by Ev Bishop
Mia focused on her beverage again, first testing the temperature, then taking a large swallow. Was she going to ignore him? Was she preparing to argue? Was her lack of response a way of saying she agreed with him? He couldn’t decide what he hoped for more—that she’d let his request stand, or that she’d call him an idiot and say it was too late, that they were already somehow involved and would have to see how it played out.
She had practically drained her whole mug when she finally lowered it to her lap, hands wrapped tightly around it. “Being a friend, having a friend . . . Would that really complicate things so unbearably?”
Yes, he wanted to yell. If the friend was you, yes. He didn’t yell though. He didn’t even speak. He just shrugged.
Her face was sad. “I guess that makes sense. I came out here, to solitude, to try to find my way back to some semblance of a life. You came out here, went a lot further even, to try to keep life from touching you again.”
He didn’t disagree with her. “I’m not trying to be a dick. It’s just easiest.” “Safest, you mean. No risk of getting hurt or of one of us wanting more than the other person does.”
“Exactly.” He could practically see cogs turning in her head as she considered his words.
She bit her lip. “I agree. Very wise.” She stood and reached for his untouched mug, then sloshed its contents over the railing onto the hard ground. The cocoa mingled with the rain and was gone. “So I guess I’ll see you here Monday at one?” she added, her back to him.
“Yes. Right. Good,” he said.
He saw her nod, though she still wasn’t facing him. She headed for the cabin’s purple door.
“Mia . . .” Gray began, then faltered. He had no idea what he wanted to say. Or what he could say. He was only getting—and she was only giving—what he’d asked for.
Mia started at the sound of her name and turned. Even in the dusk’s fading light, she had noticeably paled. Her voice was tight and uncomfortable. “I totally forgot. There’s a new letter in the tree. I delivered it yesterday. Ignore it, and please don’t worry. I won’t send another.”
He opened his mouth to tell her he was sorry, that she shouldn’t feel self-conscious about the note, that his only “worry” was that he’d like it too much, but she waved a mug to silence him. “Seriously, Gray, I get it. We’re good.”
But they didn’t feel “good.” They felt distanced or like strangers or something. But that’s what he wanted, right? “Okay, then . . . till Monday.”
Mia closed the door behind her, leaving him alone outside.
Gray slid his waterproof pants over his jeans, pulled his slicker on, and did up the hood. He whistled for Wolf. The dog didn’t come. He whistled again. Still no luck. He was half way to the river when Wolf finally made an appearance, panting like he’d been running hard, his breath a steamy smoke in the rapidly cooling air.
Gray detoured to the Secret Keeper. If it was going to be their last secret communication, he should relish it, right?
Because it was nearly dark and the river was swollen with the heavy autumn rains, his preferred trek across the shallow part of the river was out of question—and no doubt would be until spring. Grateful for his rain gear, he took the longer route that incorporated the small makeshift bridge.
When he stepped out onto it, however, it seemed to sway a little. Gray paused, then took another cautious step. Did the boards beneath him give a bit? He bounced lightly where he stood, testing its strength, then took a few more tentative steps. Now everything seemed solid, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Sometime in the next few weeks, he’d return in the daylight and make sure the bridge didn’t need repair. And who knew? Maybe it was fine. He might be seeing danger where there was genuinely none.
Chapter 18
Mia stepped out onto the porch, steaming coffee mug in hand, and savored the cold smoky air. She sighed with deep contentment. God, it was beautiful here. The words were a prayer, something Mia hadn’t been able to do in a long, long time. She studied the mountains in the distance. They were cloaked in low-sitting clouds, and so gray in the strange netherworld light that was River’s Sigh in late fall that they looked like ancient stone castles rising out of the mist. The thought sparked the idea for a song, but she didn’t hurry to capture the lines. Gray had been right. Something had changed in her, or, more accurately, had reverted back. The words, the idea, would still be there when she was done sitting out here. Possibilities were once again never-ending.
It was like the massive rock of fear, anger and pain that had been weighting her down, holding her back, blocking her off to art, music, words, life, had shifted. She first consciously noticed the difference after the shopping day with Sam, though she was at a loss as to how such a nondescript moment—one pushy fan was nothing in the grand scheme of things, after all—could have such profound impact. But maybe it wasn’t just that. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of everything she’d been doing. Maybe the day with Sam was merely the final shove necessary to move the boulder that had already been nudged loose, rocked back and forth over time by the support of her mom and sister, the work with her therapist, her completely fluky wisdom in coming here—and Gray.
Gray. Good to his word, he’d kept coming for lessons. Every day she dreaded the heavy snow that would cut him off from her and end their sessions. So far, though, the snow had held off and he’d been able and willing to continue walking in. She’d lost track of how many classes they’d had together now, but it was the end of November and she was supposed to be going home in two weeks. She was confident that in all but the most extreme cases, if someone grabbed her or pinned her or tried to hold her down against her will, she could bust free. Go for the tender bits hard and fast, then split. And she was a kickass runner. Now anyway. She was grateful to Gray. And she had tried to leave it at that, tried hard, except—
Gray. Bad to his word—but to her delight—he had not broken off their letter writing habit. At the end of their first workout after his big “We Shalt Not” declaration, he’d turned to her casually. “I couldn’t just ignore that note of yours. Whenever you have time, there’s a reply.”
To her credit, she hadn’t literally run to the Secret Keeper the minute he was out of sight. But she may have jogged. At a fairly fast pace.
You are lovely, and your words are more than I deserve—but not reciprocated. Sorry.
If that’s all Gray had written on the blue-lined loose-leaf, their notes would’ve stopped as he had requested. But he had continued, after a six-line gap.
I had a box of wild crab apples that weren’t going to keep over winter very well, so I made jelly the other day. I like preserving because if you follow the prescribed steps, you get predictable results. In this case, first you make juice—and don’t squeeze your jelly bag. It’s important that you let the juice drip through at its own pace (best done overnight), or your jelly will be cloudy. Then you make your jelly, careful not to tinker with the recipe or it won’t set properly.
As I’m writing this, twelve jars are resting on the table, catching the last dregs of the day’s sun and glowing like polished amber.
It’s not the life for everybody, but as I go about the work involved in meeting my basic needs—water, food, shelter—and one day turns into the next and the next, it’s easy for me to imagine that I’m the solitary survivor of an apocalypse or something. I don’t feel lonely. There is even beauty in it. Peace.
Without saying it in so many words, Gray had explained what he had to give Mia—and that it was all that he had. She found it a heartrendingly telling and perceptive note. In a way, after all, Gray was an apocalypse survivor. She still didn’t know how yet exactly, but his whole world—his wife and child, his career, his friendships—had been destroyed. And he was living in the aftermath. Alone.
She was glad he found some beauty in his lifestyle, and even though she saw the flaws in it now and couldn’t embrace it for herself—knew that it was grief and fear behind his desire for
complete autonomy, not strength—she could appreciate that yes, it would be peaceful. It would feel safe. But he was a bit deluded saying that he wasn’t lonely. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have written back. And his stated basic needs “water, food, shelter” left out other things that were equally basic human needs . . . companionship, connection, personal growth . . .
No matter. Gray was right about one thing. His way was safer. For both of them. After her initial embarrassment and disappointment softened, she wrote back, keeping her response light.
And so their odd communications continued. Quotes from books, poems, and songs. Shared snippets of dreams and what they might mean. Newsy tidbits like what you might write to your aunt—or would’ve if you and your aunt had corresponded 100 years earlier. Gray’s lifestyle definitely harkened back to an older era.
Very cold today. Definitely needed wool socks. Too bad mine didn’t dry on the line fully—toes were frozen stiff. Guess laundry will have to become an inside job again.
On November 11, one came that made Mia cry.
So this is Remembrance Day. Ten years ago I was marching in a parade, unable to stop smiling, inappropriate or not, because Celine was in early labor. Our little son, Simon Gregory Robertson, appeared minutes before midnight.
The world was made new when he came into it, and the best part of me left it when he did.
There was no rhyme or reason to the when, why or what either of them sent. Sometimes they replied specifically to something said, but more often it seemed that offering a similarly intimate observation or recollection—even if it was along completely different lines—was a more fitting response. Sometimes she sent two or three notes to Gray’s one. Sometimes it was the reverse.
The only rule was that they never referred to their notes when they were in person, not even to say there was one waiting, after that initial time when Gray made it clear that they wouldn’t stop after all. The chance of a note, then the reading and relishing of a note, were the favorite parts of Mia’s day, and she didn’t try to pretend otherwise. They were also why she was such a good runner. If she was going running anyway, it only made sense to go to the tree, right?
Sinking into one of the Adirondack chairs, Mia pulled a wooly throw over her lap. She sipped her coffee, which had cooled to a perfect sipping temperature.
Gray.
Gray.
Gray.
She still hadn’t told him about her interest in the music shop. The timing had never been right—but he was the only thing making her second guess her new brainchild and change of plans. And she couldn’t let him.
She thought again of the supposed end date of her trip, of the fact that Jackie and her mom were expecting her return in two short weeks, back in plenty of time before Christmas. And she dwelled once more on the picture on her phone that had been lighting fires in her brain ever since she’d taken it, the day she was in town with Sam and Mo.
If asked, Mia would’ve been hard pressed to explain why today was the day she mustered her courage. It was just time, simple as that. Past time, even. She’d known the instant she’d seen the little shop for sale and ran her finger along the sparkling notes on its lonely window, that it was the new project she’d been waiting for. In the new town she’d make home.
She dug out her phone and entered the number she’d long since memorized.
An elderly baritone filled Mia’s ear. “Hello?”
“Hello, I’m looking for Keith Carlsen.”
“You’ve found him. What can I do for you?”
Mia introduced herself and why she was calling.
Keith cleared his throat. “You’re not some kid having me on, are you? It’s a great little spot and was real good to me for thirty years. I’m tired of lookie-loos—”
“No, sir. I’m serious. I want to look at it first, of course, but if everything’s in order, I’d like to buy it. Financing won’t be an issue.”
“Well . . . ”
For an edge-of-her-seat minute Mia thought she was about to be told she couldn’t have the store, that the man didn’t want to sell after all.
“Well . . .” he said again. “If this isn’t perfect timing. Just last night my nephew was pressuring me to clear everything out and sell the building, not the business.” He cleared his throat again and Mia was moved by his ragged emotion. “I would’ve been sad to see it come to that.”
“When’s a good time to view it?”
“How about today? Give me an hour, then come by any time. I’ll go over, soon as I’ve called my nephew and rubbed his nose in this new development.”
Mia laughed. “Whoa—you sure you don’t want to wait to gloat until I’ve signed papers or something?”
Keith’s low voice was absolutely serious. “If you’re genuinely in the market for a music shop, you’re going to take one look and fall in love. She’s a gem.”
“I already thought as much,” Mia said truthfully. “I’m super excited.”
Okay, so a hard-nosed deal seeker she wasn’t. She’d broken the cardinal rule of buying real estate by showing her eagerness—ah, well!
She told Keith she’d see him soon, ended the call, and pressed the phone to her chest, happiness waltzing through her. Her fluttery heart was beating almost as fast as when she worked out with Gray and excited anticipation tinkled in every nerve. She wanted to squeal like a kid—then did. It was crazy that completely changing your life could take less than two minutes!
Still grinning, she called Jackie. It would be better to get her to break the news to their mom, so she’d be somewhat prepared when Mia chatted to her next. Jackie, at least, understood that it was normal for a grown woman, married or not, to live apart from her parents—something their mom, despite how truly great she was in a lot of ways, God love her, didn’t get.
Mia spilled her news in a giddy rush.
“Wow—that’s a lot to take in,” Jackie said. “Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely. I think. No, I know. I’m excited about it, actually.”
“Well, you’ve definitely sounded different, in a good way, the last couple times we’ve talked.” Jackie’s voice grew teasing. “In fact, it’s made me wonder . . . this isn’t all because of some guy, is it?”
It had been forever and a day since Jackie had teased Mia about romance or men.
Mia must’ve taken too long to reply because Jackie exclaimed, “Holy crap, it is. You’ve met someone.”
Mia shook her head, which was stupid because Jackie couldn’t see her. “This is not because of ‘some guy.’ I promise.”
And it was true. “The guy” didn’t have a clue about her plans—and Mia was nervous to share them, afraid he’d misinterpret them.
There was a beat of silence. Then Jackie chortled, “Saying your change of plans isn’t because of some guy is not the same thing as saying that there isn’t a guy.”
Mia wouldn’t let herself be pulled into talking about a romantic relationship that didn’t exist, so she changed the subject. “Tell me what the kids are up to. I miss them.”
“They miss you too,” Jackie said, promptly forgetting all about any possible mystery man as she warmed to her favorite subject—her eight-year-old twins, Chase and Treja. “They’ll be more disappointed than Mom that you’re not coming home.”
Listening to Jackie chat on about the upcoming Christmas pageants and the kids’ hilarious wish lists, Mia, for about the millionth time, wondered what her life would have been like if she hadn’t been a child star, if her mom had just been her mom, not her manager, and if she was the sister who got to marry her high school sweetheart and have two kids instead.
Just before they wound up their call, Jackie asked one more time, “You’re really, really sure about this? And you won’t even visit until the new year?”
“I’ll let you know. I’m tempted to come for Christmas—just for a few days, though. I’ll have my hands full getting everything off the ground.”
Mia thought Jackie had left the
call and was about to hang up too, when Jackie’s voice came again, very softly. “I’m so happy for you, Me-Me. You’re finally back. And you’re following your heart again. It’s about time.”
Jackie’s use of her childhood pet name made Mia mist up a little. And yes, she agreed in her head. I am. And it is.
On that note, she ducked back inside, grabbed her bag and keys and headed out. Keith’s shop—no, her shop—was awaiting!
Chapter 19
One week to go. One week to go. One week to go. The words pounded in Gray’s head in time to the beat of his boots on the trail, encouraging him and making him despair in turn. The encouraging bit: He could manage not to say or do anything foolish or rash for one more pathetic week. Then Mia would be gone and he and his life could get back to normal. The despairing part: Mia would be gone. Somehow, despite his best intentions to keep her out of his head and the regular lies he fed himself about having his feelings under control, he couldn’t fool himself entirely. He was going to miss her like the dickens when she left. Like the dickens—now there was a phrase that would trigger her wild laughter, except that he wasn’t going to share these current thoughts with her. Doing so would fall into the “anything foolish” category that he was trying to avoid.
During the measly few months he’d known her, she had become part of the rhythm of his days. Visiting her in person, thinking about her, reading her notes, responding to them—it was never-ending, but in a good way, like how he felt when he was adding to his growing wood pile, despite knowing he had enough wood for two brutal winters, let alone one, or when he was organizing the food he had stored up in his pantry and root cellar. Okay, so perhaps the feelings she evoked weren’t really like that at all. It was a bad example. Still, time with her was satisfying and comforting—and fun—in ways that surprised him. Especially because less than a season ago, he would’ve, without question, said he’d never experience anything remotely like the emotions Mia kindled in him, ever again. Being so wrong about this defining belief really pissed him off.
