Once Upon an Equinox

by Dovie Ruth

  Delaney looked over her shoulder as she stood next to the solitary pay phone and dialed Chencia's number. As she waited for her call to go through, her wistful eyes surveyed the mostly empty parking lot. The handful of customers standing about looked respectable. Regardless, she felt so exposed standing out front of the store without the benefit of a booth. A slight breeze had kicked up, and her white flared skirt fluttered in the wind. She heard her neighbor’s phone ring once, twice, three times. Then she was transferred straight to an answering machine. Delaney stammered, “Hi, Chencia. I’m just calling to remind you to water my tomato seedlings. They’re on my patio. I don’t know if I’ll have reliable phone service for a few days since the place I’m going is high up in the mountains.” She paused, hoping her neighbor would pick up her phone. “Anyway, I’m leaving Three Rivers right now and heading up the mountain road to the retreat. Hopefully, Mavis has a working phone.” Delaney eyed a tall pale man, who had walked across the parking lot to use the pay phone. He jingled the coins in his front pocket as he frowned at Delaney. “Anyway, Chencia, I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. I will find a way to call you tomorrow. Or you might try calling Mavis later on tonight if you don’t mind. Thanks for taking care of my seedlings for me … goodbye.” Delaney wanted to glare at the waiting man as she hung up the black receiver but decided it wasn’t worth it. Negative thoughts weren’t good for her or Samuel.

  Delaney caught a glimpse of her reflection in the tall storefront window. Her lavender hair looked a little wild from the sudden gusts of wind. She tucked the errant locks of hair behind her ears and hoped for the best. Dying her hair purple hadn’t seemed to make it behave any better.

  Once inside the store, Delaney gathered some bottled water, protein bars, and apples. Then she took them to the checkout counter.

  A lonely cashier stood waiting. The middle-aged man sported a neatly trimmed beard. His reading glasses balanced precariously on the end of his straight chiseled nose. “Where are you heading?” he asked.

  Delaney was somewhat annoyed that the gentleman had her pegged as a tourist. Worse yet, he obviously assumed it was his divine right to ask questions. Then again, Delaney had to admit to herself that she was annoyed with almost everybody. “It's a good thing I love you, Samuel,” Delaney thought, “because these pregnancy hormones are a bear.”

  “Ma'am.” The cashier's voice brought Delaney back to the present.

  “Yes?"

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Up Mineral King Road,” she answered with reserve.

  “All the way to Silver City? In that sports car?”

  “Oh, no – just to The Tilted Plume. The writers’ retreat.”

  The cashier’s face grayed. “So you’re a writer?”

  “I can only hope.” Delaney reached into her purse for her wallet. “That’s why I’ve come to get some help from Miss Beasom.”

  “Have you met her before?”

  “No, sir,” Delaney hedged, “I have not.” The truth of the matter was that she’d never even seen the author’s picture. That was something that had been omitted from the brochure. Perhaps, she thought, Mavis Beasom was a classic recluse. “How about you, sir? Have you ever made the acquaintance of Miss Beasom?”

  The clerk paused before putting Delaney’s cash in the drawer. He rested the edge of the bills on the counter. He seemed to be in no hurry to finish the transaction; the store was empty and no one else was standing in line. “When Mavis Beasom bought that property about fifteen years ago,” he reminisced, “we heard about it because she was famous. If anyone else would have purchased it, nothing much would have been said at all. Outside of Three Rivers, I guess Mavis was a celebrity in the book world – or so we were told. As for myself, I’ve never read any romance novels.”

  Delaney leaned forward and whispered. “I haven’t, either.”

  The gentleman gave his customer an arch look. “Then what do you write?”

  “Thrillers.”

  “Seriously? You?”

  Delaney chuckled. “I don’t look the part?”

  The cashier hedged. “Well, that just goes to prove that appearances can be deceiving. Can you please remind me of your name?”

  Delaney couldn’t remember giving the businessman her name in the first place. “Delaney,” she finally answered. Just plain Delaney. No last name.

  The gentleman nodded, not offering his own name.

  Delaney broke the awkward pause. “Now, what else can you tell me about Mavis Beasom? Have you met her?”

  “Aha! Yes, back to Miss Beasom. For about a dozen years or so, I never laid eyes on the woman even once.” The gentleman looked over the top of his reading glasses. “Then a few years ago, something unexpected happened: Mavis started coming into town. To this day, she even attends church every now and again. I’m not sure what led to the change. Maybe she just got lonely.”

  “Or maybe she finally worked through some old pain,” Delaney mused.

  The checker finished ringing up Delaney’s transaction, then carefully bagged her groceries. “It’s rare to see students going up to The Tilted Plume nowadays. As a matter of fact, you’re the first I’ve run across in months.”

  A stab of doubt pierced Delaney’s gut. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I’m not sure.” The cashier made a concerted effort to catch his customer’s eye. “You be careful, Miss Delaney. That road up there is a twister. At least you’re not going all the way up to Silver City.”

  “Silver City?”

  “It’s not really a city – just some cabins about eighteen miles beyond The Tilted Plume on Mineral King Road. On a good day, it will take you almost two hours to make the trip from here. Most people give up before they even find the place. If you do finally make it, you’ve got to be careful where you park your vehicle. The marmots will crawl up underneath it and chew the insulation off of the electrical wires. Then you really will be 222stranded.”

  “Marmots?” Delaney asked. “I’ve never heard of those, either.”

  “They’re kind of like giant ground hogs.”

  Delaney’s eyes widened. She didn’t know whether to believe the gentleman or not. “I don’t think I want to go that far up the road. It sounds like I may never get back home.” Puzzled, she gave the chatty man a brief smile then left the small market with her sack of groceries. Her final chore was to fill the Mustang’s gas tank to the brim. She had no idea how long it would be until she saw a gas station again. When that was done, she slid into the driver’s seat and went about the business of making herself comfortable for the drive ahead. “Only seven more miles to go,” she whispered to her baby.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mineral King Road was almost as narrow and crooked as a goat path. The track rose at a sharp angle as soon as it jutted off Highway 198. Then it leveled somewhat as it wound through some foothills and ran along boundaries of sprawling country estates.

  Despite the sharp curves, the first half mile was easy sailing. The road had been paved with a smooth coat of asphalt in recent years.

  The spring season was a feast for the eyes. The steep banks on both sides of road were lush with grasses and ablaze with bush poppies. Oaks glowed with new crowns of tiny leaves. Millions of long-stemmed fiddlenecks danced in the sun. They hovered like scintillating carpets of gold dots over the lush green meadows and hillsides

  As the track dipped and twisted through a deciduous landscape of trees and brush, it narrowed even further. Before long, the edges became ragged, and the surface was heavily patched. In most places, there wasn’t even enough room for two cars to pass.

  Delaney scanned the right side of the road for the promised mile markers. “There we go!” she confirmed with relief as she spotted the first one. Maybe everything would be all right. The thought cheered her. She wondered if the other students had already arrived at Miss Beasom’s cabin. She really didn’t want to be the first one.

  The curves of Mineral King Road were treacherous a
nd meandering. Judging by its coils and switchbacks, the track seemed aimless. The route did, however, follow the general direction of the East Fork of the Kaweah River as it inched toward the stream’s natural source

  The slender road lay atop a long rocky ledge. It had been cut and blasted out of the south side of the steep canyon in the 1800s. The right shoulder consisted of colossal rock faces sheered flat to form granite walls. Hundreds of yards below on the left – and mostly out of sight – was the gurgling Kaweah River.

  Dense vegetation and outcroppings of rocks shrouded most of the river from view. In the far distance were mountain peaks – stony, sometimes milky in color. The austere and unaccommodating rocky range towered above the tree line. Clouds hung over the summits like brooding thoughts.

  As the trail climbed, the curves tightened. Along the roadside, brilliant western redbuds flourished in the sun like beautiful ladies in pink ball gowns. Delaney longed to stop and get a closer look at the delightful blossoms, but fear took hold. What if she turned off her car’s engine, and then it wouldn’t start? No, it was better to just keeping on driving.

  The previous winter had been a cold and stormy one. The moisture had accelerated the growth of all flora. Thick pads of lichen grew on shaded rocks like emerald pincushions.

  The Sierra Nevada’s snow packs had melted and formed steep creeks. If there was no gully to contain them, the runoff seeped over the impervious faces of the rocky mountainsides. Sometimes the rivulets slipped over bare slabs of granite and formed exquisite waterfalls. Most of the tiny errant streams trickled downward through culverts hidden beneath the road. But some of the uncontained water ran directly across the pavement, eroding the asphalt as it went.

  There seemed to be at least one hundred curves, inclines, and drops between every pair of mile markers. Before the second marker, Delaney’s car radio sputtered to a din of static and crackles. The sudden withdrawal of contact with the outside world was unnerving. Since turning onto Mineral King Road, no other vehicles had passed from either direction. The trees grew denser, and their shadows spread further.

  When Delaney she was certain she was condemned to a lonely journey, Mineral King Road became a magical venue. A water flume seemed to pop out of nowhere on the steep shoulder of the road like a thirsty snake. It slithered skillfully along the right side, perched high on a scaffold of metal trusses. Only the flume’s curved metal underbelly could be seen from the road below.

  Then Delaney saw something more wonderful – the bridge. It was a glorious structure. She couldn’t understand why no one had bothered to tell her to expect that magical treat. Perhaps they knew she would fall in love. To Delaney’s soaring heart, it didn’t matter that the object of her affections was a cool collection of cement and steel. Its open spandrel design and lofty support arches seemed delightfully out of place in the rugged wilderness. From a distance, its alabaster masonry gleamed in the sun like an ornate fairy bridge. The entirety of the deck straddled a deep ravine cut by the crystalline stream cascading from the mountains above. The water plummeted through the crevice beneath the bridge, then gushed toward Three Rivers.

  A sense of wonder overrode Delaney’s fear. She braked her car to a stop just short of the entrance to the bridge and pulled onto an unpaved turnout, and cut the engine.

  As Delaney stepped out of her car, her senses heightened. She felt as if she had entered a rarefied vault of space in that mountain gorge. She fought to hold back her eerie emotions. She couldn't put her finger on their source. Perhaps the roar of the stream pummeling beneath the bridge had provoked a rare vibration in her soul.

  The entire crevasse seemed to reverberate with an almost electric energy. Delaney felt particularly affected by the venue's aura; no one else was there to buffer her experience in that rare microcosm.

  Up close, Kaweah Bridge looked more like it belonged in front of a haunted castle. Its gray cement surface was blotched with a dark moldy patina. Even patches of green lichen studded its railings. Still there was a sense of decorum. Ornate stone balustrades ran the length of each side of the bridge, and a pair of tall stone pinnacles marked both ends of its span.

  Delaney’s knees quaked as she stepped up to the railing and peered over the edge of the bridge. Her face flushed with a clammy heat, and her feet ached from her natural thoughts of an impending fall into the chasm below. Delaney’s thoughts and emotions were swept into a vacuous fugue.

  “Hello, ma’am.”

  Delaney’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  Delaney turned to see a tall lean cowboy standing next to her on the bridge. She hadn’t heard his pickup arrive. She hadn’t even noticed his border collie bounding about. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Delaney stepped away from the railing. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I wasn’t going to …”

  Neither one of them dared say the word jump.

  The young man rubbed the thick stubble on his face. From the looks of it, he had been out riding for days. He wore his spurs like they were an everyday accessory.

  Delaney felt she had to explain. “I just stopped for a few minutes to look at this bridge. It’s amazing how the architects were able to fit it into this little niche in the canyon.”

  “Well, it’s still in pretty good shape for being built in 1923.”

  “That makes it even more amazing.”

  The gentleman whistled for his wandering dog. “Where are you headed?”

  “The Tilted Plume. It’s a writers’ retreat. Of course, you probably already know that.”

  “Oh, so you’re one of those artsy types.”

  Delaney blushed. “I guess so.”

  “There’s plenty of them around here,” the cowboy noted. “This beautiful country seems to bring out the muse in creative folks.”

  “It’s one of the most majestic landscapes I have ever seen,” Delaney admitted. “I just wish the drive up here wasn’t so treacherous.”

  “So you’re going to study with Mavis?”

  Delaney took a step backward. “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I’ve lived on this mountainside my whole life. My dad runs cattle up here.”

  “Well, I guess that explains the spurs,” Delaney teased.

  “And the dirty jeans.”

  Delaney glanced up at the sky. “I really need to be getting down the road. Time is passing, and I’m not sure how much farther I have to go. From the directions Mavis gave me, her place should be less than a mile from here.”

  The cowboy’s face blanched. “How set are you on going to that writers’ retreat?”

  “Why, I’m very set.” Delaney tried to hide her bewilderment. What an odd question to ask, she thought.

  “I hate to tell you this, but The Tilted Plume is a whole lot further down the road than a mile. And the road disintegrates not far from here. It will be too rocky for your sports car to handle.”

  “Then how do people manage to get to The Tilted Plume? Or beyond that to Silver City?”

  “In a truck or an all-terrain vehicle with four-wheel drive.” The young man glanced at Delaney’s Mustang. “You might want to turn around and go back home.”

  “But that can’t be …”

  “Just saying.” And with that, the lean cowpoke nodded goodbye. He gathered his dog, got in his pickup, and motored off toward Three Rivers.

  Delaney watched as his brand-new pickup with temporary tags glided slowly down the road in the shadow of the vintage water flume. She hadn’t even gotten his name. But there was one thing for sure; he hadn’t robbed her of her confidence. Then again, Delaney pondered, maybe she should turn around and go home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There had to be a mistake. Delaney studied the map she had set on the passenger seat. According to the document, she had less than one mile to travel before she reached The Tilted Plume. Of course, she reminded herself, maps have been known to contain errors and leave travelers stranded. Or worse yet, dead.

  Delaney’s stubborn
streak kicked in. Going back home without finding the retreat would be unacceptable and extremely embarrassing. Then again, she had to consider her baby.

  “I’ll tell you what, Samuel,” she said, patting her tummy. “Let’s go another half mile up the road. If we don’t find The Tilted Plume by then, we’ll go home and have a quiet weekend to ourselves.” Delaney turned the key in the ignition. Her Mustang responded like a well-trained concierge.

  As she gazed at the bridge with a sense of awe, Delaney eased her prized automobile onto the deck of the Kaweah Bridge. Since she was quite alone, she drove as slowly as possible across its span. On the far side of the bridge, the road began to rise again. Once the Mustang had crested a moderate incline, the asphalt ribbon widened and relaxed into soft curves as it skirted an unexpected summit. Its surface looked newly paved. “I think that cowboy was telling me some kind of bull pucky story,” Delaney informed her son. “This road is just fine.”

  It wasn’t long before Delaney spotted the highway marker for the seventh mile. It poked up from the weedy shoulder like a sweet slab of taffy on a stick. On the right side of the road was a small rustic sign that announced The Tilted Plume.

  If Delaney would have missed the sign, she would have been on her way to Silver City. She shuddered at the thought.

  Delaney slowed to navigate through a heavy steel cattle gate that had been left open. A sturdy chain with a large open padlock dangled from one of the sturdy gate posts. Beyond that was a long gravel driveway.

  “This is it!” Delaney affirmed for her own benefit. Ironically, finding the retreat hadn’t done much to alleviate her anxiety. The cowboy’s blatant lie rattled around in her head like a squirrel on an exercise wheel. There had been nothing wrong with half-mile or so of road that led from the bridge to the writers’ retreat.

  “Well, I’m not going to let that doofus ruin my retreat,” she muttered to herself. “He probably has some issues with Mavis.”