“I have a moose roast in the oven, if you two feel like moseying on over later. You’ll like it. Tastes like beef,” she promises. “It’s Jonah’s favorite.”
“What are we going to do when we’re not living across the road from you anymore, Agnes? How are we going to survive? Does this mean I’ll have to learn to cook?”
It’s a joke, but I don’t miss the fleeting sorrow that flashes through Agnes’s eyes before it’s gone, replaced by something else, something indecipherable. She brushes at the dusting of snow that has settled atop my father’s cross. “You two will do fine, as long as you remember you’re in this together.”
“I think we’ve done pretty well at that so far. And we’ve been through a lot.” Since the day I found out that my father would be refusing treatment for his terminal cancer, Jonah and I have stayed side by side to face the pain, the heartache, the tough decisions, each trusting the other for support. He has been my rock—steadfast and unfailing.
“Yes …” Agnes hesitates, her gaze wandering to the distance.
I sense a “but.” Agnes has never been one to deliver the “but,” always the unobtrusive listener, the kind, supportive voice who keeps her opinions to herself. That one seems to be dangling off the tip of her tongue sets off alarm bells.
“You two are a good match for each other. Wren saw it right away.”
“Really?” I grin, despite her ominous tone. My dad had hinted at the idea of Jonah and me getting together. He did it in his subtle way, never pushing. At the time, Jonah and I were at each other’s throats.
“Sure, he did. We both did, or at least hoped. And right now, this must all feel like a whirlwind. Jonah, surprising you in Toronto; you, racing back here to be with him. So exciting and fresh and new. All these possibilities and big plans.” Her easy smile holds for another second before it fades as quickly as it came. “But eventually, the days will start to feel longer, quieter. You may find yourself not so eager about what’s ahead for you.”
“So, basically like my life before coming here?” I let out a weak chuckle. My months in Toronto after losing my father to death and Jonah to distance weren’t robust or inspiring. I spent much of it trying to heal—falling back into a mindless but well-worn routine of gym sessions and shopping, of bar nights with friends that suddenly felt hollow. I floundered over job listings and career discussions with headhunters, none of them appealing to me, the idea of going back to a nine-to-five job, crammed into subway cars like cattle, staring at spreadsheets all day with Micromanaging Marks and Type-A Taras hovering around me a soul-crushing prospect.
My mom and Simon assured me that the substantial inheritance I have coming my way was the cause of my lack of direction or motivation. I believe it, too. In part. But I also sensed the tectonic shift somewhere deep inside—my time in Alaska had changed me in ways I couldn’t pinpoint but also couldn’t ignore. Who I was and who I am now seem like two different people.
And then I found Jonah on my front porch, asking me to move to Alaska, and I felt those plates shift yet again. This time, life seems to be clicking into place.
Agnes presses her lips together, as if to muzzle her words.
“Just say what you want to say. Please.”
She sighs. “Following Jonah around Alaska while he flies planes won’t be enough. Not for a girl like you, Calla. Loving him won’t be enough. Not forever.” Agnes smiles, as if to soften the blow of her warning.
My stomach tightens. I expected this from my mother and, to a lesser degree, Simon. Never from Agnes. Maybe that’s why I’m not as quick to dismiss her words as scripture out of the Standard Parenting 101 handbook. “What will be enough, then?” Because I can’t imagine my life without Jonah in it anymore.
Several beats pass as she considers her answer, the corners of her eyes crinkling with thought. “Find your place here. Something that’s going to give you—Calla Fletcher—purpose. Something that feels like you.” She nods slowly, as if agreeing with her own answer. “Find that, and then give it your all.”
I hear what she doesn’t have to say out loud. My parents were madly in love—the kind of love that sunk its teeth in and held on despite decades apart—and they couldn’t make it work. If I follow my mother’s footsteps from twenty-seven years ago, newly pregnant and disillusioned about what life with a bush pilot in the wilds of Alaska would be like, focused on all that it’s not, I won’t last here, no matter how much Jonah and I love each other.
But Jonah and I are not my parents. We’ve already proven that. Jonah has already proven that.
I know Agnes is looking out for me, and so I smile when I say, “I’m really looking forward to starting this charter company with him.” My website design skills may be self-taught, but my marketing prowess is intuitive, and I’m eager to learn everything else required. “Plus, he agreed to move if Alaska doesn’t work for me.” Jonah said he didn’t care where he was, as long as he has me by his side. That he doesn’t want to be in Alaska if I’m not here. I’ve “ruined Alaska” for him. And that right there is the main difference between Jonah and my father.
“That’s … his intentions are good.” Agnes’s gaze darts to the distance, as if wanting to hide the thoughts—or doubts—it may reveal. “Well, I best get back to that roast or Mabel’s likely to overcook it.”
I sense she has more thoughts on the matter, but as is usual with Agnes, she never pushes, never badgers you until she feels she’s been heard. Maybe that’s what makes her opinion so much more invaluable.
Maybe that’s why I’d rather not hear what else she has to say on the matter.
“See you around five?” I offer.
“You can mash the potatoes. I’ve never liked doing those.” She winks. “Don’t sit out here too long. It’s cold.” With a wordless tap against my father’s cross that lasts one … two … three seconds, Agnes turns and trudges back toward the truck.
Leaving me alone in the cemetery once again.
“You know you left a huge hole in our lives, right?” Would that bring people comfort in the afterlife, knowing they are so missed? “It’s not a bad thing, but it’s there, in all of us. Especially for Mabel.” The bubbly, energetic twelve-year-old who used to storm into the kitchen and talk in rushed spurts and run-on sentences has been replaced by a more reserved, at times sullen creature. Agnes blames Mabel’s behavior on burgeoning hormones but I don’t think any of us believe that’s all it is.
I linger for another half hour or so, until my hands are numb and my cheeks hurt, and Agnes’s warning has taken root in the back of my mind. I ramble about nothing and everything, closing my eyes to recall the sound of Wren Fletcher’s quiet chuckle.
Terrified of the day it fades from memory.
* * *
Whorls of smoke billow from the chimney into the frigid cold air as I coast past Jonah’s forest-green Ford Escape. I park his Ski-Doo—ours now?—inside the ramshackle metal shed and hurry along the path that Jonah shoveled this morning toward the modular home, taking the time to kick the snow off my boots before stepping inside.
The linoleum floor wears a melted, brown-tinged mess from Jonah’s earlier entrance. “We need a mudroom!” I struggle to yank off my boots, using the wall and counter as leverage to keep my balance. “And a chair to sit on!”
“Where we gonna put that?” asks Jonah from the living room.
“I mean, in our new house.” I take a stretching step over the puddles but land in one, anyway. I cringe as cold water seeps through my wool sock.
“You need slippers.”
I look up to see Jonah leaning against the threshold wall into the kitchen, his arms folded over his chest. My stomach flips as it always does when he walks into a room. I toss my hat and gloves into the overhead basket and shrug off my bulky winter coat, hanging it on one of two hooks by the door. My new parka has done its job, leaving a thin layer of sweat trapped between my long johns and my skin, despite my chilled extremities. “When’d you get back?” I ask, open
ing and closing my fists to thaw my reddened fingers.
“Twenty minutes ago. You go to the cemetery?”
“Yeah.” I shimmy out of my snow pants. “Agnes came by.”
“When’s dinner?”
I smile. “She said to be there for five. She’s making a moose roast.”
“Finally!” He groans. “George gave that to her weeks ago. I was wondering when she’d pull it out of her freezer.”
I shake my head but laugh. “You’re as bad as my father was, waiting for someone else to feed you.”
“I’m smart like Wren was,” Jonah corrects. His lips twist in thought. “You know, you should get some pointers from Aggie on cooking those. And venison, too. I hear that one’s tricky.”
“Get your own pointers. I told you, I’m not cleaning or cooking your kill.” I peel off my wet sock and smooth the bottom of my damp foot on my other sock to dry it off.
“What about your kill?” he throws back without missing a beat, a playful lilt in his voice.
I saunter over to press my small stature against his firm chest, waiting for him to envelop me in his arms. “Last I checked, the meat at the grocery store is already dead. Even in Alaska.”
He pauses for three beats, and then pulls me flush against his body, leaning down to kiss me, first on the lips, and then along my jawline. “You are going to learn how to shoot a gun, Calla.”
“Why would I do that when I have you?” I argue, dragging my feet with mock reluctance as he steers us into the living room with backward steps, toward the couch.
“For safety.”
“Me with a gun does not sound safe.”
“For me, probably not.” Flopping down, he pulls me onto his lap, guiding my thighs around the outsides of his. He sweeps my hair off my shoulders and grips it at my nape with one hand. “Close your eyes.”
“Why?” I ask, narrowing my gaze to try to read him. As Agnes once said, Jonah likes to play little games. I’ll never forget the time he made me believe he might cut off my hair in retaliation for the night I groomed his bushy face. So I can’t help but wonder what game Jonah has in mind.
“Christ. Would you humor me? For once. Please.”
The exasperation in his tone convinces me to follow directions. I bite my bottom lip as I wait impatiently for whatever he has planned, willing myself to keep from stealing a peek at the sound of crisp tissue paper unraveling.
Calloused fingers slide over the back of my neck where they fumble. I sense a cool chain trail against my skin, and something weighted settles against my chest. His fleeting touch straightens it. “There. You can look now.”
“What is it?” I ask, reaching for the object, my fingers grasping cool metal as I lift it into view. A dainty plane dangles from a chain, its white gold glimmering from polish.
“That’s your real Christmas present. The guy making it took longer than expected.”
“Oh my God … it’s …” It’s so delicate and detailed, right down to the windows and doors, the propeller blades, the wheels. Tiny diamonds cover the wings, winking at me as their facets catch the late-afternoon sunlight that invades the living room through the bay window.
But the detail on the tail, the minuscule replica of the Alaska Wild logo, is where my attention locks and my emotions swirl. “It’s beautiful.”
“Something you’ll actually wear?”
“Yes! Absolutely.” I’ll wear it with nothing but pride.
“Is it better than the hunting jacket you hated?” The corners of his mouth betray him.
“That was a joke?”
“Of course, it was a joke.” He grins. “And so worth it. Man, you are a shitty actor.”
“God, you are such a jerk sometimes!” I let go of the pendant to smack my palms hard against Jonah’s chest. Beneath my fingertips, I feel the vibrations of his low chuckle, as his hands settle on my hips, warming my body even through two layers of clothes.
“Thank you for this,” I offer, more contritely. “It’s beautiful, Jonah. Seriously. It’s the nicest piece of jewelry I own.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Jonah has good taste, something I discovered when I first walked into his house, expecting a dingy bachelor pad complete with pork-chop bones and empty beer cans.
He inhales deeply, his smile fading. “I can’t take all the credit.” He holds the small gold plane between his thumb and index finger. “This necklace, it’s not only from me.” His pale blue eyes dart upward to meet mine. He swallows hard. “About a week before he died, Wren asked me to get in touch with this friend of his, up in Nome.”
The lump in my throat inflates.
“He wanted you to have something to remember him by. Something you could open on Christmas morning.” Jonah clears his throat. “For a while there, he was hoping he’d last this long.”
I clasp my hand over my mouth to muffle my sob. Tears blur my vision, slipping down my cheek in a steady, hot stream. It’s been months since my father’s death and just like that, again, it feels like he died yesterday.
Jonah’s jaw tenses. “He was hell-bent on getting you something you’d wanna wear. I never saw him like that before, so determined. But he knew how you are, with your clothes and stuff. Anyway, the plane was his idea.” Jonah finally meets my eyes again and I note their glossy sheen, the gruffness in his voice. “I added the diamonds ’cause I know you like sparkly things.”
It takes me a moment to find my words and when I do, they’re barely a whisper. “It’s the most perfect thing anyone has ever given me. I’ll never take it off. Never.”
Jonah simply nods and then pulls me into him, his hairy face tickling the crook of my neck as I cry.
Chapter Six
The hollow thump of heavy boots against the porch steps announces Jonah’s return a moment before the kitchen door creaks open. I steal a glance at the clock as my heart skips a beat. It’s almost nine p.m. Jonah was supposed to be home hours ago.
“Calla?” comes his deep, raspy voice, carrying through the unnervingly silent house. That’s one of the most jarring differences between here and back home. In Toronto, I’d be lying in bed, listening to the blare of horns and the scrape of metal against pavement as the snowplows cleared the streets. Here, in this little house surrounded by a vast expanse of land and little else, nothing but the fridge’s odd and intermittent rattle-and-hum makes a sound. During the day, I’ve taken to leaving the television on to drown out the silence.
“In the bedroom,” I holler back, hitting the Save button on my laptop.
The floorboards groan beneath Jonah’s heavy footfalls. He rounds the corner, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, his ash-blond hair standing on end, mussed from a day under a knit hat. I’d laugh if he didn’t look so tired.
“Sorry. Stayed to help them cover the planes.” Even his voice sounds exhausted. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto the dresser. Beneath it is one of the sweaters I brought him—an azure knit that makes his blue eyes bright and hugs his chest and collarbone nicely. “Fucking guys up in St. Mary’s did a shitty job patching that hangar back in the summer. The whole damn thing is ready to cave in. I had to meet with the insurance adjusters and sort all that out, then explain it all to Howard.”
“The hangar with the roof leak that my dad was complaining about, back in the summer?”
“Yup.” He flops backward into bed with a heavy sigh and rubs his eyes, then his beard. It’s grown since I arrived three weeks ago—long enough for clippers and a bit more style. “Can’t wait to be done with all this Aro bullshit.”
Neither can I.
The blustery air clings to him, and I burrow deeper within my cozy cocoon. “You know you could be done tomorrow if you want, right?” It’s not like he signed a contract.
He gives a firm head shake. “I said I’d stay until the end of January, so that’s what I’m gonna give ’em.”
Of course, he is. Jonah is nothing if not loyal. To the detriment of himself, my father once hinted. “Okay. So, two more weeks.
That’s nothing.”
“And then I’m officially unemployed.”
“Join the club. On Wednesdays, we wear pink.” I can’t ignore the thrill of knowing that Jonah will be with me and one hundred percent focused on building this charter company soon.
“Pink?” He frowns at me, confused.
“You know, from Mean Girls? It’s a movie. Never mind.” Jonah didn’t have a television in his house until I moved here. “And you won’t be unemployed. You’ll be self-employed. That’s different.”
“Yeah, I guess …” He smirks. “I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have a boss telling me what to do.”
I burst out laughing. “When have you ever done as you’re told by anyone?” According to my father, Jonah was a young, “full of piss and vinegar” punk when he showed up at Alaska Wild ten years ago, and stubborn as they come. But he quickly became an indispensable part of the team, and my dad’s right-hand man. From what I saw in the summer, it seemed like he was running the company. Wren Fletcher was more the quiet, passive type.
“I do, sometimes. When I feel like it.” Jonah reaches out to seize my chin beneath his thumb and forefinger, pulling my face down to steal a slow, lingering kiss. A small groan slips from within his chest. “And I’ve been feeling like doing that all damn day.”
I can’t keep the beaming smile from my mouth, an instant reaction to whenever Jonah says anything even semi-romantic, which is more often than I would ever have expected, though usually woven in among playful jibes.
“There’s a plate of spaghetti in the fridge for you. Homemade.” My best friend, Diana, in her desperate attempts to keep my presence in our Calla & Dee lifestyle blog alive, has a new brainchild for a segment: “Calla Learns to Cook.” It’s not the worst idea given these winter days are long, there is no premade meal service in Bangor, and we can’t rely on Agnes to feed us forever.
Jonah’s eyebrows arch with doubt.
Wild At Heart: A Novel Page 5
