“Mendocino National Forest,” I whispered. “Here I come.”
I blasted from the little grocery store in the Mission District, easing down Valencia Street. Around me, Mission District hipsters celebrated Labor Day weekend. They held frozen margaritas and large burritos, twirling their mustaches and ogling one another.
I had been one of them for years, picking up on their culture the minute I darted from my office. I’d dated countless of them: men who told me the bands to listen to, the brands to buy to “do my part for the environment,” and even the houses to live in, based on my “personality” and “needs.” As if they could ever really know.
No. The fact was, I had always yearned to be out of the city. To walk through the forests and inhale the gorgeous, clean mountain air. I was a life-long city dweller, but I held something else within me. A desire to flee to the mountains. I had the idea that I could really think there, perhaps for the first time.
In some ways, I imagined I would make a different career move up there. That I would see all the holes in my current life and decide to mop it up, start clean. Maybe I could become an artist, like my father had been. Maybe I could go back to school.
Not that I didn’t love making a difference, as my mother often put it. “These people; they need you.”
But it had been a long time since I’d been able to separate myself completely from my work.
In any case, I wasn’t sure what the forest would bring me. But I was certain it would be more than I’d gleaned from the last several years. The constant 9 to 5, the constant humdrum, the men who never cut it or loved me enough or cared about anything besides my looks.
Once I darted out of the city and onto the highway, I exhaled deeply, feeling relieved. Already, the monkey on my back was falling away.
I turned up the radio and began to hum along, though feeling almost frightened to sing. Somehow, I hadn’t been alone with my thoughts in a long time, and I was certain someone could hear in.
As I drove, my phone buzzed twice—both with work-related emails. Slightly panicked, I shot my phone toward the backseat, knowing that they’d have to do the work without me for the seven days ahead. I had to pay attention to what my doctor had said, nearly a year before. “A vacation is your greatest medicine right now, Serena. Seems you’re working yourself to death. More meditation, maybe. More peacefulness. Otherwise, you’re going to age, prematurely. Already, I can see pre-wrinkles on your face.”
What the hell were pre-wrinkles, anyway? I had wanted to ask him, but instead I shuddered, knowing that my heart, mind and body were fighting back against my unrewarding schedule. I had to find peace.
The first sign for Mendocino National Forest blipped past me. I shifted my shoulders, leaning forward slightly. The cars had begun to filter off, proving that anyone who had left San Francisco for the holiday weekend hadn’t driven quite this far away. I was beyond them.
At the base of the mountain, a small town had sprung up: just a small grocery store, seemingly tacked together with a few spare logs and a painted sign, a gas station, a mechanic’s shop, and a church, a block up. The church was a bit crooked, with a cross that had been tacked to the outside. A sign out front read, “For He Is Risen”. An Easter sign, despite the September date. It felt very much that the world didn’t pay attention to the clock out that far. That the world had a different set of rules.
Checking the address a final time, I leaned on the gas pedal and revved the little car up the base of the mountain, toward the entrance of the National Park. After paying a small fee to a man wearing a brown National Park Service hat, I cranked toward the halfway point of the mountain, where the driveway eased off toward a quaint, rustic cabin. Removing the keys, I ducked out from the driver’s seat and edged toward the cabin, which was situated at the side of a crystalline lake. The water glowed with the mid-afternoon sun, showing the perfect fluff of the clouds above them.
Placing my hands on my hips, I felt my heart grow light, amazed. This world was not my world. Nothing about it was recognizable. And yet, I could already feel my breath coming and going with ease.
Closing my eyes, I snuck my foot from my wedged heel and eased my toe into the thin bit of water beneath me. It was icy, cool. A shiver rushed up my spine.
After a moment, I turned back toward the cabin. The front porch faced the water and was lined with cobwebs, each of them waving along with the wind. Ducking beneath one that crept from one post to the next, I maneuvered toward the door and walked through it, knowing that the key would be on the kitchen table. These had been my instructions. I could lock it when I pleased—but there was no need to lock the door when no one was around. The place had nothing but a table, two chairs, and a bed. I’d even had to bring my own sheets.
Scanning the cupboards, I realized my stomach had cramped with hunger. Rubbing at my stomach, I reasoned that I wouldn’t be able to get in a comfortable evening hike if I didn’t even have something to eat.
I bounced back through the front door, darting toward my car. In my head, I began to calculate an appropriate grocery list for the week ahead. Eggs. Bread. Cheese. Maybe a bit of chocolate. Certainly some wine. I’d spend the week drinking and reading and even writing, maybe. I’d spend the week doing precisely what I liked, just alone.
As I marched from the porch, I spotted a serene moored boat, bobbing in the distance. The top was a bright red, but foggy looking as evening crept across the lake. I was disappointed I couldn’t yet relax, or dive into this world. But I resolved myself to drive quickly and not make a single detour.
What else could I get up to around there, anyway?
Chapter 2
Serena
Driving back down the mountain so soon after I’d darted up was almost embarrassing. I hung my head as the National Park worker gazed at me, confusion in his eyes. “I’m not giving up,” I wanted to tell him. “I’m here for an entire week! You’ll see!” Just then, I looked like an inexperienced nobody, a scavenger from the city, trying to reap the rewards of the mountain life.
It reminded me of the time my mother and I had tried to make a bonfire on the beach. We’d stacked a large pile of twigs and logs, making a proper triangle, only to discover we’d left the matches at home. We’d left the pile of tinder, hanging our heads. We’d gotten pizza on the way home and eaten it on the floor, in our pajamas. The antithesis of our goal.
The grocery store was a generic version of every specialty store in San Francisco. I entered, hearing the early ‘90s soundtrack, and set to work. I grabbed a bottle of wine, some juice and water, and three small chocolate bars. I opted for bread and cheese, some dried fruit, and some almonds, knowing that I’d be out in the woods for long days of hikes, and I couldn’t mess around with “diet” foods, like I did back in the city.
In fact, after not missing a day at the gym for the last six months, I resolved to eat whatever I pleased. With that thought, I piled another bottle of wine into the cart. “Why the hell not?” I breathed to myself. I needed to lighten up. Wasn’t that the point of this trip?
I piled the food and drink into a brown paper bag and paid with my debit card, flashing the cashier with a bright smile. “Pretty around here,” I told her.
“You one of them from the city?” she asked me, a single eyebrow rising high on her forehead.
“Erm… Yeah, I’m from San Francisco,” I said, feeling a sigh escape my lips. “Why?”
The woman snorted. “No reason. Can smell the city on you, I guess.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. I gathered the brown paper bag, adjusting my shoulders.
“Just up the mountain, in a cabin,” I told her, almost trying to prove myself. It wasn’t like I’d opted for a hotel down the road. I’d be up there, building a fire with the matches I’d brought—I’d checked twice, just to make sure. Huddling in my blankets for warmth.
“Hmm,” the woman grumbled, adding a final, sarcastic “Good luck.”
I flashed my eyes toward her nametag, feel
ing my tongue stutter. Her name was Joy, a rather ironic name for such a sour character.
Before I said anything I didn’t mean, I spun toward the door and entered the parking lot. The sun had drawn lower in the night sky, casting long shadows. I’d now given up on my hike for the evening, choosing to replace it with a large glass of wine, perhaps a bit of meditation on the porch. If I felt especially daring, I could leap into that icy blue lake.
I guided my car back toward the cabin, pointing toward the tags on my car as I swept past the entrance to the National Park. The man at the entrance waved a burly hand. We were now familiar with one another. I was a part of the ecosystem.
Beyond the entrance, I drove along the winding paved path, glancing around the forest. The trees were mostly pines, thick, with their needles reflecting the last of the afternoon light. About a half-mile more, as I closed in on the cabin, I felt the car begin to sputter beneath me. I squeezed the steering wheel, feeling fright bubble in my stomach.
“No. You can’t do this to me,” I murmured, feeling smacked. I pushed my foot harder on the gas pedal, feeling the car strain. “Come on, baby.”
But it seemed that the harder I pushed on the gas pedal, the slower the car crept. After another moment, the tires no longer pulsed forward. Only the engine howled.
With my nostrils flared, I cut the engine and leaned back, huffing. Beads of sweat had begun to spew down my forehead and along my spine. My phone told me, in no uncertain terms, that there was no service. Zero bars.
This wasn’t the 21st century any longer. I was on my own.
With my car still on the side of the road, I darted from the driver’s seat and lifted my brown bag, adjusting it in my arms. Glancing back down the mountain—a steep trek, indeed, I reasoned it would be best to bring my things into the cabin, hunt for a phone book or something, and call someone to come take a look at the car. If I couldn’t find anything by nightfall, then, hell, I’d just crack open the wine and try to find an alternative tomorrow.
I began to trudge up the mountain, leaning forward, clinging to the brown paper sack and feeling the sweat pool at the base of my back. The minutes clicked on, and still, I felt I was growing no closer to the cabin. To the side, I heard a shuffle. Glancing, panicked, I watched as a group of three squirrels whirled up the tree, chasing one another. Their tails bobbed and fluttered.
“Shh,” I whispered to myself, recognizing the fear rising in my heart. “It’s just a squirrel.”
But the sound of my own voice did nothing for me. I stopped, adjusting my stance, and turned back toward the car. It was now maybe three football fields away from me—pointed upward, so that I could only see its bright red nose. I felt stress rally in my stomach, something familiar in my normal life as an attorney.
The whole point of coming into the wilderness was to avoid that stress, I thought. The whole point was to dive into the forest, meditate, relax, find inner peace. But with the sweat continuing to pour, with my eyes blinking back tears, I felt nothing but sadness and shame. Who was I kidding? I was a city girl, hunting for a picture-perfect unreality.
With a sigh, I turned around and began to trudge back up the mountain, knowing that I couldn’t give up that night. It wasn’t like I could turn around and drive home.
As I pushed, my thighs screaming, I heard the chug of a vehicle behind me, slowly creeping up the path. Darting to the side, I tilted my head, gesturing for the driver to pass me. I sensed how pathetic I looked, and I didn’t want to look him in the eye.
But as the car approached me, it began to slow. It crept up beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that it was a dark brown truck, an old-fashioned one, with large wheels and wide windows. Determined not to look weak, I continued to walk, my chin up and my eyes focused on the way ahead. The truck’s window began to slide down, forcing me to hear the crackling of its radio. It was the same station I’d been listening to on the route up. Early ‘90s.
I heard the giggling of a little girl. Flashing my eyes to the left, I found myself peering into the bright blue eyes of a young girl—perhaps six or seven years old, with slightly crooked, yet adorable front teeth. After a moment’s pause, the girl giggled again, giving me a smile.
“Hi,” she said, her voice high-pitched. “Are you all right?”
I stopped walking, nearly falling backwards due to the steepness of the mountain. Adjusting my bags, I couldn’t help but smile back at the girl.
“Hey there.”
“You look lost,” the girl continued.
Blinking several times, I peered over the top of the girl’s head at the driver.
With a jolt, I met with a pair of dark blue, gorgeous eyes, belonging to a man of about 32 or 33. He was handsome, his face somber yet kind. Even from where I stood, I recognized that he had a seriously muscular frame, that he was tall and broad. After a pause, he gave me a small smile—something that seemed a rarity for him. It seemed that he normally let the girl do the smiling for him.
“I’m not lost,” I sighed, trying to make myself smile. “I’m just…”
“That’s your car down the road, then?” the driver asked. His voice was deep, steady. I wanted to cling onto it.
“Sure is.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“It just stalled out,” I sighed. “I wanted to call a mechanic or something, once I got back to my cabin.”
The man gave me a nod. “We can take you the rest of the way.”
My brain began to rush with all the facts of the forests I’d learned over the years. First off, that any random stranger you meet on the road is probably out to murder you. But I sensed that I had another quarter of a mile to walk, all up hill, and my thighs were straining.
“Come on, now,” the man said. He dropped his hand to the seat between him and the younger girl. “Gracie, scoot over.”
Gracie. For some reason, the humanity of this name was something to cling to.
I gave them a soft smile and ducked forward, trying to reach for the handle of the truck door. But as I strained, the brown paper sack began to fall to the ground. With a jolt, the strange man darted around the car, showing me his incredible, muscular shoulders, and his height, perhaps 6 foot 3.
“I got it,” he said, opening the door wide. He brought his hands beneath the brown paper sack, bringing it toward him. In the exchange, his hands brushed mine.
I shivered. For some reason, as I passed him the brown paper sack, I couldn’t look him in the eye. It was like staring into the sun.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I stepped up to the truck seat, giving Gracie another smile. “You’re Gracie, huh?”
“Sure am,” she said, bouncing slightly. She adjusted a seatbelt over her waist. “And what’s your name?”
“I’m Serena,” I told her. “And this is your dad, I assume?”
The handsome driver slotted the brown paper sack behind the seats, then dropped back behind the steering wheel. He gripped it, raising his dark eyebrows high.
“I’m Ethan. Ethan Tiller. Great to meet you, and glad we caught you. Walking this road is a killer. People come out here from the city to lose weight doing it.” He laughed with a wonderful boom, glancing down at my trim frame. Suddenly, I felt completely aware of every crevice of my body. My every angle. My every curve. “Course, you don’t need that,” he offered.
Wait, was he complimenting me?
I swallowed sharply, waiting. I wondered what on earth I was getting up to, allowing this strange mountain man to whisk me off. What was I doing, so far outside of the city? What was I trying to prove?
Chapter 3
Serena
Ethan cranked up the engine once more and Gracie giggled as we burst up the incline. There was a long moment of silence, during which I scrambled to find something to say. Anything to make me sound interesting, enticing. I was incredibly conscious of the sweat that had bubbled up on my forehead. I swiped at it, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“Do you guys live up here?” I
asked, hardly able to recognize my own voice.
“We do,” Ethan said. “We’ve lived up here for a few years now. Gracie doesn’t even remember another world. She’s my little mountain girl.”
Gracie gave me a side smile, peering up at me with incredible innocence. I felt my stomach shift. It had been a long time since I’d interacted with a child, and I wondered if my years in the courtroom had hardened me, made me unapproachable. Although I’d always longed for children, I felt a sense of nervousness around Gracie.
“It’s gorgeous up here,” I sighed, returning my gaze to the pine trees around us. “I swear, I haven’t left the city in years.”
“That would drive me wild,” Ethan said. “I need to feel like I can breathe. I’ve lived in cities, in towns, everywhere. But I don’t feel more like myself than when I’m up here in the woods.” He paused, listening to the crackling radio. “What drew you here in particular?”
“Erm…” I paused, remembering the day I’d been half-crazed, slightly drunk, pointing a finger at the various national parks surrounding the city. “I think it was the right distance from everything I knew. It was far enough away that I wouldn’t just turn around the minute I got here.”
“You’d have to stick it out,” Ethan affirmed. “Now, with your car troubles, looks like you really can’t run back.”
I shot my finger toward the front, pointing. “There’s my cabin,” I said. “Tucked away into the trees, there. You see it?”
“A-ha.”
Ethan eased the truck down the gravely driveway, parking it beneath a large pine. Its limbs whipped above it, taking on the crisp, evening wind.
Lucky Baby - A Secret Baby Standalone Romance (A Baby for the Bad Boy Book 3) Page 13
