As I headed back to the cabin, where Wolfe was waiting, I knew that if one of us had to leave the area, it would be Jack and not me. I’d earned my place, so I would stay.
And what about Star? Where was he? Had he made it to the coast all by himself? Had he taken yet another detour to satisfy the wanderlust in his heart? Was anyone looking out for him? And how could we find him if I didn’t even know his real name?
With each step, my boots broke through the crust on top of the snow, glassy white shards breaking beneath the soles, burning up like small but determined frozen waves. I focusedon that sensation, of breaking through the surface and falling through, over and over again. That, rather than the feelings beneath my skin. A simmer of resentment toward Jack. Worry about Star. Feeling sorry for myself. Feeling bad about having left Jack behind, which was the worst one.
I was back at the cabin before I’d resolved anything, and Wolfe was waiting at the door. He gathered me in his arms, in the cold air, parka and all, and held me against his chest. His breath was warm along my neck as I bowed my head, forehead pressed hard to his chest, like I wanted to burrow inside of him and leave all my troubles behind.
“Tell me what you want,” Wolfe said, whispering against my skin, his arms feeling like a barrier through which nothing bad could reach me.
“I need to see him,” I said, because it was true. I’d run from a lot of things, but I owed it to Jack, this time, for the use of his thigh as a pillow. For other things. For just being good, even if that sometimes made me feel like a shadow, tainted with black and bad feelings. “But I’m not ready.”
“You’re in luck,” he said. He pulled me into the cabin. Divested me of my coat and boots, hanging the coat and putting the boots in the boot tray. “Just got off the phone with Mabel.” He busied himself making tea, pouring into mugs, stirring in sugar and milk, the ritual giving me a sense of calm. “Evidently—sit down—the town is in love with Jack?—”
“Figures,” I said. I sat down. Everyone loved Jack, pretty much everywhere we’d gone. I took the mug of milk and held it in my palms. Watched Wolfe sit across from me. The motions of our hands echoed each other.
“And Morgan is in love with Jack, and they’re all in on the surprise. A bright red truck for Jack, which costs twenty-thousand dollars, that might be better spent fixing the windows in that drafty old place.” Wolfe shook his head as if dismayed atthis recklessness. He sipped his tea and flicked his gaze at me. “Anyway, they’re giving him the truck on Wednesday. The whole town is invited to be there. I could go—” He paused and took a long sip of his tea. I watched his throat move over the swallow. “The point is, you might wait until after the surprise. And the storm that’s on the way.”
“Don’t want to spoil the surprise, I guess,” I said, a tad relieved.
Visions of Jack’s delight at the truck danced before me. Out of anything I might say or think about him, Jack gave good gift.
Star and I had found a red bandana somewhere. We’d washed and dried it and gave it, folded in a square, to Jack. I might have been for his birthday.
Upon receiving a simple gift that cost us no money and hadn’t even been wrapped, Jack’s delight was real. His face lit up as though we’d given him a hunk of gold. He unfolded the bandana and stuffed it in his back pocket with flair, admired it, and thanked us, all with a glow, goodwill and gratitude. He wore that bandana around his neck most of the time until he lost it.
I could just imagine what it’d be like to watch him receive something like a truck from someone who loved him. But if I went to the feed and grain just to watch from within the crowd, and if Jack spotted me, it would spoil the present; it would spoil his day. He deserved better.
“Let’s wait,” I said. “Until after the storm.” Let Jack enjoy his truck. It was the least I could do. Deep down, I was glad I didn’t have to face him right away.
“Okay,” Wolfe said. “We can go Thursday or Friday, depending on the roads.”
The town of Hysham was only ten miles or so away, but with a layer of snow from a storm, it might as well be one hundred miles. Those ten miles were all that separated me from a past I’d hoped to escape.
We had lunch. BLTs, which I remembered I adored, though when Wolfe made them, they were better than I remembered. He waited, not asking questions, waiting for me to say something. To express what was inside me, whirling around.
I’d learned long ago not to bother people with my problems, a bad habit I’d picked up from parents who were more concerned with appearances and what the neighbors would think. How well-behaved we were, my brother and I.
The issue of a skinned knee was handed over to the housekeeper; strep throat as well, or the time my brother cracked his collarbone when we’d been wrestling on the lawn. Not important. Don’t bother saying anything about it.
But Wolfe was different. So different that it took me a while to see it. How he was there, watching me as we worked in the workshop, testing the paints that arrived Monday afternoon, the UPS driver trundling off beneath a sky that was eggshell white, lowering itself as if it were settling in for a long haul.
He would want to know how I was feeling, only I was very bad at sharing.
Wolfe went to the store in Hysham on Tuesday, just to be sure we had enough bread and milk and butter and sugar. He also brought back frozen pizzas and, of course, more cake donuts. I stayed behind in the warm cabin, waiting like a woman who waited for her husband to come back from sea.
Hysham was only ten miles away, but the day before the storm, it felt as though Wolfe was gone forever. He’d not gone to the feed and grain, so he wouldn’t have seen Jack. I wanted to ask how Jack looked on the day Wolfe had seen him, if he was still wearing that leather jacket that was not very good against very bad weather and made him slouch because his shoulders were too big for it. But what should I care? We didn’t like each other, anyway.
When it got dark on Wednesday, early in the afternoon, a whomp of hard air hit the cabin, announcing the storm had arrived. Not a blizzard. Not a whiteout, according to Wolfe’s weather app. Just a sturdy storm set to drop at least half a foot everywhere, with temperatures bearable around zero degrees.
My hands were stained with paint. We’d figured out the use of color on all the key rings, mostly white and blue and green and red, with touches of yellow. The box where we kept finished lanyards was filling up.
Wolfe cooked a hearty stew, and after dinner, we watched the snow come down. After we did dishes, Wolfe built a fire and sat in his chair and pulled me on his lap which, as I settled in the warmth of his arms, my body curved into his, was probably where I’d been wanting to be all day.
I could feel the low thuds of his heart beneath me, his warm breath ghosting my ears, but it was his arms, iron bands that would never let me fall, that settled me the most.
He’d been giving me distance, and now he was taking it back, closing the gap between our bodies in the way only he could. Slow. Steady. Like a very still mountain that won’t take no for an answer.
With a sigh, I buried my face in his neck and watched the gold and blue flames dance from behind half-lowered lids.
