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He opens his mouth to speak but then closes it, as if thinking better of whatever he was going to say. “So … does that mean you’re saying yes?”
I let out an exaggerated sigh. “I am saying I will consider it.” Maybe I should also consider therapy, because I can’t believe I’m humoring Jonah with this.
“Hey, Jonah!” Chris hollers from the bar, the phone receiver pressed to his ear. “You still planning on taking Andrea’s truck up to Trapper’s Crossing today?”
“Uh …” Jonah watches me hopefully.
I feel my face twist with bewilderment. “Unbelievable! So, they were in on this, too? It’s a conspiracy!”
He shrugs sheepishly. “We needed to borrow their truck, anyway, for the open houses. I figured we could drive up and check out the area while we’re here. See what you think.”
I fall back into my seat, letting out a groan.
The slow-blooming sly grin on Jonah’s face tells me he thinks he’s already won.
I shake my head at his arrogance. “I have conditions.”
His eyes narrow warily. “Like what?”
“I’ll let you know when I come up with them. And they’re nonnegotiable, by the way.” A thought strikes me. “But for now … two words”—I hold up my fingers for emphasis, leaning across the table toward him, to mouth in a mock seductive way—“The Yeti.”
Jonah grimaces and I catch the whisper of “Ah, fuck” under his breath.
My lips curl into a vindictive smile.
* * *
Jonah’s hands grip the steering wheel of Andrea’s pickup truck as we ease to a sliding stop on the slick road. Nothing of Phil’s property is visible here, the driveway a long lane curving around the trees—spruces with their limbs sagging beneath the weight of snow and naked deciduous trees serving as a natural wall.
But ahead of us is where my attention settles, on the vast white wilderness, on the jagged peaks that reach far into the dusky sky, the mauve hue of the last moments of sun caressing the looming mountain before nightfall.
Never in my wildest dreams did I expect a view like this where I live.
And we can have this every day.
“You haven’t said much.” I feel Jonah studying my profile, hear the worry in his tone. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I’m thinking … Trapper’s Crossing is sleepy, but it’s not dead. I watched as we drove along the main road—Main Street would be a misleading name for the paved, two-lane highway banked by a handful of shops and services—and I saw signs of life. A man huddled in winter gear, briskly walking his golden retriever among the trees that dapple the properties; three young kids laughing as they dart out of the colorful bus that has been artfully converted into a burger shack; dozens of cars angled around gritty, plow-made snowbanks in the small grocery store parking lot. A lumber mill, a hardware store. It reminds me of the Northern Ontario towns I’ve driven through on my way to cottages—quiet, functional communities who thrive on tourism, collections of people, some born and raised there and others having escaped from elsewhere. A place where you find yourself wondering what people do with themselves all day long, what their Friday nights look like.
It didn’t take long to see the bulk of what Trapper’s Crossing has to offer. Jonah navigated around the town, pointing out the community center and library, the one-floor health center for minor ailments only. There is nothing resembling an urban subdivision here. It’s all roads cutting through a seemingly endless forest, with houses interspersed.
But then he settled his palm onto my thigh, squeezing gently as we passed the small, boxy elementary school. A memory of him holding a chubby toddler at Sharon and Max?
?s farewell party flooded my mind, and my thoughts suddenly shifted from all the things Trapper’s Crossing isn’t to all the things it could become, if I embrace it.
If I give this dream of Jonah’s an honest chance.
A life for Jonah and me. A log cabin in the woods with a million-dollar view has a lot of charm, I must admit, especially when I’m sharing it with this man. Thoughts of George and Bobbie’s cabin come to mind—with the Christmas bows and strings of light. Christmas will be nice here.
I meet Jonah’s blue eyes, see the unease in them. The hope. I think he’s holding his breath. “We’ll need a sign to advertise. Over there.” I point at a crop of naked birch trees. “And it’s not going to be one of those ugly billboard-looking signs, like the ones I keep seeing all over the place.” Corrugated plastic with faded print lettering advertising business hours and peddling wares.
Jonah releases the air from his lungs in a heavy sigh. “You can put up whatever the hell you want. You’re better at that stuff than I am, anyway.”
“Wait, is there cell reception out here? Because I can’t survive without basic—”
“There’s a tower nearby. We get four bars here.”
It’s my turn to sigh with relief, though I’m far from finished. “And you are not going to take off all day, every day, and leave me here, all alone, to fend for myself.”
