That flight left without me, as did every flight home for the next 692 days.
I spent almost two years out on the steppe, living in my own ger. I taught myself Mongolian, learned how to ride a horse and forced myself to learn how to slaughter and dress a goat. I even learned how to tan hides and make my own leather boots and a jacket. No more prissy pink sweaters for me.
In my first winter I learned what it really is to be cold. In October the temperature dropped below freezing, and it stayed there until one glorious, sunny morning in March. I had only my coal fired stove to stave off the bitter cold, and when the coal ran out I could only wrap up in layers and wait out the weather. For weeks I shivered constantly, always on the verge of tears but never succumbing to weakness. The winter toughened me. It made me strong, and once I survived it I knew I could survive anything the world could throw at me.
At the start of my second winter I packed up my things and set out on horseback from my remote ger in the far south of the country, and rode for months through endless blizzards and freezing dust storms, winding a slow, meandering trail across thousands of miles of stark wilderness until I finally reached the town of Olgii in the far west, home of the Kazakh Mongols, nomadic eagle hunters. I braved temperatures of 45 below and rode for days at a time without food and water. A couple of times I almost died, but it was worth every moment of misery.
A week before I finally ended my trip I was tracked by a pack of wolves in the far north west. My horse bolted in panic and threw me off in the middle of the mountains of the west, breaking my leg in the process. I had to splint it myself, and dulled the pain with Chinggis vodka and aspirin until I was found, half dead and delirious, by a nomadic family who rode me Olgii on the back of their ancient Russian motorcycle.
That was Mongolia's way of telling me it was time to come home. After a couple of weeks resting up in a cold and dirty clinic in Olgii I booked a flight back to San Francisco. Back to my parents, and back to civilization.
It was Penny who suggested I should write a book. She'd just graduated from NYU when I got home. She'd spent her summers working as an intern for a publishing house in the city, dredging through slush piles in a vain search for something good enough to sell. By the time we finally got to meet up I'd been back in the country for six months, and by that time she'd found a paying job as a lowly assistant at the same publisher, and mentioned me to her boss.
The rest is... well, the rest is pretty boring, run of the mill history. It turns out the publishing process is pretty damned tedious and drawn out, and almost three years went by before that seed of an idea resulted in the hardback flower sitting on the desk in front of me.
Much to my surprise the book became a surprise hit, and sold just enough to sneak onto the bottom of the New York Times bestseller list. Last night I even got to appear on The Daily Show and meet John Stewart, which was the high point of my life so far.
I can't really explain why the book did so well. I'm not famous. I'm not all that special. I'm just a girl who played with Barbies and wore prissy sweaters and boring shoes, and who left all that behind to live in the wilderness for a couple of years.
I don't know, I guess that sort of escapist Into the Wild kinda story appeals to a lot of us these days. We're all trapped in this consumer nightmare, working crazy hours so we can afford shiny gadgets we don't have the time to play with. I guess people like to read about someone who chose to leave that life behind and look for something more.
The sad fact is that I wasn't searching for some deep spiritual truth. I wasn't looking to make a point about the problems of the modern world, or the need to preserve our natural environment, or anything like that.
I was just trying to be the kind of person I think Rafe saw in me. With every word I typed, and every page I screwed up and threw in the trash, I imagined Rafe's eyes flitting from line to line, his lips turned up in a smile.
And now... now I'm on a national book tour, signing copies of The Gobi Rider all day. Word somehow got out that I was the daughter of the great Lawrence Pierce, so I guess I have some pretty big shoes to fill. It's terrifying, and intimidating, and lots and lots of fun. My publisher is already asking me where I plan to go next, and now I have money in my pocket and a blank check to cover my travel expenses it kinda feels like the world is my oyster.
"You ready?" Penny asks. She stands up and peers out the window to the street outside. "Looks like you've got quite a crowd waiting out there."
I follow her eyes to the line of people waiting for the Barnes & Noble to open, and my heart quickens. They're not exactly queuing around the block – it's a book, not a new iPhone – but there are enough people waiting for a signed copy to give me the usual rush of pride and terror. "Ready as I'll ever be. Come rescue me if I get stuck with a crazy person?"
Penny giggles. "No dice, Moriarty. The only reason I come to these things is to watch some crazy bastard corner you and point out typos. OK, they're opening. Good luck, Mad."
My heart pounds in my chest as the line of shoppers head straight for the little desk the staff have set up in the travel section. As the first arrives I try to relax and set into my routine. Smile, sign, hand over the book. Smile, sign, hand over the book.
The first hour passes as it always does at these things. A couple of people hold up the line to tell me long, rambling stories about their own trips to Mongolia – I don't mind, but the people behind them sure do – and a few actual Mongolians turn up to either gush about how much they love the book or playfully chastise me for getting a few details wrong. I don't mind at all. You know, it's not like it's possible to learn everything about a country in just a couple of years.
Then there are the... less pleasant people. I always get one or two of them at my signings, guys who read my book and took an unhealthy shine to me. They're always creepy as hell, and they always seem to have fixated on a certain passage in the book (a passage I now really regret writing) in which I talked a little about the frustration of living alone for two years without real human contact. I made the mistake of mentioning that I often had to rely on my trusty vibrator to get me through the long, cold nights in my tent out of the steppe, and the creeps seem to have really latched on to that image. It was meant to be a joke, but now I have to deal with a couple of assholes at every signing who stand there breathing heavily while they ask about it. Some guys should have to take a fucking class before they're allowed to speak to women. Jesus.
I massage my aching wrist as the beefy security guard gently escorts away the most recent creep. The guy's wearing a raincoat indoors in April, and he looks like he hasn't washed his hair since the Clinton administration. He couldn't look more like a freak if he tried.
"OK, I'm done," I mutter to myself, waving over at Penny. She catches my eye and approaches the table. "Pen, that's me for the day. I've hit my disgusting creep quota. I swear that guy was playing with himself through a hole in his pocket."
Penny has a wicked smile on her face. "No, no, no. You have to do seven more. Just seven, OK, then you can wrap it up."
I shake my head. "Come on Pen. My wrist is killing me. I feel like I've signed all the books that were ever printed, and I've had to fend off the advances of two assholes who thought I was a sex fiend because I admitted to once playing with myself. It's time to call it a day and go get drunk. Deal?"
Penny's craning her neck to peer down the line. "Mad, I'll put all our drinks on expenses if you just sign seven more books. Agreed?"
"Why seven?"
"Just trust me. Seven more. You'll thank me later."
I sigh, slap on a fake smile and wave over the next guy in the line. "You're buying me a pizza too, you slave driver."
This is torture. I know seven more books is nothing after signing hundreds, but this feels like those final few sit ups you force yourself to do to hit your target. Every one is total agony. I just want to get the hell out of here and relax.
Four more.
Three more.
Two
more.
Last... fucking... one.
"Even better than Jaisalmer Dawn."
I'd know that voice anywhere.
My head snaps up from the book I'm signing to the man standing on the other side of the table, and as I see his face my brain decides this is the perfect moment to forget the English language.
"Sain bainuu!" I blurt out, before I catch myself and realize I've just greeted the man in front of me in Mongolian. "I mean hi! Jesus, Rafe! Is that really you?"
"Hey, Princess. How've you been?"
The moment my eyes meet his there's no doubt in my mind. He may be seven years older and he may be wearing a well cut suit and a neat, close hair cut, but those eyes haven't changed a bit. That dazzling, piercing blue still cuts through to the depths of my soul, and there's no force on earth that could make me look away.
"I, ummm, I... Jesus, it's really you isn't it?"
Rafe laughs at my bumbling shock. "It's really me, Madison. Now are you gonna sign my book or not? I've been waiting years for this."
"Yeah, of course, sorry," I say, scribbling my signature without breaking eye contact. "I just can't believe you're here. What are you doing in New York?"
Rafe smiles. I melt. "I live here now. I'm back in the old apartment, you know? That jackass left it to me when he died."
"Oh, your dad?" I don't know what to say. "I'm sorry. Ummm. Look, I'm just finishing up here. You wanna go get a coffee or something? Catch up?" Please say yes.
"Damn, I'm really sorry but I have to be somewhere," he replies. "I didn't think the line would be so long, and I'm already late for a meeting."
Fuck. "I kinda wish you'd got in touch sooner, I have to head to LA tomorrow for a couple of TV spots, and my folks are in town tonight. I'd invite you along to dinner, but... well, you know."
Rafe looks disappointed, but he shakes it off. "Yeah, no, I totally understand." He reaches out for the pen in my hand, and as his fingers brush against mine it feels like a tiny little spark arches between us for a split second. "Look, if you find you're free later tonight I'm playing with my band at a little place not too far away." He takes out a business card and scrawls on the back. "Here's the address. It's kind of a weird little pop up bar and it doesn't have a name, but just look for the tables outside. You can't miss it. It'd be great to catch up if you have the time."
"I'll try," I say, my hand shaking a little as I pluck the card from his fingers.
Rafe glances at his watch. "Shit, I gotta get going." He sighs. "Well, it was great to see you, Princess. I hope I see you soon."
I smile back at him. "Yeah, I hope so. I'll really try to make it tonight. Sorry we couldn't hook up sooner." Damn, bad choice of words. "Well, you know what I mean."
Rafe flashes a grin. "Yeah, I'm sorry too." He turns away from me. "Nice to see you, Penny."
Penny's staring at me open-mouthed as she replies to him. "Yeah, Rafe, great to see you."
Rafe gives me a final smile before turning away, and Penny and I both watch as he winds his way though the store to the door.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Penny asks, turning back to me. "Seriously, Mad, did you hit your head when you fell off that horse?"
"What are you talking about?"
Penny looks like she's about to explode. "I'm talking about you blowing off the love of your life because of a fucking scheduling conflict."
I shake my head. "Look Pen, that was all a long time ago. I'm over him. Really." Yeah, right.
Penny laughs. "Madison Moriarty, I've known you since you went to school with a Sesame Street lunch box. Don't you even try to lie to me. Look, I know you went to Mongolia to try to get over him, and I know it didn't work. Can't be done. That guy worked his way into your heart seven damned years ago, and he's been living there ever since. I'll ask again: are you fucking kidding me?"
I look down at my stack of books, and not for the first time I wish I really felt like the confident woman in the picture on the dust cover, even if it meant I had to wear that stupid hat. "I... look, I just... fuck... it took me years to get myself back together after the last time. It was fucking hell! Of course I want to see him! I want to chase him down the street and drag him into an alley, but I'm trying to be sensible about this. Look at me, Pen. I've got a life. I've got a career, and it isn't half bad. I can write my own check with the publisher. I can travel anywhere in the world, see crazy shit, hook up with anyone I want and write about my adventures. I know it doesn't sound like it, but that's the sensible option right now. You know, that's the best thing for my career. Maybe it's OK to wait until later before I start looking for love."
Penny starts angrily stacking my books, banging them loudly on the table as she works. "That's fine, Madison. If that's what you want to tell yourself, you go right ahead and travel the world, but you and I both know you've already found love. You're just too scared to grab it.”
I push back my chair and start helping with the clean up. "Can we just drop it Pen? I just want to have a nice dinner with my parents then get back home, OK? Let's not spoil it."
Penny looks like she'd like to slap me, but she manages to resist the urge. "Fine, I won't push it. I think you're fucking crazy, but I won't push it."
"Good," I say, ignoring the suddenly icy atmosphere. "That's settled then. Let's finish up here, grab a shower and get to the restaurant. Deal?"
"Deal."
Damn, she still looks like she wants to slap me.
Dad spots us first as Penny and I arrive at the restaurant in Little Italy, and I cringe with the expectation of what I know he's gonna do.
"Well there's my best investment ever!" he cries to us across the restaurant. A couple of diners glance around at the noise. "My daughter, the New York Times bestseller! Get over here, honey!"
Ever since I hit the list three weeks ago he's been telling everyone who'll listen that I'm an NYT bestseller. It's kind of embarrassing, especially since I only made it onto the extended list, not the main list that actually gets printed in The Times. Y'know, it's not like anyone really cares, but I do feel like a bit of a phony when dad yells it out across a room.
"Hi, dad," I flash him a forced grin and hurry across the room so he'll sit the hell down. "Hi, mom."
"Hi, honey," mom says, waiting for me to lean down for a kiss. "Hi, Penny. I hope you've been keeping our little celebrity nice and safe."
"Yes, Mrs. Moriarty, she's been fine. There were a couple of shifty hot dog vendors who looked like they might try something, but we crossed the street to avoid them."
Mom tuts at Penny. "Oh, stop your teasing. You know I worry about our little Madison, all alone in the big city. You never know what might happen."
"Mo-om!" I complain. "You know I lived alone on the steppe for two years, right? You know, riding horses, surviving minus 40 winters, hunted by wolves? I think I can manage to walk down Fifth Avenue without a bodyguard." I swear she gets worse every year.
"Humor your long suffering mother, Madison. You know I can't help but worry."
"Yeah," I reply, deadpan. "I'm very familiar with your worrying. Now let's order, OK?"
We sit in silence for a few minutes as my mind and stomach are overwhelmed by the menu. In the week I've been in town I've had at least one pizza a day. It's shameful, but you just can't get pizza this good back on the west coast, and I couldn't get it at all in Mongolia. Eventually I make my choice and we all place our orders.
"So how was the signing?" asks dad, sipping his beer. "Did they give you the star treatment?"
Stepbrother Fallen Page 10
