Blue Midnight (Blue Mountain Book 1)

by Tess Thompson

  I lay there in the bed for a moment, letting the terror of the dream subside. My girls. My babies. What were they doing just now? I rolled to my side, hugging Belinda Bear until the dream faded.

  I looked at the clock on my phone. It was nearing seven in the evening. Still groggy, I went to the window and drew back the curtain. Blue Mountain greeted me. Again, it felt large and close. The shades of color in the evening light ranged from blue to purple to green, depending on their relation to the sun. My stomach growled. I would need to go out for dinner. Alone. How long had it been since I dined alone at a restaurant? I couldn’t remember.

  I took a shower, applied a new layer of the makeup Bliss bought me, and dressed in a purple cotton skirt and white blouse. Setting Belinda Bear on the desk so she could look at the view, I then headed downstairs. Moonstone was in the sitting room area, drinking something that smelled of mint. A tray of stale-looking pastries sat on the coffee table.

  “Hello, Love. Care for some tea?” She sat up and set her cup near the tray. “Or something to eat? I always put a little tea out around five but I might be able to scrounge up a cracker or two. You’ve missed the other guests.”

  “I fell asleep.” Why I felt the need to tell her that I couldn’t tell you.

  “Excellent.”

  “I’m thinking of going out for dinner. Any suggestions?”

  She looked at me for a moment before closing her eyes. Her face twitched as if in reaction to instructions from an unseen taskmaster. “Yes, I see.” She opened her eyes and set her gaze on me. “I believe the answers you’re looking for are at the Peregrine Bar and Grill. It’s right in the middle of town. Decent food. Strong drinks. You can walk without any trouble.”

  I thanked her and turned to go, disturbed that she seemed to be talking to people I couldn’t see. My mother would have loved this. These two crazy old women would love one another. I bade her goodnight and set out down the street.

  The Peregrine Bar and Grill was located in one of the brick buildings in the center of the main street. A neon sign flashed “Open” in the window. An easel on the sidewalk advertised in neon pink and green chalk: “Cold Beer. Best grub in town. Come on in.” A middle-aged couple came out as I went in, nodding their heads in greeting. The décor was what I thought of as the quintessential small town bar, all dark wood and dimmed lights, smelling of beer and humanity. An older man sat at the very end of the bar, and a group of women dined in the restaurant area. A sign said, “Please seat yourself.” I hesitated before deciding to sit at the bar. Why not? I could sit wherever I wanted. I didn’t have to worry about whether or not the menu had chicken strips and fries. Something crunched under my sandals; peanut shells covered the floor. Country music drifted out from the overhead speakers.

  Round stools, covered in red vinyl, lined the bar. I slid onto one, holding the front of my skirt so it didn’t slide too high. Resting my feet on the metal rod under the bar, I reached for a drink menu propped next to the salt, pepper, and ketchup. Since I’d walked and had no responsibilities, I contemplated a martini as the bartender showed up, handing me a food menu. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties. Tattoos ran up both arms, and his facial skin appeared rough and chapped, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He probably skied in the winter and fished in the summer. Living in Idaho, one could do both.

  “What do you recommend?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Depends on what you like.”

  “I like a lot of things.” The room was warm; I tugged my skirt off my damp thighs.

  He looked at me, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Let me guess. You’re from Seattle and want a salad.”

  I smiled. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Kinda.” He returned my smile. “We have a great spinach salad. I could put some chicken on it.”

  “Great.”

  “Drink?”

  “A vodka martini. Slightly dirty.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t see that one coming.”

  “Ah, well, normally it’s white wine but I’m on vacation.”

  “Okay, I feel better then. Thought I was losing my touch.” He studied me for a moment. “I would have guessed a microbrew. Maybe an IPA?”

  I chuckled. “You think I’m bitter instead of dirty?”

  He put his hands in the air. “I’d never say that. You just look like someone more fun than white wine.”

  “Well, I used to be. Last time I was in Idaho, as a matter of fact.” I thought for a moment. It was true. I used to drink beer. “But then I decided buttoning my jeans was more important than a good IPA.”

  He grinned. “That was your first mistake.” He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top shelf behind him and poured a generous amount into a silver shaker, along with a bit of vermouth, a teaspoon of olive juice, and ice. After shaking it and pouring it into a martini glass, he stabbed two olives and placed them on the edge of the glass.

  I took a sip. “Perfection.”

  “I’m Jackson,” he said. “Welcome to Peregrine, Idaho.”

  “I’m Blythe.” I paused before saying my last name. My married name had been Blythe Graham for thirteen years but I’d gone back to my maiden name when the divorce was final. I still stumbled during introductions, my married name almost slipping from my tongue. I was once again Blythe Heywood. “My new, old name,” I’d said to my sister when I changed it officially. Now, I shook Jackson’s rough and large hand. “Blythe Heywood.”

  “You staying at the B&B?”

  “Yeah. With Moonstone.” I tried to keep my face neutral but unfortunately my opinion of Moonstone must have been obvious, because he grimaced and then laughed.

  “Ah, yes, Moonstone. But hey, she might really be a witch. I think she put a curse on my buddy last winter. He went out with her a few times until he figured out how truly freaky she is. Two days after he broke it off, boom, he fell on the slopes and broke his leg. I’m not kidding.”

  “I guess I better not get on her bad side, then.”

  “What’re you doing out here? Usually folks stay in Sun Valley if they’re out this way.”

  I shrugged. “Long story.”

  He gestured around the empty bar. “I got nothing but time.”

  Instead of responding, I decided to ask him a few questions, hoping I could get some information about Finn in a subtle way. “You grow up here?”

  “Boise. But I live here now. I’m what you call a ski bum. Or a dropout, according to my dad.”

  “Well, that’s the kind of things parents say.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been here two years now. Thought I’d just stay for one ski season but, well, one led to two, which will most likely turn to three. I’m happy here.” He reached under the bar and pulled out a small cutting board, a knife, and several limes. “We have a margarita special later tonight. And karaoke. It’ll be packed.”

  “I’ll be sure to be in bed by then.” I popped one of the olives in my mouth. I felt lighter; the booze taking over.

  “What’re you doing here? For real.” The scent of fresh lime juice filled the air.

  I surprised myself when I told him the truth. The martini, working its evil magic, took possession of my faculties. “I’m looking for someone.”

  He grinned again. “I knew it. No one comes here without a reason. What’s his name?”

  “How did you know it was a man?”

  “I once drove to North Dakota in a car with 150,000 miles on it in the middle of January to see a girl I loved. This is what we do.”

  “I knew him a long time ago. We’ve lost touch, obviously. His name’s Finn Lanigan. You ever heard of him?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t say I have. He doesn’t come in here or I would recognize the name. Ask around in town tomorrow. Maybe try the coffee shop. Bethany knows everyone.”

  “Bethany?”

  “She’s the owner. Lived here all her life.”

  Just then several patrons came in and sat at the other end of the bar, keeping
Jackson busy for a few moments. A girl with bleached blond hair and inch-long dark roots brought my salad. I munched on it, thinking of my girls, wondering what they were doing at this very moment. Most likely, they were swimming in the hotel’s pool. Was Clementine going down the water slides or would she be too scared to go without me? The last time we’d been to a resort, I’d spent a good portion of the days with Clemmie in the pool.

  Vacation with children, although wonderful, was not relaxing. I always felt as if I needed a vacation upon our return. Taking care of children was relentless. One could not relax because the children always needed you. Even when they were away, a mother could not stop worrying over them. This was the blessing of motherhood and the curse.

  By the time I’d finished the salad and martini, the place had filled to half-capacity. Everyone called Jackson by his first name when they came in and he greeted the same in return. This is a small town, I thought. Everyone knows one another. There was no way that Finn lived here and Jackson didn’t know him. I felt ridiculous, just thinking about it. What was I doing here? Why had I let bossy Bliss talk me into this? Perhaps I remembered the name of Finn’s town wrong all these years later. Maybe I was in the wrong place.

  I moved my empty glass in a circle. Whatever brought me here wasn’t really the point. It was good to be away from home, seeing new things, meeting new people. Already I’d met Moonstone and Jackson, I thought, smiling to myself. This was going to be a week of adventure. I remembered my camera back in my room. Maybe tomorrow I’d take it out, shoot some scenery. Jackson could probably tell me some good places to go.

  Jackson winked at me as he lined up four margaritas on the bar. “The locals love their cheap margaritas and karaoke.” He grinned. “You know you want one.”

  The thought of going back to my room so early in the evening gave me a hollow feeling. “No on the tequila but make me another martini. I’m on vacation.”

  “That a girl.”

  I slipped away to use the restroom. When I returned, a fresh martini waited for me on the counter. The bar portion of the restaurant was full by then except for the seat next to mine. I sat and reached for my drink just as I felt someone brush my side as he took the empty seat. Gliding my gaze sideways, I caught a glimpse of jeans and a silver belt buckle that shone in the candlelight. My gaze traveled the length of his legs; the muscles of his thighs stretched against the fabric of his jeans. He wore sandals, or, more precisely brown flip-flops. Flip-flops? Surely the owner of the muscled legs wasn’t really wearing flip-flops? I looked into my martini glass and took a sip. Next to me, I heard the man ask Jackson for a Guinness and a cheeseburger. He didn’t call him by his first name. This was not a regular, I surmised. Maybe he was a visitor like me?

  Jackson poured the creamy brown beer from the tap and scooted it toward him. The man wrapped his hand around the glass. He lifted it up and out of my vision. I had a Guinness when I took the girls for burgers at one of our local eateries sometimes. Clementine said the top of a Guinness looked like snow. Again, the sharp pang came to my chest.

  Focus on something else, I ordered myself. Concentrate on the man next to you.

  I was a bossy little thing tonight. If only I was a better listener. The drinks were making me loose and easily entertained by my own thoughts. I flicked my gaze to the man’s hands: rough and dry, with nicks and short, trimmed fingernails, like someone who worked with his hands outside on a regular basis. He brought the Guinness up to his mouth; I caught a whiff of his cologne. He smelled delicious—spicy and woodsy, the scent of a man.

  I took another sip of my martini. How long had it been since I’d noticed the scent of a man? Before my marriage? Finn? Had I noticed Michael’s scent before we started dating? I couldn’t remember.

  My mind tumbled from that thought to the next. What did this wonderfully smelling man look like? Dare I shift my eyes to look? It would be a disappointment, I was sure of that. He was probably young. Very few men my age had thighs like that. And his feet were tanned, and nice, for feet. Yes, he was probably thirty or maybe even as young as my new best friend, Jackson. I took another sip of vodka courage and darted my eyes, finally, to the man’s face. As quickly as I looked, I glanced away, not wanting to be caught. He was my age, I guessed, or older, with brown hair, graying at the temples. I looked again. Rugged crevices lined his face. Slim lips, high cheekbones, and an angular nose, not quite a beak but not small, all screamed masculinity. This was no metrosexual. This was a man. Was this what made him seem intimidating?

  No, it was something else. His austere expression said: don’t bother me. He held himself carefully as if he wanted to protect himself from outside forces. Perhaps he was uncomfortable in a bar, or uncomfortable in anyplace contained, anyplace inside. Yes, that was it. He radiated a quality of belonging in nature as opposed to anything man-made. It was difficult to grasp but I’d seen it once or twice before in people I knew from home, usually men who worked in the woods or with their hands.

  I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He appeared to be made of mountain and air and sky. Shifting my gaze back to my glass as he brought the Guinness up to his mouth, I caught his scent again. It was almost like the outdoors in summer, this smell: a mixture of floral and pine needles and fresh rain on dry land. I tapped my fingers on the stem of the martini glass. What did his neck look like? I hadn’t noticed his neck when I looked at his face.

  I looked again, stealthy, hoping to steal another glance but his gaze moved to mine in that same instant. He looked straight into my eyes. They were the same color as the wide, open sky I’d driven under all day. I blinked; heat spread throughout my body. That’s all it took, one look from his light blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, and I was overheated. I knew without looking in a mirror that my cheeks were red like a burner turned to medium-high.

  His lips twitched into a half smile. He tipped his head toward me in a noncommittal greeting before looking straight ahead.

  What came out of my mouth next, I can only blame on the vodka. “It’s been thirteen years since I sat alone in a bar.” I spoke with my eyes on the bottles of scotch lining the middle shelf of the bar, scooting just an inch closer to ensure he could hear me over the noise of the music. “It isn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”

  “What would be hard about it?” He said this casually, his voice low and relaxed as he took a sip of his beer, also looking straight ahead.

  If the barstool were a clock, I turned from high noon to two o’clock, allowing myself to look at him in full, my bare, warm calves pressed into the metal of the barstool’s legs. “Well, you know, I thought I might feel like a loser. Only drunks and lonely people go to bars alone.”

  He continued to stare straight ahead. “So which are you?”

  “Neither. I’m on vacation. That’s the third reason.”

  “Or travelling for work. That could be another.”

  “Is that you, then? Travelling for work?”

  He shifted on his stool and looked at me, fully in the face. I stifled a quick, sharp intake of breath. He had the type of eyes that could penetrate through a brick building and see what was inside, or spot prey from high above. One needed that kind of sight to find me then. “No, I’m the lonely variety.”

  I arranged my face, hoping to look nonjudgmental and quizzical. “You are?”

  “My teenage daughter no longer likes my cooking. Or me, apparently.” He had a way of speaking that was relaxed and calming, almost slower than one should talk, and yet it seemed the right pace. I had the image of a creek flowing, its currents sparkling in the sunshine.

  “Oh, that would make me want to die.” I hesitated. What had I just said? “I mean, I know it’s completely normal but I’ll find that so hard when it happens to me.” I needed to stop talking. And drinking. I took another sip of my martini. “I have two little girls. Seven and eleven.”

  “I remember those ages. I miss it—hard to let go of the little girl she used to be. That’s how I see her in
my mind, and yet she’s grown and so far away from me now.”

  “I’m sorry.” My voice squeaked on the second syllable. “I’m without mine for three weeks. I’m beside myself.”

  He smiled so the creases in his face were a half-dozen crescent moons. For the first time his eyes twinkled and I thought of stars and the expansive night. “Thus, travelling alone?”

  “While my ex-husband marries his child bride.” I giggled. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”

  “Could be the martini?”

  “The second martini. I should’ve ordered a more substantial dinner,” I added. “At home I make simple things for the kids and I live on those frozen dinners. They’re located under a ‘Meals for One’ sign, which strikes me as vaguely rude. My daughter Clementine calls them ‘diet dinners.’ I’ve found it excruciating to cook meals ever since my husband left me.” I sipped my drink. “It’s strange, all the ways one changes after divorce. Or because of it maybe. I should stop talking. I don’t get out much.” I said this all lightly.

  “You and me both.” His voice was wry and amused. “Have you really not been in a bar in thirteen years?”

  “I didn’t say I hadn’t been to one in thirteen years. I said I hadn’t been in one alone for thirteen years.”

  “Ah, yes. Fine distinction.”

  “I went to bars sometimes with my husband. I mean, my ex-husband. We had to entertain his clients once in a while and I always had to go because Michael was impossible to talk to unless he was allowed to pontificate.”

  “Sounds like my mother.”

  Jackson brought the man’s cheeseburger, setting it in front of him. It smelled like only grilled meat can and looked juicy and perfectly cooked, if you like medium-rare, which I did. Why had I ordered a spinach salad? I needed to live more. It was vacation after all. Was it vacation? What was this trip? What was I doing here exactly? The doubt flooded me once again. I should just go home, forget this ridiculous excursion to the past. I should be looking forward, not back. Michael was right. I needed to be in the moment. What was it my mother always said about that? It was some quote from Buddha, which I bet Liza had in one of her self-help books. But I couldn’t remember it because the man next to me that smelled of the forest was holding out his hand for me to shake.