.” I throw myself down in a chair and stretch. “Next time, can I just do something easy? Building the roof, maybe, or paving the driveway.”

  “Ironing does suck,” she agrees. “Why do you think I run around in all those wrinkled shirts?”

  “But not today.” I notice that she’s dressed elegantly, in a print wrap-dress and dangling gemstone earrings, and for a change, her curls are pinned back in a neat chignon. “Do you have another meeting at the bank?”

  Susie gives me a mysterious smile. “Nope. I have something fun planned, for us girls. A way to say thank you for all your hard work. Ta-da!” With a flourish, she produces a glossy pamphlet.

  “‘A day of indulgence at Blue Ridge,’” I read. “Wait, this is that fancy resort. We can’t go — they’re competition!”

  “Exactly.” Susie nods. “We need to research. Some spa treatments, a mud bath — and if that doesn’t ease your aching muscles, we’ll bring out the heavy artillery: Sven, the Swedish masseur!”

  “That’s awesome!”
I’m easily convinced. “When do we leave?”

  “Whenever Fiona’s done on the computer. FIONA!” she bellows with the same breath. “We have a download limit, remember!”

  A few seconds later, Fiona appears, slouching in the doorway. Tugging at one oversize sleeve, she rolls her eyes. “No need to yell.”

  “Isn’t it great that Susie organized this spa trip?” I say, giving her a meaningful look.

  “Uh-huh.” It’s only a murmured agreement, but Susie leaps up, delighted.

  “So we’re all set!” She beams at us both. “Just grab your suits for the hot springs, and we can go!”

  As Susie rushes off to get things together, I turn to Fiona with a warning look. “Please, she really wants this to be a bonding thing.”

  Fiona wrinkles her lip. “Like, with gossiping about boys and makeup?”

  “Maybe.” I keep my gaze fixed on her. “She’s been working so hard for this place, she deserves some relaxing time.”

  “Whatever.” Fiona sighs, but she gives me a grudging nod. “As long as she doesn’t try and give me a makeover!”

  As it turns out, even Fiona can’t complain about the Blue Ridge experience. Soaking up to our necks in a tub of mineral salts later that afternoon, all domestic disharmony has been forgotten. Or, at the very least, stored up for later.

  “So this is how the mega-rich live.” I sigh, inhaling the deep aroma of rosemary and eucalyptus, or whatever magic potion they smeared on my face to release my pores, stress, and/or tension. “Maybe I should start buying lottery tickets.” Steam drifts above the water, soft music plays quietly, and a glass wall affords us a stunning view of the valley.

  “No . . .” Susie breathes, her eyes covered with a blue gel pack. “Who wants exquisite luxury when you can have creaky pipes and an old front porch?”

  “Right,” Fiona drawls, only a little sarcastic. “Endless perfection is, like, sooo boring.”

  I lean back, gazing out at the gorgeous vista. It’s strange, to have the sprawling wilderness outside and this high-tech luxury inside. All around us is gleaming marble and metal, with a hovering host of uniformed “assistants” waiting to bring us anything we might possibly require. But this is probably as close to the great outdoors as some tourists will get: separated by a polished plate-glass window while a manicurist attends to their toes.

  Susie lifts her mask and reaches for her flute of sparkling water. “I think it’s time for a toast: To the Bramble Lane Bed and Breakfast. May she break even sometime in the next two years!”

  “You picked a name? That’s great.” I congratulate her.

  “It was Fiona’s idea.” She beams.

  Fiona rolls her eyes, picking at the mud mask on her face. “I only said that people would have to fight their way through the brambles to even find the place.”

  “But it’s perfect.” I let my toes float to the surface of the water, wriggling them. “It makes me think the place is ramshackle yet charming.”

  “That’s the plan,” Susie agrees. “I decided we should keep up your ‘rugged adventuring’ marketing strategy.”

  “It’s hardly a strategy!” I laugh, but she shakes her head.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Jenna; it’s worked out great. Your environmental tips have been a huge help, and we’re fully booked for opening week.”

  “That’s because you did such a great job with the renovations.”

  Fiona interrupts. “What is this — a mutual appreciation society?”

  I grin. “OK, so maybe we’re all awesome.”

  We relax again for a moment, lazily drifting in the water until Susie lets out a wistful sigh. “It’s been great having you around, kid. You’ll always be welcome here again.”

  Fiona perks up. “When are you leaving?”

  “Ten days,” I answer quietly. Noticing her expression, I splash water at her. “And you don’t have to look so happy about it.”

  “Am not.” She splashes back. “Well, it’ll be cool not having to wait around for the bathroom.”

  There. Just think, a whole summer of bitching, tantrums, and animosity could all have been avoided if only Susie and Adam had renovated those other bathrooms first!

  “I’m sure Fiona will miss you,” Susie says soothingly, like a true mom. My eyes meet Fiona’s across the tub, and we share an amused look. “I know I will.”

  “She’ll just miss your good influence,” Fiona murmurs, as if Susie isn’t here. “That’s why she had you here in the first place.”

  Susie splutters, “I did —”

  “Sure you didn’t.” Fiona arches a mud-smeared eyebrow, cracking the mask. “You were hoping all her perky enthusiasm would rub off on me.”

  Perky? Me?

  “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m turning into a prune.” Susie wisely changes the subject. She displays her wrinkled fingers. “How about we dry off and find something delicious to eat?”

  “Something chocolatey,” I decide. All this talk about my imminent departure is making me restless, and in need of a sugar fix. “Illegally chocolatey.”

  When we’ve consumed enough gooey brownies to make me faintly ill, I take up residence on an overstuffed leather couch in the main lobby. Fiona is off wandering somewhere, and Susie has spotted a woman she knows working maid duty, so they’ve retreated to a secluded corner somewhere to discuss all the inside information about Blue Ridge. I’m left to people-watch, tucked away in my corner beside the looming stone fireplace as the other guests bustle by.

  I’m not ready to go home.

  Fairview, high school, my family — it all seems miles away, and a lifetime ago. The past weeks have been a jumble of sawdust and splattered mud and shady trees and cold lake water splashing on my skin. A kind of freedom. And now I think of going back to our house, with the plush peach carpeting and Mom’s careful dinner arrangements, and I feel a swell of sadness. I don’t know what’s waiting for me there, if there will even be a family when I get back. It’s not the divorce itself that scares me so much as everything that would come after. Dad moving out, or not coming back from Europe at all; Mom suddenly working long hours; the holiday visitation schedules. No matter how much I’ve tried to avoid the reality of my parents — and the future — I can’t help but see my departure date like some kind of execution.

  “Kids, get back over here. Don’t touch those!” A couple of young boys run over to play with the small animal carvings by the fire. The lobby is full of activity: a prim-looking lady ordering the staff around, a pair of intimidated tourists looking at some pamphlets, and an old man giving some kind of talk to a group of guests, slowly touring the room with a cane.

  “This here was taken back when there was barely a road up through the mountains.” He waves his cane at a black-and-white photo on the wall. Dressed in an impeccable suit with heavy gold cuffs at his wrists, he’s got a shock of white hair and deep wrinkles on his face. “We had to hike for days with nothing but a hatchet and a good pair of boots!” The group looks suitably impressed.

  I pause, his words triggering some kind of déjà vu. A hatchet . . . ?

  “Now, there are plenty of tours if you want to explore,” he continues, “with fully loaded Jeeps and an expert guide. Or how about a rafting trip? Best way to see the valley!” There’s a murmur of excitement, and several guests start flicking through their pamphlets.

  I peer at him from across the room. It can’t be. . . . As he finishes up his history of the area, I try to remember the photo on the back of that mountain man guide. The man there was much younger, with a bushy beard and rugged plaid shirt, but if I add about fifty years and a thousand dollars of designer tailoring, it could just about be the guy in expensive leather loafers holding court for the rich spa ladies.

  My mountain man wears loafers?

  Our unspoiled paradise is coming under threat. Every year, those vultures swoop closer, looking to replace pristine mountain ranges with acres of concrete. They should be lined up and shot!


  —“The Devil in Disguise,”

  The Modern Mountain Man’s Survival Guide

  When the group finally disperses, I edge over. “Mr. . . . Coombes?” I ask hesitantly, certain I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s been ages since I sent the book to Olivia, and I’m sure plenty of old guys around here swear by the service of a good hatchet —

  “That’s me.” He swings around. There’s a square of crisp handkerchief folded in his breast pocket, and a lively gleam in his eyes. “What can I do you for?”

  My mouth drops open. “It is you!” I blink at him, trying to match this distinguished gentleman with Jerry’s grouchy, no-nonsense voice that I’ve been carrying around in my mind. “I read your book! Wow, I can’t believe it’s actually you!”

  Mr. Coombes looks at me, kind but clearly clueless.

  “The survival guide?” I venture slowly. “For mountain men? It’s been a major help to me this summer!” He probably didn’t mean for it to save my social life, but without that book, I don’t know if I’d ever have made inroads with the Stillwater boys or found a way to deal with Fiona.

  “Ha!” Mr. Coombes suddenly lets out a booming laugh. “They still have that ol’ thing around?”

  “I found a copy at this old bookstore in town,” I explain. “I think it was one of the originals!”

  Shaking his head with amusement, Mr. Coombes looks at me. “Well, kid, you have my apologies.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  “For having to wade through all that self-righteous bull!” He checks his BlackBerry, still chuckling, while I try and get my head around his dismissive tone.

  “I don’t, I mean, I didn’t think it was bad.” I blink, completely thrown. It’s not like I thought Jeremiah Coombes would be off living in a cave somewhere. Maybe an old log cabin by a fishing pond . . .

  “You liked it, eh? Well, good for you.” Mr. Coombes looks surprised. “Now, if you don’t mind, kid, I need to get back. This place won’t run itself!”