by Rae Renzi
“Pearls. I’d get some pearls.”
“No kidding? Jewelry?” Jack looked at her, his eyebrows raised.
“Yes, definitely. Pearls.”
“Kind of old-fashioned.”
“Oh, I think they’re beautiful. The really good ones have layers and layers, and you can practically see through them. The glow of a real pearl is like some kind of fairy light. They’re like a mysterious magical object. But also, I love the concept.”
“Pearls have a concept?”
“Sure. Think about it, Jack. Your average pearl starts out as a minor irritation in an oyster, a bit of sand or something. The oyster secretes this stuff that surrounds the bit of sand to stop the irritation. Over time, and layers and layers later, that original bit of sand becomes a pearl. So making a pearl is the oyster’s way of dealing with something annoying. I can’t help but think how nice it would be if everyone could create something as beautiful in response to a long-term irritation. Imagine what daily rush-hour traffic might produce. Or a noisy neighbor. Or telemarketing calls. The world would be a more beautiful place.”
“New York City. The people there are so irritable that pearls would be dropping all over the place.” Jack laughed. “Walking would be hazardous.”
As their laughter subsided, Jack looked at her silently, something stirring in his eyes.
“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”
Jack turned away and carefully picked up the spoon. “Nothing. No reason.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Hey!” Jack ducked as Casey’s fishing pole skimmed the side of his head when she cast her line into the water.
“Oh. Sorry. But I think I’m getting the hang of it…”
Jack rubbed his ear where the pole had clipped it. “Good. Throwing out the line is the first part. Now comes the hard part.”
“Which is…?”
“Standing still and being quiet.”
Casey snorted. At the moment, neither requirement would be all that hard for her. Her shoulder still ached from the rubble hitting it yesterday, and she still had the remnants of a headache from the rock that had smacked her head. And, according to Jack, she had a good-sized bruise to go with it. A quiet day of fishing seemed just the thing. Jack had found a small package of fishhooks and a roll of line in the toolbox. They’d only had to cut some poles.
They stood on a tall boulder, one of several that made up the peninsula protruding into the river at the mouth of the tributary. The boulders formed a barrier behind which a deep pool had formed. The pool was still slightly muddy from the flood, but less opaque than the open river, which still flowed fast and was thick with debris.
“This is how our river guide caught lunch for us one day—fishing off a boulder like this.”
“What kind of fish will we catch?”
“If we’re lucky, rainbow trout or striped bass. If we’re not so lucky, catfish.”
Casey looked askance at him. “You seem to know a lot about this.” Unexpected, to say the least, given his other proclivities.
He grinned. “Read it in a travel book.”
Casey started to make a retort when suddenly the pole in her hand jerked. “Oh my God! Jack! I’ve got a fish. What do I do?”
“Not sure—I didn’t get that far in the book.”
Casey’s shoulder wasn’t up to wrestling in the fish so she handed the pole to Jack, who, with a combination of walking backward and pulling on the line with one hand, managed to bring the fish close to the boulder.
“What is it?”
Casey leaned over to grab the line as the fish thrashed just under the surface. She eased it above the water. “It’s a…fish!” She grinned at Jack. “With black stripes.” With her good arm she hauled up the fish, which was surprisingly heavy, and turned to hold it up for Jack to see.
The fish had other ideas. It gave a great buck and its body slapped against her face. She took a step back…
…and went over the side of the boulder, fish and all.
She was laughing when she came up, sputtering and shaking her head. Jack was next to her, treading water. The pole floated beside him; the fish was gone.
“Are you okay? And will you stop doing this kind of thing?” He sounded somewhere between exasperated and amused.
Casey sculled toward a nearby boulder, its broad, smooth crown only just above the waterline. Clambering up its slippery sides, she shivered from the icy cold of the water.
Jack scrambled up beside her and gave her a rueful look. “That was like snatching candy out of a kid’s grubby hand. My mouth was already watering for grilled fish.”
Casey leaned back against the warm rock and smiled. “Yes, but now we know we can do it. And I bet there is one happy fish swimming around out there.”
“Warning all his friends.”
She just laughed.
Jack took her hand in his. “Marry me, Casey.”
Her heart gave a lurch.
“You’re doing it again. You’re acting crazy. Why are you saying these things?”
Logically, she should just blow his words off, consider them an aberration due to circumstance. But her pulse accelerated when she played his words in her mind again. Marry me. As if it were only a matter of desire.
Desire wasn’t wanting in either of them—they’d proven that—and if she were truthful, at this moment she wanted nothing more than to be with Jack forever. To see him every day and every night, to fall with him into their dreams, to wake with him into their life. To always feel his touch on her face, and to touch his face in return. That was the truth.
But the truth didn’t make it right.
“I mean it,” Jack persisted. “I want to be married to you. We’re still in RiverTime, so we could be married for as long as we’re here.”
“But why? What difference would it make for a day or a week, or whatever?”
Jack looked at her, a strange yearning in his face. “I just want…” His voice trailed off, as if he’d lost his way. He started again. “I want to know what it feels like to be with someone whose happiness starts deep inside and works its way out, and who makes me see that that kind of happiness is possible for me, too. I want to share love.”
“I’ve never told you I love you, Jack.” Casey seized on the one fact she had some control over.
“But you do. We belong together. You know it’s true, Casey.”
“It’s too hard. I can’t think that way. Even though the actual events that happen here don’t come with us when we leave, the feelings they create…well, that’s different.” Casey hoped that if she spoke rational words, maybe, just maybe, they’d override the irrational feelings welling up inside her. “History stays here, but how it changes us comes with us.”
Jack looked at her intently. “I’m counting on that.” Taking her hand in both of his, he kissed it, first on the back then, turning it over gently, on the palm. “Casey, will you marry me?”
Her heart felt all juicy and ready to explode, and a thrill ran through her, even as a little niggling thought entered her mind. One of the primary symptoms of damage to the frontal part of the brain—exactly where the rock hit her head—was a lack of reasonable inhibition, an inability to make rational decisions or to control emotional impulses, a tendency to make choices based purely on immediate pleasure rather than a thoughtful consideration of the long-term consequences. She didn’t feel as if she were suffering any aftereffects of the blow, but who knew for sure? In any case, as Jack pointed out, it was only in RiverTime.
“Yes, Jack, I will. But not today.”
“It’s time for the wedding processional,” Jack said midmorning the next day. He sounded more cheerful than she would have thought possible. “Dum-dum-da-dummm…”
What am I doing? Am I crazy? The questions rolled through her mind during the march up to the highest ledge of their camp. Jack hummed the whole way, adding to the playacting sense of the moment.
Actually, the whole thing was ridiculous. Kind
of.
And kind of not. At a gut level, she realized this might be a declaration, if only to herself, that her relationship with Reed was not meant to be. She’d looked for clarity about the relationship, and it seemed to have arrived, if not in the way she’d imagined.
“I don’t have flowers,” she said, as if that were the single impediment to the marriage.
“Don’t worry. I have it covered.”
They came to the altar—a large flat-topped boulder—on which rested a woven circlet of black-eyed Susans and a wildflower bouquet bound with a blue shoelace. Alongside them were a mug of wine, a piece of paper torn out of someone’s travel journal, and a disposable pen.
“The flowers are beautiful, Jack.” Casey commented on the obvious all the while wondering if there was a foolproof way to discriminate hallucination from reality. Pinching herself didn’t seem to work.
He smiled at her and gently placed the daisies on her curls. Handing her the wildflower bouquet, he turned her to face him.
He was so beautiful he could be a hallucination. She sighed.
Jack took her hands in his and looked into her eyes. “I, Jack Raines, take you, Casey Lord, for my wife.”
It belatedly occurred to Casey that until that second she’d had no idea of Jack’s last name. Raines. Well, it fit. He certainly wouldn’t be described as sunny.
“I pledge my love, trust and honor to you. With this marriage, our hearts become as one and will be changed forever, inside and outside RiverTime. We will carry our love within us for all places and all times. With this ring, I pledge my love to you.”
He took the gold ring from his little finger and slipped it on her finger. She hadn’t expected anything as concrete as the exchange of rings. A chill ran down her spine. She swallowed hard and spoke her feelings.
“I, Casey Lord, take you, Jack Raines, to be my husband in RiverTime from this day on. I will love and cherish you, and honor you. From this moment onward, you will be forever in my heart, wherever I go. I pledge my love to you with this ring.”
She took off her only ring and slipped it on Jack’s little finger.
Smiling, Jack leaned over and kissed her. “I love you, Casey Lord-Raines.”
Casey looked at the ring on her finger in awe. She felt changed. She looked up at Jack and said, “I love you, Jack Lord-Raines.”
A smile spread across his face. “Jack Lord-Raines. I like that. Sounds like royalty, doesn’t it?” He picked up the piece of paper. It had writing above and signature lines below.
Casey raised her eyebrows.
“Part of the ritual.” He signed his name on a line, then kissed her on the cheek and handed her the pen.
The paper started with, “On this 16th day of June, Jack D. Raines and Casey Lord were married on the 3rd ledge, east side of the Colorado River. To each other they pledged their love and loyalty forever…” and that was as far as Casey got. Her head didn’t hurt, but her concentration skittered around like a butterfly. She took the pen from him and signed her name with a flourish.
“Where shall we go on our honeymoon?” she asked airily.
“I hear the Grand Canyon’s nice this time of year.”
Jack had made a wedding bower strewn with wildflowers. When they arrived at the bower—a sleeping bag cushioned on a mat in the middle of a tiny field of wildflowers at the river’s edge—he turned and let his eyes roam all over her.
“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he murmured into her ear as he pulled her into an embrace.
Casey felt delirious. Maybe she had a fever. Whatever. Was she really doing this? Yes, she was. It felt, at this point, that there was no option. This must be how a skydiver feels just before that one big step.
She ran her hands slowly up Jack’s back. As if to channel all her energy, she closed her eyes, leaned into him and let her fingertips travel over his body. He matched her movements one-for-one. She could feel a difference, a newly forged possessiveness in his touch. It was the power of ritual, she realized. In his mind, at least for now, she belonged to him. They belonged to each other.
What had they done? How could something so nonsensical feel so real? And the darker undercurrent—when would it end?
Jack pulled Casey down onto the bed. The scent of the flowers he’d sprinkled around the bower perfumed the air. His bare skin gliding over hers felt so wonderful, so warm, as he kissed her tenderly on her face, her neck, her shoulders.
“This one is about love, only love,” he whispered in her ear. “I want to be with you, to be as close to you as it is possible to be. I want to be in you and with you forever.”
Casey didn’t attempt to master her thoughts; she wanted only to be with him now, but a tiny kernel of self-preservation made her hesitate. “Jack, um, I don’t suppose you came prepared?”
A throaty chuckle tickled her neck. “No, but one of your fellow rafters did.” He produced a condom. “We’re not going to be stupid. Ever.”
Casey relaxed and let herself be completely consumed by Jack. He eased his body on top of hers, carefully urging her legs apart. His eyes were closed and his breathing was ragged. She felt him probe gently, slide along her, hot and slick, matching the heat between her legs. An urgent need for him filled her and spilled over, droplets of hot moisture flowing out of her to find him.
He slowly, deliciously, pushed himself into her a millimeter at a time, torturing both of them in the most exquisite way. As she fully received him, a wave of motion moved through her that she was helpless to stop. He withdrew, almost, but not quite completely, until he barely pulsed into her.
She moaned, completely lost, and desperately pulled at him, needing to be closer. He submitted to her demand and thrust deep inside her, and again, and again, their bodies moving in complete harmony. Finally, in one heart-stopping moment, they fused and exploded in a frenzy of rapture and release. It was beyond anything Casey had experienced.
Or, a small dark voice intoned, would ever experience again.
“What does the ‘D’ stand for?”
“What?” Jack rolled over, peeking at her out of slitted eyes.
Dawn might not be his best time, Casey decided.
He groped for her hand, then pulled it up to his lips and kissed it. “Morning.” His smile was warm and lazy.
A rush of emotion heated Casey’s face. The not-quite-irrelevant thought flitted through her head that she hadn’t had chocolate in several days. Since the first time Jack did what he did to her.
The marriage was only a sham, but it felt real. Most important, it felt good. The idea of rescue had taken on definite negative overtones. But they couldn’t stay here forever and, in spite of her current state of happiness, the real world tugged at her. She found herself tiptoeing around the idea of living happily ever after…with Jack.
Of course this line of thought was dampened by a couple of factors, notably her mother’s reaction to her choosing Jack over Reed. Cardiac arrest? Stroke? Probably not quite suicide. But definitely not happy acceptance. Reed was her mother’s idea of happily-ever-after.
“Have you ever noticed that sometimes the very things you want are what you’re afraid of?” she mused. “A kind of wish-worry paradox.”
Jack looked at her and nodded, as if this were not a complete non sequitur. “Yeah, I have.” He sat up and took a bite of the bread she offered him. “What’s your paradox, Casey?”
That I want you so bad I could scream, and I fear wanting you so much. “I have several. For one thing, I love chocolate but I don’t want to eat it.”
“Because…?”
“Wanting it is so weak. I worry it’s an addiction. I don’t like the idea of some…some chemical having control over me.”
“You’re worried about being addicted to chocolate?” He grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s just…in my world…” The smile on his face faded. But then he looked at Casey and again smiled. “You know, Case, I don’t think you really have an
ything to worry about. Not because it’s chocolate, but because you’re you.”
“Hmm. What about you? Do you have a paradox?”
Jack leaned back on one elbow and snorted. “Sometimes it feels like my whole life is a paradox.”
“Like how?”
“I wanted to be successful, but I hate some of what comes with it.”
“Like what?” Her eyes involuntarily strayed to his tattoos. “I mean, what exactly…never mind.”
He rolled toward her and traced her chin with a fingertip. “You want to know what I do.”
“No. No, it’s okay.”
He looked at her dubiously. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. I just want to be with you, no matter what you do—short of involvement in felonious behavior—”
“Not a felon.”
“—or with the press. I hate the press.”
He looked away. “The press? That is, do you mean, if I was the press, like a reporter, or—”
Casey bolted upright, horrified. “You’re a reporter. Oh, God, no.”
“I’m most definitely not a reporter.”
She slumped down again. “Good. That could have been a deal-breaker.”
“Why?”
“I hate the press. I told you.”
“But why?”
Casey put her hands behind her head and stared at the little hole in the top of the tent. The years rolled back. Her face flushed as she relived the trauma of half-a-dozen camera flashes going off in her face while she ducked the jeers and catcalls of her classmates and raced after her mother. It still made her sick.
Her junior year in high school, she and her mother had been going through an especially bad time financially and had been forced to move from their tiny two-bedroom house into a tinier one-bedroom-and-a-sleeper-sofa apartment. Nonetheless, in what she assumed was a kind of charitable gesture in response to her poverty, Casey had been nominated for Prom Queen, along with four other girls. Casey had been embarrassed, but her mother had been ecstatic—until she realized that Casey’s wardrobe wasn’t up to scratch.
Even at the time, Casey had known that her mother was off balance, tipped by their financial decline into a Cinderella-esque fantasy. She acted as if Casey’s winning the title of Prom Queen was their last hope for survival, that it would elevate them from their impoverished state into…whatever it was she imagined.
