The Sweet Spot

by Heather Heyford

  “I let him know who’s boss,” she said, stroking the gray’s neck.

  “Ready to show me your skills?”

  Jamie blushed. “Skills?”

  “Riding skills I heard so much about. Want to race?”

  Her eyes flew to the horizon line, scoping the distance. “I’m not very familiar with the terrain.”

  “Just stay on this road till you get to that stand of firs.” Hank indicated the spot with his chin.

  As if understanding Hank’s words, Dancer lifted his head a fraction.

  “In that case . . .” At the lightest touch of her heel, Dancer sprang forward.

  “Hey!” came Hank’s yell from behind her. “I didn’t say go!”

  “Ride it like you stole it!” hollered Lewis from the Jeep when Jamie thundered past him.

  Dancer’s hooves thrummed against the hard-packed earth, gaining momentum with every stride. Jamie thrilled to the feeling of flying down the valley toward the distant trees. The rush of speed and the wind whipping her hair made her giddy. She heard pounding behind her and from the corner of her eye saw Hank’s quarter horse gaining on her. For a second they rode neck and neck. Then Jamie asked Dancer for more speed and he willingly, thrillingly obliged.

  “I won,” she said, laughing as Hank’s horse trotted up to her.

  * * *

  “Closest thing there is to flying,” Hank said. The rumors were true. Jamie Martel could ride. “What did you say you rode in Pennsylvania?”

  “Arabians, just like Dancer. But they’re gone now.” She felt her smile fade. “A couple died of old age, the rest we had to sell with the sale of the farm.”

  “Shame. Tell me more about your work. You’ve got a great singing voice, but then, I bet you get told that all the time.”

  “Singing’s fun, but teaching’s what pays the bills.”

  “Do you like it?”

  That brought her smile back. “I love the kids. Unlike the regular classroom teachers who have a set number of students, I teach the whole school. They cycle through a class at a time, once a week. Music is a bright spot in their week. They’re always happy to come.”

  With her as their teacher? I’ll bet.

  “Everybody loves to sing. You should hear them at the holiday concerts, after they’ve been practicing for months! They make me so proud.”

  With some effort, he tore his gaze off the easy roll of Jamie’s hips with the rhythm of her horse’s gait.

  “How long have you been teaching?”

  “Three years. In my part of the city, teaching, even at a gifted school like mine, can be . . . complicated. Most families, if they can afford it, send their kids to private or parochial schools. It’s only the poorest who go to public. Lots of them are being raised by a grandmother, or an aunt, or in foster homes. A few are even homeless from time to time. Sometimes they get so clingy I have to pry them off, which goes against all my instincts. But we’re not supposed to hug.” She winced. “Lawsuits, you know. There’s one I still lose sleep over. Jasmine, a second-grader. One Monday morning she kept falling asleep at her desk. Her mom had gone off with her boyfriend for the weekend, leaving Jasmine to watch her three-year-old brother and new baby sister. When I asked her if she’d been afraid, she said, No, my mom gave me a big knife in case anyone tried to hurt us.”

  When Hank found his voice again, he asked, “What happened to her?”

  Jamie shrugged. “The next school year, she was gone. Moved to who-knows-where.”

  “What keeps you going?”

  She smiled again. “Like I said. I care about the kids.”

  Hank gazed out at the rugged horizon without seeing it. Jamie’s job back East made his problems running the vineyard seem trivial in comparison.

  But now the other riders were catching up with them.

  Hank turned in his saddle. “Okay, everyone. See that rock formation?” He pointed through the trees to what looked like an unimpressive rock formation off in the distance, where the Jeep now sat waiting.

  “I know what you’re thinking. That little outcropping hardly seems worth climbing when you compare it to Mt. Hood in the distance. Trust me, once we get up close, you’ll change your minds.”

  As the riders drew nearer, the rocks seemed to grow, until they had to tilt their heads back to see the top.

  Hank paired them off. You could barely drive a wedge between the newlyweds, so that was that. Lewis had already claimed Cole. That left Jamie with him.

  Lewis placed a crash pad at intervals along the base of the rocks for each pair of climbers, and demonstrated some basic techniques.

  Hank offered to let Jamie climb first, while he spotted.

  * * *

  At first glance upward, the crag looked vertical in places, but Hank pointed out chalky spots, previously established handholds she could grab on to.

  Jamie lifted her trembling leg up to the first foothold. She scouted out a niche for her other foot, and she was now up off the ground, her flesh pressed against the unyielding stone.

  She clung to that first jug for a full minute, searching for her center of gravity, before she found a sloper within her reach.

  “Feel for it,” Hank instructed. “Sometimes what looks like the obvious solution won’t be. You have to stretch. Use new muscles you’re not used to using.”

  Gingerly, she slid her palm across the sun-warmed stone, seeking any small protrusion she could grasp onto. Finding one, she placed her feet on the jugs where her hands had originally been, halted, concentrating, and looked above her again for new handholds. Climbing was hard work. Already she was winded. The muscles in her hips and thighs were beginning to ache with the strain of fighting against gravity, keeping her body plastered onto the rock. She tried again to focus, but her arms were shaking with the effort needed just to hold her body weight against the rock.

  As Jamie tacked doggedly left and right on her ascent, Hank remained grounded beneath her, arms out, thumbs tucked in to prevent snapping them in case she fell and he had to catch her.

  “Spotters,” called Lewis. “Don’t take your eyes off your climber’s back. It’s the best indicator of when they’re in danger of falling.”

  There had never been an easier job. Jamie’s engaged lats stretched taut the fabric of her thin cotton knit T-shirt. For a solid half hour, Hank’s eyes were fixated on her anatomy, permanently imprinting it on the back of his retinas. There was her wingspan extending from her spine, across her shoulder blades, over the rounded small hills of her shoulders, to her contracted biceps. And the hourglass of her waist, exaggerated by her spread-eagle pose on the rock. He could see the tight half spheres of her glutes through the featherlight fabric of her pants.

  * * *

  Everything on Jamie’s body hurt, even her hair. But she was determined not to give up. She pushed on, buoyed a little more with every inch closer to the top.

  It was a lot like horseback riding, she realized. You had to let your body become one with the rock. To find that combination of effort and effortlessness.

  Gradually she slipped into an alternate state of consciousness. She stopped listening to the others—stopped thinking at all—and let her instincts take over.

  Toward the top of the wall, she found more handholds, or maybe she’d just learned to recognize them better. She’d forgotten the people far below, who were gazing skyward, pulling for her.

  And then she was scrabbling across the top of the rock on her knees.

  She stood up, panting, planted her hands on her hips, and looked out on acres upon acres of vineyards.

  It was hard, she thought, but it was worth it. She wiped her brow and grinned.

  Far below she heard Lewis say, “Dude! She freakin’ flashed it!” and high-fived Hank.

  She looked down to see everyone else at the bottom, looking up. Even from here she could see Hank’s grin.

  “Your first try, and you made it!” hollered Hank. “Take a minute and catch your breath.”

  Why w
as he worried about her breath? She was finished.

  And then she looked down again and realized: She’d only thought about climbing up. Now, she had to get down.

  Her smile evaporated. Streaks of perspiration trickled down the nape of her neck between her shoulder blades. Locks of hair stuck to her chest. She reached back and fixed her ponytail.

  Then she turned to see the view behind her and saw the sheer drop-off. She gasped, froze, and stepped backward, her foot bending in half over the edge of the rock. She teetered and spread her arms for balance.

  “Lower your center of gravity,” yelled Lewis, cupping his mouth.

  “He means sit down,” Hank translated.

  She sank to her haunches. “How do I get down?” she yelled back, trying not to cry.

  “Trust me,” said Hank. “I’ve got your back.” Her eyes met his steady ones, but fear paralyzed her. She couldn’t believe she had never thought past climbing up.

  But then, wasn’t climbing all she’d ever done? After all, what was college, but a climb? What was learning her craft but getting to the point where her music moved listeners? What else was becoming a competent teacher?

  What other choice had she had? Did she have, now?

  “Jamie. Just listen to what I tell you. I’m going to talk you down.”

  She took a deep breath. She could hardly stay up there forever.

  And then she turned around to face the rock and tentatively, oh so tentatively, lowered her foot, feeling for a foothold. With nothing else to cling to but the rock and his instructions, Hank’s voice became her world. She felt oddly disassociated from her body, as if coming out of a dream. Try too hard to capture it, and it evaporates. She only knew that he was the way, the only way, to the ground and security.

  * * *

  Hank rubbed sweaty palms against his pants as he talked Jamie down from the rock. It was one of those rare Oregon summer days when the air felt like a sauna. He could see the heat radiating off the rocks.

  He had spotted a hundred new climbers over the years. And yet he’d never been so anxious about one. He had the insane urge to take Jamie into his arms as soon she was again within reach . . . to hold her tight and never let go.

  She was a quarter of the way down now. Her initial adrenaline rush would have long since faded, leaving her weak.

  “Halfway home,” he called. It was a miracle how steady his voice sounded, given how rattled he was inside.

  She stumbled, and beside him, Amanda gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

  “Fifteen feet. Hang in. You’re almost there.” Hank moved in closer. The coast was far from clear. He could see her triceps tremble with the effort of trying to stay plastered to the rock.

  Six feet to go.

  Then Jamie’s foot slid, and she fell backward off the rocks into Hank’s outstretched arms.

  The crash pad did its job of cushioning the brunt of their fall. But momentum kept Jamie going, rolling them over a couple of times onto the hard ground. They came to a halt with Jamie straddling him on her hands and knees, his hands planted on her damp ribcage.

  With every breath she took he felt the exhilarating rise and fall of her chest beneath his hands. Time stopped. Eye to eye, their world closed in tight, the only sound their breath rushing in and of their lungs, the only smell, that of triumph over defeat.

  Lewis was already dragging the crash pad over. “Here,” he said. “Roll onto this.”

  Gingerly, Hank rolled Jamie over onto her back, scanning her body for blood or swelling. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  Dazed, Jamie came slowly to a sitting position and examined the bloody nicks on her hands. The tips of her fingernails were torn ragged, and her palms were still white from the chalk.

  She blinked. “I don’t think so.”

  He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  She smiled and attempted to stand on wobbly legs. Hank rose with her, steadying her with a hand on her elbow, reluctant to let go.

  She swayed a little bit. “Whoa.”

  “Dude, that was sick,” drawled Lewis in admiration.

  Amanda, who, along with the other first-time climbers had failed to reach the summit, rushed over and asked if she was okay.

  Jamie smiled gamely despite her scrapes and what would no doubt be bruises tomorrow. “That kicked my butt. It was hard physically. But it was a lot harder, mentally.”

  The rest of the climbers followed Lewis to the Jeep, but Hank held Jamie back a few steps.

  “Sure you’re all right?”

  “Honest, I’m fine. Lord knows, I didn’t have any nails to begin with, from playing instruments.” She chuckled, showing him the tops of her brush-burned hands with their long, tapered fingers.

  They caught up with the others preparing to picnic on the ground. While they ate, Cole wanted to rehash his own climb with Hank.

  Lewis took advantage of Hank’s distraction to sidle up next to Jamie.

  Hank could barely keep his attention on Cole over straining to hear what Lewis was up to.

  “Dude, for a girl, that was damn good. Not that I’m sexist or anything,” he hastened to add. “But guys have a lot more upper body strength.” He flexed his carved bicep as if to prove it. “It’s rare as hell to solve the problem on the first time out.”

  Jamie wouldn’t be the first Sweet Spot guest Lewis put the moves on. Rock or woman, what drove Lewis was the conquest. Once he’d triumphed over them he promptly lost interest and moved on in search of the next adventure.

  Hank got up, tossed his sandwich into the woods for a squirrel or a raccoon to feast on, and disappeared behind the Jeep.

  How Jamie chose to handle Lewis was none of his business. But he didn’t have to sit there and watch.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ellie insisted that Jamie eat her meals in the kitchen. She claimed it was because Jamie was an employee and didn’t have a place of her own to go home to at the end of the day. But Hank suspected it was more because Ellie had taken an instant liking to her.

  “Mr. Rawlings can’t have gluten and Mrs. Fara-belli is allergic to eggs.” Ellie sighed, skimming over the special requests of the current crop of guests.

  “It must be hard keeping up with so many different dietary needs,” said Jamie, on her way to the fridge carrying her mug of coffee.

  “All in a day’s work,” said Ellie. “Did you bring boots with you?”

  Jamie stopped pouring milk into her coffee and followed Ellie’s eyes downward to her feet. “I had a good pair of riding boots in high school, but they’re long gone. I meant to buy a new pair before I came out here, but time got away from me.”

  “You need boots,” said Ellie matter-of-factly, returning her attention to her laptop. “Why don’t you take her to Walker’s tomorrow when you go to the wine fest, Hank? She’ll like the festival. And while you’re there you can show her where the market and the post office are, in case I ever need her to dash into town for something.”

  The first time Ellie brought up taking Jamie to the wine fest, he’d chafed at the idea. Now it didn’t seem so bad. After all, his resident friends weren’t going anywhere, but Jamie would only be here for a while.

  “That work for you?” he asked her.

  “A heel to put in the stirrups would be better than these. And yes, I’d love to go to the wine fest.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Hank was in the great room waiting for Jamie when a woman descended the stairs wearing a flouncy white skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse embroidered in bright colors. Flame-colored hair fell forward over her shoulders. Her skin was newly bronzed, cheeks rosy from riding and giving tours through the vineyards.

  “Jamie?”

  Her smile faded. She spun in a circle, making her skirt swing. “Is this okay to wear to a wine fest?”

  “Er, yeah. It’ll do.”

  On their way to town, Hank pointed out some of the local landmarks. Friends Church with the white spire. His old e
lementary school with the flag out front.

  The early summer rains had been beneficial for flowers. As they neared the residential neighborhoods, gardens spilled out onto sidewalks, and front yards boasted roses as big as saucers.

  He parked in a spot along Main Street from where they could walk to Walker’s Wild Western Wear.

  The entire store was stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes of boots of every kind.

  * * *

  “This is overwhelming,” Jamie said, fingering the boxes as she wandered down an aisle, Hank trailing behind her.

  “I got every pair of boots I’ve ever owned at this place,” he said.

  “Do you think they have any English style? Something I’ll get some use out of when I go back home?”

  “You’re not in Pennsylvania anymore. Why not go with something different? A souvenir to remember your vacation by. Like these Noconas. Or over here, these Luccheses.”

  “I don’t know one of these brands from the next.”

  “What size are you?”

  He pulled a box from the middle of a stack and with his foot, dragged a couple of benches to face each other. “Have a seat.”

  Jamie sat down and reached to unfasten the buckles on her strappy sandals, but Hank stilled her hands with his.

  “Let me.”

  He slid his left hand down the back of her calf and caught her ankle, laying it across his blue-jeaned thigh.

  Jamie watched as Hank’s thick fingers carefully unfastened the tiny, delicate buckles, allowing them to fall open one by one. He cupped her heel, slipped off her sandal, and eased the first, sturdy boot onto her foot.

  “Stand up,” he ordered in a voice that sounded different. Softer, yet somehow gruffer.

  When she did as he said, his eyes slid lazily from her toes upward, past her knees, over her shoulders, bared by her peasant top, and on up to meet her eyes. “How’s that feel?”

  She wiggled her foot and winced. “Tight.”

  “Let’s try the next size up.”

  She sat down and raised her knee to pull off the boot.

  But Hank was already there, positioning her leg straight out between his, firmly pulling the boot off.

  They repeated the routine twice more without success.