Seventh Wonder

by Renae Kelleigh

  “That was quick,” said John, turning away from Meg in time to glimpse a blaze of lightning as it prized apart the sky. He looked from the cottage to Meg. “We’d better make a run for it - the rain’ll be here any second.”

  She scrambled to her feet and scooped up her shoes, then grabbed John’s extended hand. They darted from beneath the trees just as the front swept in and assaulted them with torrents of bone-chilling water. The cottage, not a hundred yards away, suddenly seemed much farther.

  Meg’s fingers were tingling and her feet were numb by the time they reached the scant cover of the porch. John flung the door open and pushed her through. He kept one arm bent around her waist to protect her from slipping as she stumbled forward.

  When he let her go to check that the door was firmly shut, Meg dropped her sodden shoes and gathered her wet hair in one hand. Her jaw was clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.

  “Now that,” said John, spinning around to face her, “was a flash flood.”

  Her thoughts were momentarily diverted as he took a step towards her: his cheeks ruddy, his hair in dripping tendrils, his soaked shirt molded to the slabs of muscle that he wore like a suit of animate stone. If the predatory glimmer in his eyes was any indication, her appearance was having a similar effect on him, though she couldn’t fathom why. She was well aware of how she must look: hair matted, face blotchy and red. She offered a sheepish smile anyway as she pulled in a breath that whistled between her teeth.

  John wrapped her in his arms, fitting her head beneath his chin. Rather than circle his waist with her arms, she kept them tucked inward for warmth, like folded up bird’s wings pressed between them.

  “Meg,” he murmured, like a subtle reproof. “You’re frozen.” He nestled her closer while sliding his big hands up and down her bare arms, and she burrowed against his chest, relaxing into the humid comfort of his body heat. Meanwhile, rain crashed and clattered against the metal sheeting of the roof.

  John pulled back, stooping to meet her eyes. “Your lips are blue.” He held the side of her face and smudged his thumb across her bottom lip while fingering the hem of her soaked shirt. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”

  Meg struggled to get a handle on her shivering as he walked away. Her trembling seemed absurd given that, all told, they’d only been in the rain for half a minute. She supposed there was more to it than simply being cold.

  “Put this on,” said John, proffering a neatly folded shirt. He was frowning. “I don’t...I haven’t got any pants that will fit you.”

  “That’s all right,” she answered quickly. “I can leave my shorts on underneath.”

  He didn’t disagree, though he appeared unconvinced.

  “Where shall I...?”

  He nodded to a door behind her. “There’s the bathroom.” His voice was gruff. “Take a shower, too, if you want - the water is good and hot. There are towels in the cupboard.”

  “Thank you,” she replied quietly, wresting the shirt from his fingers.

  The bathroom, like the rest of the cottage, was tiny but serviceable: on the left, a pedestal sink and commode; on the right, a clawfoot tub with a white curtain. The tiled floor was covered in a threadbare blue rug, while above the sink hung a mirror flecked with age. A narrow shelf held a safety razor and a shaving brush and bowl, along with a toothbrush and half-squeezed tube of paste.

  Meg laid John’s shirt on the sink and peeled off her wet clothes. For a moment she paused, still shivering, examining the reflection of her naked torso in the mirror. It was strangely invigorating, being nude, knowing he continued to move about just beyond the flimsy barrier of the door.

  She bent over the tub and twisted one of the knobs, then waited as water gushed from the spigot. A moment later, a thin veil of steam obfuscated the mirror and breathed warmth into the confined space. Meg stepped into the tub and tugged the curtain closed, then switched the lever to redirect water through the showerhead.

  She rinsed off quickly despite how wonderful it felt, using a little of John’s pine scented soap and a small amount of his shampoo. After toweling off, she lifted the soft flannel shirt he’d given her. She slid her arms through the too-long sleeves and shoved them up to her elbows, then buttoned the front. The shirt fit her like a dress, falling just above her knees. She stepped back into her underwear but was loath to don her sodden shorts, which were sure to cause chafing.

  For a long moment, she gripped the sides of the sink basin, her eyes cast downward. What would John think, she wondered, if she walked out of this room wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of panties? Granted, the shirt was long enough that even if she slipped the shorts back on, they’d be invisible underneath...

  Meg lifted her gaze to inspect her reflection. Her eyes were half-lidded, drugged from the heat, and her cheeks were florid (whether from the steam or her salacious thoughts she couldn’t be sure). The ends of her hair dripped rapidly cooling water, forming damp spots on her chest.

  Just be confident, she told herself. Hold your head high, as if nothing is amiss. Fleetingly she thought of Faye, who would likely think nothing of strutting about perfectly naked.

  She snapped her shirt and shorts off the ground and bundled them in a tight rectangle, then threw open the door before she could think further on the subject.

  A turntable on the dresser spun Coltrane, languid and smooth. The rain had tapered off to a drizzle that tapped its fingers against the back window. John, meanwhile, stood with his back to her, presiding over the tiny stove. He was freshly dressed in a dry change of clothes, but his damp hair was rumpled, and his feet were bare. It was the least kept Meg had seen him - the effect was quite becoming.

  He turned slowly and seemed to do a double take when he saw her. Meg drew in a deep breath. “I feel much better,” she said, dropping her wet clothes on the ground next to her shoulder bag. “Thank you.”

  John’s eyes flashed. For a moment she wondered whether he’d been struck mute. Finally, with a curt nod, he cleared this throat and turned back to the stove. “I’m heating water. I know you don’t care for coffee, but I have some loose tea.” He turned back to her and stared resolutely at her face as he brandished a metal canister.

  Meg skirted around the table. Rather than taking the canister from him, she curled her hands around his and brought it to her face. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she inhaled the floral fragrance of the tea. When she reopened her eyes a moment later, John stood stock-still before her, his eyes bright and his jaw tense as he watched her face.

  “Smells fabulous,” Meg said, releasing his hands and the canister. She smiled complacently before turning away, wondering where on earth she’d mustered this sense of aplomb. She felt his gaze on her as she moved away from him, and she imagined his eyes roaming from the loose draping of his shirt over her feminine curves, to the bare backs of her legs. The thought was a heartening one: it further fueled her newfound courage.

  Meg was careful to keep her legs together as she took a seat at the table. She smoothed the shirt as far as she could across her lap and batted her hair behind her ears. John transferred the kettle and two mugs to the table before positioning himself across from her. For a moment, the only sounds were the clinking of silverware and swirling of water as Meg scooped tea into a strainer and John stirred milk and a liberal teaspoonful of instant coffee in his cup. They tasted their drinks in silence.

  “You’re doing it again,” Meg observed a minute later.

  His eyes creased with implicit knowing, the barest trace of a grin. “Doing what?” He took a sip of his coffee but kept his gaze fixed on her over the rim.

  “Looking at me...like that.”

  “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

  She wrapped both hands around her mug and grinned covertly into her tea. “No,” she replied softly. “I don’t mind it.”

  “Good,” said John. He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Because I plan on doing it a lot.” His tone was no different than it w
ould have been if he’d just announced his intention of reading the newspaper or checking the mail. No-nonsense. Matter-of-fact. Meg pursed her lips to one side in an effort to conceal her smile.

  She drew her legs up to rest her heels at the chair’s edge, tugging on John’s shirt to cover her knees. “What are these?” she asked, nodding to a stack of oblong, rectangular cartons perched atop another of his sketchbooks.

  He picked the topmost box and slid off its lid. “Photographs,” he replied, tipping the box to show her the row of 35 millimeter slides. “I used to draw from memory, but I found I was missing important details, like the angle of the sun or the shapes of certain shadows. These help me remember.”

  “Do you mind?” asked Meg, pointing as she reached for the box.

  “Not at all.” He slid the box across the table, then crossed the room to fetch a handheld viewer from the writing desk by the window.

  “Are they in any particular order?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he replied dismissively. “As long as they end up in the same box.”

  He handed her the viewer and crouched behind her with one hand clutching the table on either side of her chair. Meg plucked out a slide from the middle of the row and popped it in the viewer. A photo of a turquoise waterfall surrounded by cliffs the color of crumbling brick flashed on the small screen.

  “God, that’s beautiful,” she whispered. Twisting in her seat, she was taken aback by the proximity of John’s face to her own. “Where was this taken?” she asked.

  “That’s Mooney Falls,” he said. “It’s about an eight mile hike down from the western rim, in Havasupai.” He picked another slide from the box and held it up to the light before handing it to her. Meg switched the slides and pressed the button to illuminate an image of another waterfall.

  “That one is Beaver Falls,” he said. Pointing to one bench of the multitier falls, he added, “These are travertine pools. It’s this kind of limestone that forms when calcium carbonate mineralizes rapidly in the water.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “It’s pretty amazing, actually, because it means the creek is constantly changing. New formations are always being created, and it continually changes the flow of the water.”

  Meg looked up at him.

  “What?” John asked, catching the smile that touched her lips.

  She gave a minute shake of her head. “Show me more.”

  * * *

  She wanted him to kiss her again.

  They’d spent the last hour poring over photos and sketches. (John came more alive as he spoke - his sweeping gestures and the swinging cadence of his deep voice reminded Meg of a cartoon. Kaibab limestone, Hermit shale, Coconino sandstone: these were the words he spouted as he wove an elaborate tale of the canyon’s natural history. Never before had Meg found rocks so terribly captivating. Furthermore, she was surprised to find that her teacher’s exceptional attractiveness had remarkably little to do with her newfound fascination.)

  He’d touched her as he talked. A squeeze of her hand, the graze of a knuckle against her cheek. But a serious dearth of kissing. They were lounging on his bed (on his bed!) with papers and slides scattered across the comforter: John stretched out on his side, Meg positioned cross-legged across from him.

  “Are you hungry?”

  John’s question interrupted her prurient thoughts.

  “Yes, come to think of it.” She took hold of his arm, felt powerful with the way it tensed from her touch. She lifted his wrist to inspect the face of his watch: five past seven. The rain had stopped, and the sun was sliding toward the horizon.

  There was strain in his face as he looked at her. “I don’t tend to cook much, since it’s just me.” He sat up. “I can see what I’ve got. Or we could, um...order in.”

  Why did he seem so anxious about suggesting such a thing?

  “I didn’t realize room service was an option,” she replied, smiling faintly as she gathered the slides into a loose pile.

  “Only for local celebrities,” he said with a wink.

  “Well then, I don’t see as I have a choice,” Meg said. “I ought to take advantage of your stardom while I’m able.”

  John climbed off the bed and, taking his billfold from the bedside table, tucked it in his back pocket. “I’ll have to walk up to the lodge to put in our order. Any special requests?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “I’m a dessert enthusiast.”

  He grinned. “That makes two of us, then.”

  She followed him to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob, and it was as if he was about to break a hermetic seal on the cloistered existence they’d contentedly shared. She could imagine him opening the door and letting the whole world rush in, the good and the ugly, and she was left feeling unexpectedly bereft.

  Besides, she’d nearly forgotten she was dressed in only an oversized shirt.

  John seemed to register her dishabille in roughly the same moment. He paused, letting his fingers slip from the knob as his eyes traveled the length of her body. Without speaking, he closed his arms around her waist and pulled her snugly against him. Meg’s blood surged and fired, pressing hotly against the bounds of her skin.

  He lowered his face, angling it beneath her jaw line. She could feel his breath against her neck as his lips came within a hair’s breadth of her throat. “Can I ask you a favor?” he murmured.

  As if she could deny him anything. “Yes.”

  “Stay just like this until I get back.” He kissed her neck, and her eyes fluttered shut. When she exhaled, her breath was tinged with something that sounded suspiciously like a moan.

  He stepped away and the door opened before Meg had had even a moment to negotiate her chaotic brain activity. “I’ll hurry,” he said.

  Then he was gone.

  Meg stumbled backward, not quite conscious of her own feet. She looked down, trying to see herself the way John might - as something to be desired.

  Her bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as she ran into the bathroom. She switched on the tungsten light and peered into the mirror over the sink.

  She touched her lips, softly at first, then pressing them against her teeth. She’d always disliked her mouth, feeling her bottom lip was too full to suitably match its counterpart. Now, however, under this light, in this cottage, freshly kissed by the only man she could remember caring for... Now her mouth possessed a certain allure she’d never noticed before. Her face, which she’d previously thought plain, had an enticing glow to it. Her hair had dried in soft, tumbling waves, and the overhead light gave her olive eyes an emerald cast.

  Perhaps, she thought, she was even pretty - as John had intimated more than once.

  She passed the time lying in his bed with a book of W.H. Auden poems, twirling her hair as a girl would as she slowly turned the pages.

  When John returned, he tapped lightly on the door before entering. It seemed charming yet odd, considering this was his house. He tarried in the doorway a moment, looking at her on his bed, before lugging a paper sack over to the counter. Meg laid the book face down with the spine tented and went to help him.

  Veal fricassee. Fingerling potatoes. Brown bread with compound butter. They moved silently: uncrating, stacking bowls, buttering bread. This time Meg accepted John’s offer of a beer, even though she’d never cared much for it. Everything else looked, smelled and sounded different - perhaps the beer would taste different. Perhaps it would be better.

  They carried their plates to the bed without first discussing it, as if they’d simply planned it that way. Meg pushed the book aside and settled against the pillows; John crawled across her lap to sit beside her, propped up against the headboard.

  “What were you reading?” he asked, lifting the book to inspect its cover.

  “Auden,” she said. “I’m assuming you’ve read it? It was on your shelf.”

  “Some of it.” He scooted down a bit, till the top of his head was even with Meg’s. “Read to me?”

  She wat
ched him a moment to verify he was serious. When he didn’t laugh, Meg picked up the book. She took a bite of her dinner before starting:

  “Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

  That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

  But on earth indifference is the least

  We have to dread from man or beast.

  How should we like it were stars to burn

  With a passion for us we could not return?

  If equal affection cannot be,

  Let the more loving one be me.

  Admirer as I think I am

  Of stars that do not give a damn,

  I cannot, now I see them, say

  I missed one terribly all day.

  Were all stars to disappear or die,

  I should learn to look at an empty sky

  And feel its total darkness sublime,

  Though this might take me a little time.”

  As she read, John inscribed feather light circles on the bare expanse of her leg. When she finished, he stilled.

  “Do you feel that way?” he asked.

  “What way?”

  “‘If equal affection cannot be/Let the more loving one be me,’“ he quoted.

  Meg replaced the book on the bed. She cast her eyes downward as she used her spoon to draw figure eights in her stew. “I think I’ve lived it,” she said softly. “It’s what I told myself at the time - that if there couldn’t be balance, I’d rather be the one to give more of myself. In the end... I’m not sure I liked feeling that way anymore.”

  When she looked up, his gaze was attached to her face. “What happened?” His voice was quiet, like an indrawn breath.

  “More than I should’ve stood for,” Meg admitted. “I ought to have seen it coming. He said he loved me, too, and I told myself he did - but now I’m not sure.” She chewed on a piece of bread, not quite able to meet John’s eyes. “Maybe there’s something noble in loving someone more than they love you - something humbling?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel good, though. Love... It’s supposed to make you feel good.” She flicked a sheepish glance at John. “At least I think.”