I take a grateful sip and nod before looking at Forrest, who’s calmly cutting his mystery meat, completely unconcerned by my choking. Without looking up, he says, “I’m not your doctor, Dad.”
At this, it’s Jo who laughs. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Margot. Trap would still be in a medical facility in Anchorage if Forrest hadn’t moved up from Los Angeles to take care of him.”
Finally recovered from my coughing fit, I can only sit and stare, completely stunned. He’s fromL.A.? He gave up California to livehere? I take in Forrest’s profile, chastened by my assumptions. I know better than anyone what it’s like to have the rug ripped out from under you when a loved one becomes unwell. How your priorities do a sudden Rubik’s Cube rearrangement until your life no longer resembles the one you were living before. Howyoufade out, eclipsed by the endless details of another person—their water consumption, their medication schedule, their symptoms, and their gains.
“Is that true?” I ask him, almost hoping he’ll deny it. I don’twant to feel this empathy or admiration for a man whose gravitational pull requires active resistance.
He glances quickly at me, then away. “I’m not a practicing physician. But I do care for him.”
“But you are a physician,” argues Alice, mid-chew. It reminds me to eat my own food. “You went to school for about a hundred years, didn’t you?”
At this, a corner of his full lips hitches reluctantly. I try not to notice how soft they look between the carved lines of his nose and jaw. “Now, that’s a fact,” he agrees, taking another bite. He swallows, and I watch the muscles of his throat work. “But you know I went into research, Alice. Not patient care.”
Alice gives a side to side head movement as if to say “potato, potahto.” “Last time I checked, your email footer said ‘Forrest Wakefield, MD, PhD.’ If that doesn’t make you a physician, I’m a monkey’s guncle.”
“Don’t be modest, Forrest,” agrees Yoon. “We’re all grateful you’re here with Trap. He couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Truer words never spoken,” Trapper agrees with a catch in his voice. He’s looking at his son with a level of love and pride I thought was reserved for Hallmark movies. Then again, maybe this is how lots of fathers look at their children, and I just happened to draw one of the short straws. Maybe the shortest straw of all. I take a sip of wine to wash away the sudden bitterness in my mouth.
Forrest clears his throat uncomfortably. “And speaking of hands,” he says in a tone that firmly signals a subject change, “you two have any luck climbing Widow’s Neck today?”
At this, I feel Ollie perk up beside me, but Topher answers first. “It was a killer climb. Perfect rec for today, man. The valley views were unreal at the top.”
“Where are we headed on Saturday? Any hints?” Ollie asks.
Forrest shrugs. “No need for mystery. Thought we could hike up to Eagle’s Point if that suits the group.” He looks towardAlice, Yoon, Ollie, and Topher for their input, completely skipping over me.
“Oh, absolutely,” Yoon says enthusiastically. “We haven’t hiked Eagle’s Point since, what, Ally, 2005?”
Nods of agreement and excited chatter flicker through the group, but Ollie notices my silence and nudges me with his elbow. “Up for a hike?”
I press my napkin to my mouth as I swallow some caramelized carrots, trying not to laugh. “Hike? Me? Oh, no. I’m an indoor cat. An indoor cat who has an entire manuscript to write.”
“What? No!” Ollie exclaims. “You’ve gotta come. Alaska’s meant to be experienced outside.”
“Poetic, dude,” Topher says, nodding slowly.
“It’s sweet of you to invite me,” I say, throwing a self-deprecating smile at Ollie, “but do younotremember how you found me tonight? I’d only slow you down.”
He laughs softly, his brown eyes warm in the candlelight. On my other side, Forrest makes a sound in the back of his throat like a boot grinding gravel.
“I don’t mind slowing down,” Ollie promises me.
Leaning forward to look down the table, Topher says, “Back us up, Forrest. She’s gotta come.”
Forrest shakes his head. “Can’t. She’s right about slowing us down. Eagle’s Point isn’t a hike for…” He catches my gaze for the first time all night, and my stomach is convinced I’ve jumped out of an airplane. “Amateurs,” he finishes, like it’s a replacement for “idiots.”
Anger and embarrassment quickly replace all swoopy feelings in my body, and if I didn’t have the very real fear of falling off a cliff into a bear’s nest, I would insist on going on this hike just to spite him.
“Well, we have a few days. I’m sure I can bring you around.” Ollie grins, nudging my knee with his beneath the table.
The rest of dinner is filled with stories from the last few Saturday wilderness excursions. These weekly adventures are apparently included with booking at North Star Lodge and have always been led by Trapper, until Forrest had to step in. I couldn’t be less interested. The only thing I’m looking forward to on Saturday is having Forrest and his big Heathcliff energy off the property.
“Did you bring any of your books with you?” Ollie asks, returning to the topic of my writing as we finish dessert—a wild-blueberry streusel with maple ice cream.
“I did,” I say, popping the last decadent crumb into my mouth with my fingers. “Sometimes I have to reference them. Don’t want to use the same jokes twice, you know?”
“I’d love to borrowBetween Two Worldsif you can part with it,” he says. Then, “Maybe I can grab it when we walk back to your cabin?”
