She Went All the Way

by Meg Cabot

  “No, you’re not imagining it. Come on.”

  Lou took his arm and began to drag him excitedly through the snow towards the wooden structure that seemed to have risen up, from the gloom, like a specter. It appeared to be, Jack realized, as they got closer, an Aframe, on the smallish side, but with large glass windows on either side of the front door affording those inside what was probably a spectacular view of the mountainside behind them.

  Considering the fact, however, that the snow was now blowing almost perpendicular to the ground, Jack couldn’t imagine that most of the year, the owners of the house would be able to see much at all through those windows. He was unable to tell whether or not there was a road leading up to the house, or even any vehicles parked nearby it, and he was standing almost in front of it. It was all he could do just to keep his eyes open, they were being bombarded so heavily by surprisingly weighty snowflakes.

  He could see, however, that the house had a distinctly deserted look to it. There were no lights on inside. And the snow that lay across the front porch was unbroken by footprints.

  Not for long, however. Lou, letting go of him because he did not seem to be hurrying enough, bolted forward, her computer case banging against her hip. She pressed her face up against the first window she came to.

  “Oh, Jack!” she wailed, cupping her gloved hands around her eyes as she peered inside the house. “Nobody’s home! What are we going to do? Oh, my God, there’s a kitchen, Jack. With a refrigerator. And is that…oh, my God. There’s a bathroom. I see a shower curtain! A bathroom, Jack! A bathroom!”

  Jack ambled up behind her, beginning to realize, now that enough time had passed since their embrace, that his toes, fingers, and ears were half-frozen. Still, he managed to wrap a hand around the doorknob and attempted to turn it….

  “What are you doing?” Lou stepped away from the window and stared at him. “Jack, what are you—we can’t go in if no one’s home. That’s breaking and entering!”

  The knob didn’t budge. Locked. Undoubtedly, Jack thought, this was someone’s summer getaway cottage. It would be abandoned, just like this, until spring, when the snow thawed and the roads once more became accessible.

  He dropped his hand from the doorknob.

  “If you think,” he said, “that I am going to stand out here and freeze when I could be inside there taking a long hot shower, you are going to need to think again. Stay here.”

  And he began to wade painfully through the snow towards the back of the house.

  Lou called after him nervously, “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

  But all he said was, “Stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then he disappeared around the corner of the house.

  That was the last she saw of him for nearly five whole minutes.

  They were the longest five minutes of her life. The wind was so strong now that it seemed to slice right through her. Her ears, she decided, had to be frozen to her head. If she touched them, she feared they’d snap off. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a hat? Sure, she’d have had to suffered the indignity of hat hair. But at least she wouldn’t be losing eighty percent of her body heat through her head, like she was doing now.

  And what was going on with her stomach? The saltines she’d downed for breakfast seemed like a distant dream. For once, she thought she’d be able to achieve that concave belly thing at the beach that other women seemed to be able to pull off so easily.

  And what was with her eyes? They were watering so hard now, thanks to the wind that she could hardly see.

  But she could still think. And what she thought wasn’t about the fact that, if she stood out in the cold like this much longer, they were going to find her, like the Little Match Girl, frozen solid.

  No, what she thought about was Jack Townsend. Jack Townsend, and the way he had kissed her, and made her feel, for the first time in a long time, like something desirable, something actually other than a walking word processor. She had seen an episode of “Star Trek” once in which Captain Kirk and his crew had come across a race of aliens so highly evolved that they no longer needed bodies. They were simply brains, floating around in a glass encasement.

  That was how, since Barry had left, Lou had felt. As if she were a brain, unattached to a body.

  And she hadn’t minded very much, either. It was easier just to be a brain, to be unburdened by want and desire.

  Astonishingly, it was Jack Townsend who had made her feel whole again, who had made her remember that there might actually be a purpose to her having a body other than needing one to house the brain that seemed to be in so much demand since it had spat out Hindenburg. He had, not to put too fine a point on it, made her body sing.

  No wonder she’d freaked out the way she had. It was Jack Townsend who’d made her feel that way. Jack Townsend, who every woman in Hollywood—every woman in America, practically—was after. Lou had had enough of dating a celebrity. She was not about to make a habit of it.

  But oh! How his kiss had made her feel!

  Except that afterwards, he’d wanted to talk about it. As if analyzing just what in the hell had happened back there was going to make it fade from the recesses of her mind. Not very likely. She’d be thinking about that kiss on her deathbed, she was certain.

  It was just like Jack to want to discuss it, however. He was always wanting to discuss his character’s motivations. It made sense he’d want to talk to death his own, as well.

  Well, she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. Besides, that kiss was hers now. He couldn’t take it away with reasoning and rational explanations. It had happened, and she was glad. Glad because it had proved she wasn’t dead inside, as she’d been starting to suspect.

  And glad because he’d gotten it out of the way. It wouldn’t happen again. They’d tried it, it hadn’t worked—she’d taken care of that with that back-flipping maneuver—and now they could go back to the way they’d been before: hating each other’s guts with equanimity. It was done. It was over.

  And then, to her surprise, a light came on inside the house. She didn’t need to cup her hands over her eyes to see Jack through the plate glass window beside her, navigating the living room furniture. She stared, and was still staring when he unlocked the door and opened it to her.

  “Oh, hi,” he said with his best smile, the one he generally reserved for the press. “You’re right on time. Won’t you come in?”

  Lou continued to stare. “B-but how?…” she stammered. “What…?”

  “Basement door wasn’t locked,” Jack explained, dropping the smile. “People generally don’t lock the basement doors to their summer homes. I know we never did.”

  And then he was pulling her inside.

  Lou just had time to think, Oh, my God. I lied. It is so not over, before he closed the door behind her.

  17

  It was a hunting cabin, not a summer house.

  Lou was able to make this distinction almost at once by the number of weapons in the house—.30-.30s on the wall, along with numerous stuffed heads—and the plethora of frozen venison in the freezer. There was also a dearth of summer clothing in the single bedroom’s closet. All she found were flannel shirts, long johns, jeans, and a stockpile of wool socks.

  That fact, coupled with the apparent lack of a telephone, television, or radio—at least, their first frantic search had turned up none—caused Lou to deduce that she was the cabin’s first female visitor. Its owner—whose name, they discovered, from a crumpled American Express bill they found in a drawer, was Donald R. Williams—was either single or married to a woman who was not fond enough of the great outdoors to accompany her husband on his hunting trips, as there was not so much as a nail file anywhere in the house.

  From the looks of the fridge’s contents—which had all expired a month earlier—Donald had not been to his cabin in weeks. Lou hoped he did not mind their appropriating it for the time being…though she could not say she cared very deeply what Donald thought. She was wa
rm, and that’s all that mattered. Warm and clean, thanks to the shower, which, after Jack had fiddled around in the basement, had proved to have a plentiful supply of hot water. Lou had not spent as long as she would have liked under that showerhead, conscious that she’d have to save some of the deliciously hot water, anyway, for Jack.

  Still, the few precious moments she’d taken to wash and condition her hair—more proof it was a man-only habitat: the shampoo in the shower had been the kind with the built-in conditioner—were amongst the most glorious she could remember….

  Outside of that kiss Jack had given her, of course.

  But she was determined not to think about that anymore. Emerging from the shower, delightfully scalded from her scalp to the soles of her feet, Lou put on one of the flannel shirts she’d stolen from the bedroom closet—nothing would induce her back into the clothes she’d had on for the past forty-eight hours straight—coupled with a pair of men’s long johns, which, if they weren’t exactly stylish, were at least warm and clean.

  And since she was determined that whatever had happened out there between her and Jack had just been a fluke—and that if it had been anything more, needed to be discouraged immediately—she did not bother with makeup, but emerged from the bathroom in her borrowed clothes with a towel wrapped around her head.

  “Hey,” she said to Jack, who had just lit a fire in the living room’s massive stone hearth. “Shower’s yours.”

  “Thanks,” he said, turning to look at her….

  …and dropping a lit match onto the wood floor.

  “Jeez,” Lou said, as he slapped out the resulting flame. “It’s bad enough that we broke into the guy’s house. Do you have to burn it down, too?”

  Jack’s glance was sour. “Funny,” he said. “Listen, I got two steaks defrosting in the microwave. If the timer goes off while I’m in the shower, and they seem like they’re done, rub ’em with a little of that vegetable oil I found, then put ’em in that pan I’ve got sitting out, and start a flame under them. Got it?”

  Lou blinked at him. She couldn’t help it. He’d taken his coat off, and in the firelight, the lines of his body were perfectly evident beneath the cashmere of his sweater and form-fitting denim of his jeans.

  Even unshowered, with two days’ growth of beard on his chin, the guy looked good. What else could she say?

  “You can cook?” was all she managed to get out, however, and even that sounded pitifully lame.

  “Of course I can cook,” Jack said, walking around the rattan couch towards the bathroom. “Can’t you?”

  “Um,” Lou said, suddenly feeling as if the towel over her wet hair might have been overkill. “Sure. Sure, I can.”

  “Well, good,” Jack said. “Throw those steaks on when they’re ready.”

  Then he disappeared into the bathroom. Lou, though she was standing a good ten feet from the fire, felt as if she might expire from a sudden wave of heat that passed over her body. She reached up to unwind the towel from her hair, thinking her cold wet curls might soothe her suddenly feverish cheeks.

  “Oh,” Jack said, popping his head out from behind the bathroom door. “I found a bottle of wine in the basement. It’s breathing on the counter. Pour out a couple glasses, will you? Unless,” he added, with what she could only call mischievousness, “wine’s gonna knock you out like that scotch did last night.”

  He closed the door on Lou’s aggrieved expression, as she did not appreciate the reminder.

  Alone in the living room, Lou draped the towel that had covered her hair over the back of one of the many chairs that were arranged around the big dining table just off the open kitchen. The cabin was basically made up of a single big room, what she supposed people were calling “great” rooms these days, though she highly doubted that’s how the owner of this one referred to it. The furniture was comfortable and sturdy, but hardly the height of decorating chic. At least the kitchen was equipped with all the modern conveniences…with the exception of a phone.

  Still, Lou was determined to make the best of her situation. At least she was warm and, for the moment anyway, safe. Outside, another blizzard was apparently upon them. She could hear the wind—she certainly hoped it was the wind, anyway—howling, and she could see the snow, reflected in the lamplight from the living room, coming down hard and fast against the black night sky.

  But she was warm, and she was clean, and she was about to be fed—if it was true Jack could cook. What more could a girl ask?

  Um, well. Some dignity might be good.

  Lou was pretty much convinced that, after that display out there in the snow, she had none left. Dignity, that is. She had kissed that man with as much abandon as…well, a groupie. Really. No wonder he wanted to “talk.” He probably wanted to remind her that they were both coming out of failed relationships, and that it probably wouldn’t be “wise” to rush into anything right now. As if she’d ever even consider dating Jack “I’m not ready to settle down yet” Townsend. No way. Not more actors for her, thanks. If she ever got into another relationship again, it was going to be with someone who had a normal career. Like a cop. Or a CPA.

  The microwave beeped. Lou opened the door and poked the steaks she found inside. They were no longer frozen. She pulled them out and rubbed them with olive oil, as Jack had instructed, then put them into the waiting skillet, and turned on the heat. As she watched the oil begin to sizzle, her mouth started to water. That was when she spied the wine bottle.

  Barry was the one who’d made an effort to educate himself about wine. He’d tried to impress upon her the difference between a merlot and a montepulciano. Lou could never be bothered really to pay attention. She’d always had more important things to figure out, like how to bring her characters together in the third act without the dialogue sounding unconvincing. She wondered if Greta was a wine aficionado, and if that was something she and Barry had in common.

  After an inspection of the refrigerator—mostly empty—and pantry—ditto—proved unsuccessful by way of providing something to eat until the steaks were done, Lou poured herself a glass of wine. Just one, she told herself, wouldn’t hurt. Besides, she was able to handle beer and wine just fine. It was the hard stuff that did her in.

  Taking her wine glass, she sat down on a counter stool to watch the steaks, thinking, as she did so, that if some-one—Vicky, for instance—had told her that she might, one night, be making venison steak in someone’s borrowed clothes, with wet hair and no makeup, while Jack Townsend was in the next room, showering, Lou would never have believed it. These kinds of things simply did not happen. Not to Lou. These kinds of things happened to other people, and Lou wrote about it. That is what Lou had done, for almost her entire life: recorded her observations about the lives—sometimes invented by herself—of others. She herself did not lead a life worth recording.

  At least, not up until recently.

  Suddenly, however, things had gotten very complicated in the life of Lou Calabrese.

  The wine was rich and full-bodied. Lou knew enough about wine to know that. It felt delicious in her mouth, smooth on her tongue. She was warm already, from the shower and then the way Jack Townsend—what had he been thinking, anyway?—had looked at her right afterwards.

  But now she was warmer than ever, with a few swallows of wine in her empty stomach.

  Then the shower switched off, and a few seconds later, Jack came out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel slung low across his hips.

  And Lou could not help thinking that, even with as many times as she had seen him in even less clothes—and that was just about in every movie she’d ever written in which he had starred—it was still a good thing she’d swallowed just before he’d emerged, or she might have spat wine across the room, the sight of him set her heart slamming so hard against her rib cage.

  “How are those steaks?” Jack asked.

  “Fine,” Lou replied, unable to meet his gaze.

  “Great,” he said. “I’ll be out in a minute to f
inish them up.”

  Lou nodded, and mercifully, he went away…hopefully to put some clothes on in the bedroom. She was probably, she reflected, the only woman in America who, upon encountering a half-naked Jack Townsend, actually would have preferred to see him with some clothes on.

  That was because she was probably the only woman in America to whom the idea of having her heart broken by Jack Townsend was not an appealing one.

  Whether Jack had heard her unspoken plea, she didn’t know, but when he came from the bedroom a few minutes later, he was fully clothed…after a fashion. He too had formed an apparent aversion to his own clothes, and had donned, as she had, one of the hunter’s flannel shirts. Only instead of selecting long johns as his choice for legwear, he had on a pair of the homeowner’s jeans. Lou could not help noticing that both the shirt and the jeans were just a tad too snug.

  “All right,” Jack said, coming up to the stove and turning the steaks—the aroma of which were causing Lou to feel slightly lightheaded…unless, of course, that was due to the wine. Or possibly the man pouring it. “What else have we got? Man cannot survive on venison alone.”

  He pulled open the freezer, giving Lou a long and leisurely view of just how snugly the borrowed jeans conformed to the famous Townsend posterior.

  “Eureka,” he said, pulling an ice-encrusted object from the depths of the freezer. “Creamed spinach. Perfect. We couldn’t ask for better at Peter Luger.”

  Then he was ripping the packaging off the frozen creamed spinach and shoving it into the microwave.

  Lou, whose knowledge of the culinary arts extended to toast and the occasional egg sandwich, said, in a voice that sounded strangely unlike her own, it was so faint and polite, “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “Oh, sure,” Jack said, turning the steaks over with a fork he’d dug out of a drawer. “I had to learn to fend for myself in the kitchen at an early age. I was a picky eater as a kid, and if I wouldn’t eat what Cook was serving….” Heshrugged. “Well, house rules were, if you didn’t like what Cook was serving, you cooked what you wanted for yourself. So, yeah, I learned to cook.”