On the Mountain
By Deirdre Riordan Hall
Follow your Bliss Series
Book Five
On the Mountain
Copyright© 2014 Deirdre Riordan Hall
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author/publisher except where permitted by law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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“If you are faced with a mountain, you have several options. You can climb it and cross to the other side. You can go around it. You can dig under it. You can fly over it. You can blow it up. You can ignore it and pretend it’s not there. You can turn around and go back the way you came. Or you can stay on the mountain and make it your home.”
—Vera Nazarian
Part One: Climb
“The mountains are calling and I must go.”
-John Muir
Chapter One
“It’s her again,” Baskia said, winding one long strand of blond hair around her finger, a nervous habit.
“You do realize that if you don’t answer she’ll be knocking on the door before the end of the day,” Mellie warned. “She’s already called three times.”
Baskia didn’t add that she’d been avoiding the conversation with her mom for three days, never mind the last few times the phone jingled.
“It’s better than her not calling at all. She just wants to talk to you.”
Baskia blinded herself in the glow of sunshine coming in through the window, avoiding the delicate topic for her oldest childhood bestie. Baskia’s mother, Anne Benedict, had been best friends with Mellie’s mom, Emily. They were society women who’d raised their daughters to be among the elite—when it came to selecting a college to attend, among other things. When Mellie’s mother passed away after a short battle with cancer, it crushed both the Winthrop and the Benedict family, but none so much as Mellie.
The door slammed. Kate London entered the room, her hair disheveled. She wore a short, metallic skirt and a fitted tank, evidence of the previous night’s party.
“What’s the problem?” she asked without missing a beat.
“Hiya, Kate,” Mellie said with a smile. “Baskia’s mom won’t stop calling.”
Kate, who preferred to go by London, ignored her. She may not have come from money, but her days spent modeling with Baskia gave her a sophisticated, or rather entitled air, that she dispensed generously. London never warmed to Mellie, as likeable as she was, wedging Baskia in the middle of perpetual awkwardness. But Mellie didn’t come around often. It was only in the last month that Baskia returned from one of many long stretches abroad, on modeling jobs in chic cities and tropical locales, which brought her old friend for visits.
London slouched onto the couch and kicked off a pair of ebony high heels.
“Spill,” Baskia said, having skipped the party the night before after promising she’d have brunch with Mellie.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Models, hotties, drink-drink, kiss-kiss.” London yawned.
“Yes, but you left last night around eleven p.m.; it’s eleven a.m...”
Mellie’s eyes widened.
“Don’t worry, I was a good girl,” London said, eyeing Mellie. “Well, not that good.”
“Who’d you hook up with?” Baskia asked.
London tried to hide her grin as she curled her long legs under her. “Remember that guy we did the Valentino spread with?”
“Not Nels?”
“Yes, Nels.”
“You’re crazy.”
“He’s crazy hot,” London said, shrugging.
Baskia didn’t mention that between shots on the Rome set the two of them had “practiced” getting the photo scene just right—a freeze frame of them leaning in close like they were going to kiss—resulting in them actually kissing. Then, the following night she caught him in a VIP room snorting something and making out with another girl. The scene ended in a fight between Nels and the girl’s boyfriend. Typical.
Seeing that side of him told her he was a little too wild for her refined upbringing, not that she was a stranger to the party scene. However, the lines between right and wrong, wine and booze, pills and drugs grew increasingly blurred in the past year. None of it was too crazy for London who claimed the dearly coveted title of “discovered” at a shopping mall, winning her a modeling contract identical to Baskia’s high paying deal.
“We should probably get go—” Mellie started, but the jingle on Baskia’s cell phone interrupted her. “You really should answer it. She’s going to get worried.”
“Whatever. You’re an adult, do what you want,” London countered, sniffing at Mellie. She didn’t look up from her phone as she texted rapidly.
Baskia knew if she let it ring once more, it would go to voicemail, again. She pressed talk.
“Mom, I can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you back this afternoon. I’m going out to brunch with Mellie,” she said in one breath before hanging up. She knew the mention of Mellie’s name would pacify her mother. Although Anne Benedict had been the one to encourage her daughter to go into modeling, she didn’t approve of some of the characters she’d met in the last three years, namely London.
“Well, we should go,” Mellie said.
“Let me grab my purse,” Baskia said, peeling off the couch. Since returning from her last shoot in Buenos Aires and walking in a series of shows, she hadn’t wanted to go anywhere: not to parties, work, and least of all to the lunch and dinner meetings her mother had set up with alums and high-ups from the colleges she’d selected for her daughter. It was summer; she wanted to be on vacation—or something, she just didn’t know what. However, that hadn’t stopped London from persuading her to party, nearly every night. It’s what they did.
When Baskia and Mellie reached the door, London called, “Bring me back something good.”
As the doorman to the building swept them onto the sidewalk, the heat of the late summer morning slapped Baskia in the face, causing her to want to retreat up to the cool apartment her parents owned. “Want to order in?” she asked.
“Listen to you; after you finally got me out of my house, you’re the one who wants to head back in. Nope, we’re going out,” Mellie said cheerfully. The weight of her grief finally showed signs of lifting. Still, she was strained; something pulled at the corners of her eyes and the lilt in her voice.
It wasn’t lost on Baskia that Mellie had sought comfort with her mother, Anne, the young woman and the old, united by the grief they shared. Part of Baskia resented this. Her mother rarely offered her attention unless she had to do something or be somewhere. She was tired of all the have-tos and commitments that were part of the upper-class canon. She even suspected Anne had put Mellie up to the impromptu brunch plans to pester her about her future.
After bypassing the eager crowd by the door and settling into the plush red chair, Baskia suddenly wanted to trade in the formal dining room for a cozy cafe with dim light, a simple plate of eggs and toast or at least all-you-can eat scones, muffins, and other assorted baked goods. Her stomach grumbled; her skimpy eating habits and late nights spent imbibing
crept up on her, leaving her oddly empty.
She perused the menu, but knew she’d order the Chef’s Salad, dressing on the side; she did have a shoot at the end of the week. The couple at the neighboring table ate politely and all Baskia wanted to do was stuff her face. Still, she had an image attached to a lot of money. Keeping herself in top model form was getting exhausting. The rush of late nights and early calls stretched her too thin, leaving her squirrelly with the urge to hibernate. Or maybe she just wanted to escape the impending first semester at college. But which one, stay in NYC, go to Boston like her brother, or hop the sound to Yale?
After the two friends placed their orders, Mellie put her hand on Baskia’s arm. “Listen, I know it’s hard to commit to four years, but it’s only four years. You’ve practically seen the world traveling for modeling and you managed to keep up with your tutoring. Your mom just doesn’t want you to let all that hard work go to waste.”
Baskia bristled; Mellie’s words sounded more and more like Anne had fed them to her. “I just think I’d like to take a year off, a break, to figure out what I want to do.” She didn’t add, or else I feel like I might break. She searched the busy restaurant for a distraction.
“You don’t need to pick your major right away. However, the window is closing. You were accepted into top schools, but if you don’t make a choice soon, not even the strings your parents can pull will hold your spot.”
Baskia shifted in her seat. The subject made her want to squirm right out of her skin and into someone like London’s. She didn’t have a mother dictating what she had to do and when she had to do it. Unless it was on her terms, she didn’t have to be anywhere or do anything.
“I know I’ve been dragging my feet about making a decision about college, but I’m not sure where to go or what to do. What do you really want to do? I mean, you had aspirations to go into film, but you declared you’d study business, just like your father.” Baskia to shift the focus off herself.
“There’s no one else to take over when he retires. My—I was asked to keep it in the family.”
Baskia had been abroad when Emily Winthrop passed away, and she gleaned Emily had asked her daughter to pursue business. But to Baskia that wasn’t honoring a dying woman’s wishes. It sounded like death itself. “There’s no cousin or other relative to take your place? Then you would be able do your own thing.”
“I don’t want to,” Mellie said, looking down at her reflection in the gleaming tableware.
A server refilled their coffee cups.
“The thing is, I don’t know what I want to do. I can’t imagine becoming a lawyer or working in the corporate world.” Baskia felt like her voice sounded weak and frail with uncertainty, like she was a child pleading that she wasn’t ready for her turn.
“You’d still be able to model.”
“It’s not that. It’s just—” But Baskia didn’t know. She was frustrated at not being able to articulate what she felt. A knurled awareness deep inside groaned and nudged, leaving her unsettled, but it didn’t point in a definitive direction, telling her exactly how to arrive at a decision, or suggesting her purpose.
Polished white plates appeared. After the waiter asked if they needed anything else, he disappeared, leaving them in boggy silence.
Baskia enjoyed being with Mellie; her friend was relaxed, despite her intelligence and high standards. She didn’t have to be on, as she so often did, but uncertainty prickled and prodded at her.
“Don’t you ever want more?” Baskia said, picking at the precious portion of lettuce and veggies.
Drawing a deep breath, Mellie looked across the table at her friend.
“You can’t be serious? We have every opportunity imaginable. We’ve gone to exclusive private schools, have rubbed shoulders with senators, royalty, execs of all stripes, you have a high-paying modeling contract, have traveled the world, studied with top tutors, all the colleges you applied to accepted you. You have friends who adore you, a family who—” but Mellie stopped. “You do have more,” she said in a quiet voice.
Mellie’s lidded eyes told Baskia that she’d hit on something painful: losing her mother. But that wasn’t what Baskia had meant at all. In fact, she tried hard to avoid the topic entirely, however somehow it managed to slip into most conversations. What she meant was, less: fewer requirements, lower expectations, and definitely not so many conversations about her future. She wanted to shape it, not hand it over to her mother.
“Just don’t throw it away.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t,” Baskia said with a twinge of irritation.
After brunch, the two exchanged a hug.
“I promise I’ll call my mom later,” Baskia said as they parted. Later was a broad word, she assured herself as she hailed a cab and directed the driver to Saks.
As a model, she was gifted ridiculous amounts of swag in the form of clothing, accessories, and shoes, but when in doubt, disturbed, or in a funk, Baskia let her rectangular plastic card do the soothing. Right then, she needed distance from real life so she didn’t have to think about the present, the future, or the sad state of her childhood best friend, try as she did to hide her ongoing grief.
Baskia eyed a pair of studded Louboutins London was sure to envy. As she slipped one on her foot, she exhaled deeply. The finely crafted heel fit her perfectly. Although there were things she loved and hated about her job as a model, she knew one thing for sure: she was born to wear heels, the higher the better.
As she strode across the marble, tiled floor, she sensed people eyeing her, admiring her long legs, her fluid stride, and the way her blond hair tossed subtly with each step. As she pulled out her credit card, she felt the high she’d been yearning for, that moment of escape.
Back at her building, as Baskia rode the elevator to the penthouse floor, the reality of talking to her mother returned. Her spirits plummeted. She hoped London was awake so she could show her the purchase, talk about the party, and even tolerate listening to London squawk about Nels.
When she entered, only the hum of the climate control greeted her. Baskia walked past London’s closed bedroom door, sighing.
She spent the next half hour perusing her social media, Instagram-ing a photo of the studded white heels, and uprooting half her closet to find the dress she wanted to pair them with to go to the industry party that night. Her focus scattered to a half-finished magazine, a chipped nail polish repair, and incoming texts. Mellie’s words and the notion of responsibility hung over head like a noble, but very heavy crown.
She flopped on her bed and picked up her phone, scrolling to the photo of a woman with chin length blond hair, the exact color of her daughter’s. Anne Benedict’s was professionally colored since going grey, and Baskia’s was natural, even something London admired. Her hazel eyes matched her brother’s, an almost perfect blend of her parents’ green and brown eyes. The siblings also inherited their father’s height, lending to Baskia’s life as a model. The photo on her phone reflected what she’d look like in thirty years, a facsimile of her mom. But in those brown eyes, she wondered if what she saw was happiness.
Anne had graduated from Dartmouth, discarded her aspirations to work in the fine arts, got a job supporting the legal staff at a top firm in Manhattan, and then promptly met William Benedict Jr. becoming a society woman. So, happiness? Baskia observed it came at a cost—her father’s frequent absence provided him with an ample salary allowing Anne to spend like it was her job. But would she have rather become a curator at a museum? Probably. Did she regret opting to work at a law firm instead of an art gallery? Perhaps. What brought happiness, really? Baskia couldn’t even begin to pull the complicated answer apart. She sighed and then pressed call.
“Well, it’s about time,” Anne said by way of greeting.
“Hi to you too.”
“Listen, I’m sorry I sent Mellie to talk to you, but the clock is ticking.”
Baskia’s hunch was correct. Mellie was in the seams with her mom. What happened t
o their friendship? What was happening to Baskia? “I know,” she said, answering to both her assumption and her mother’s comment.
“Please tell me what else you know; where are we sending you to college?”
“I’m not sure.”
“We’ve been going back and forth about this for months. You promised you’d have a decision by the time you returned from South America.” Baskia started to say something, but her mother cut across her. “I knew getting involved in modeling was a mistake. You meet the strangest sorts in that industry.”
“Don’t sound so ignorant.”
“Is that Kate London still staying with you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what you see in her. What do you have to gain from her? I’m sure she’s taking advantage of you. If I find anything missing from that apartment—”
“Don’t worry, you won’t.” Although Kate was a mooch, she wasn’t a thief, unless she counted other people’s boyfriends. Baskia recalled several episodes of cheating that London relayed, but never regretted.
“I’m just saying, girls like her—she’s a bad influence.”
Although Baskia didn’t want to get back on the subject of college, she didn’t want her social life analyzed and criticized. “I thought we were talking about school.”
“Your father is eager to hear what you’ve decided.”
“I’m sure he is,” she said dryly. Although Baskia loved her father, he was just that, a father and not a dad. She wasn’t daddy’s little girl or the daughter he taught how to throw a baseball or a right hook. He was a stoic figure who paid the bills and sat in disapproving silence at the head of the table, when he appeared for meals.
“Baskia, you have your choice, Dartmouth, Harvard, Columbia, or Yale. You must make a decision. They’re not going to hold your place forever, you know. You do realize most prospective students had to make a decision months ago. Not every institution is holding its door open waiting for you. Your brother, he went directly to Harvard, there was no question. As for you—”
On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) Page 1
