On the Mountain (Follow your Bliss #5) (21 page)

“So maybe by coming up here you
wanted to prove to yourself that you can be self-sufficient and independent.
And you have.”

“I’ve had some help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.
But maybe if you’re feeling that way, your work isn’t done. Not yet.”

“You still haven’t answered the
question, what do you want?”

Trace was quiet. “There’s just
one thing.”

“What is it?”

“It’s for someone else,
actually,” he said with the same weariness that accompanied him when he’d
arrived at the cabin. He crossed his arms under the back of his head and looked
up at the wooden ceiling.

“What is it?” she nuzzled her
head onto his chest.  

“It almost isn’t New Year’s Day
anymore. We step out of the glow of novelty and back into reality,” Trace said.

“Poetic. Does that mean you’re
leaving?”

“In another day or two. But I
intend to be right where I am until then.” Trace took a deep breath, perhaps
not ready to think about it, or maybe eagerly awaiting his departure, it wasn’t
clear. “Any New Year’s resolutions? It isn’t too late.”

“I’ll think about it and then get
back to you.”

“Fair enough.”

“You?” she asked.

“If you haven’t noticed, I quit
smoking.”

Baskia wrinkled her nose.
“Really? Good for you. How long?”

“I had my last one before I left
the Brooklyn.”

“So you’re quitting. You know,
I’ve heard those vapor cigarettes are all the rage.”

“I don’t need that.”

“Help?”

“If I put my mind to something, I
can do it on my own,” he said with a slight edge in his voice.

“It wasn’t that. I wasn’t
doubting your strength or conviction. I just know nicotine is a powerful
addiction. Most addicts need a little help. It’s like training wheels. And what
about the other things, what you won’t tell me, the things you’ve done wrong or
whatever, maybe I can help you.”

“I’ve made some mistakes. I’ve
done some bad things. But that’s different.”

“I can help you, whatever you
need, I’m here,” she said in an outpouring, sensing he was slipping away and
retreating into the dark shell she’d observed when they’d first met.

“You can’t fix me.”

“But you’re not broken. I’m just
offering to help.”

“There are parts of me that are,”
he muttered.

Baskia leaned over and stroked
his chest, down toward his waist. “I don’t believe that.” She placed her lips
softly on his, inching her way down to his taut stomach.

“Not now,” Trace said, pulling
her back toward him. “It’s late. We should go to sleep.”

With that and not a word more,
Trace shut down. Baskia not only felt rejected, but she couldn’t sleep as she
struggled with all the good she saw in him and wondered what blocked his usual
ultra-confident, cocky attitude. What ate away at him?

She wondered if the mistakes in
her past would prevent her from being her very best in the future. As the last
minutes of January first counted down, Baskia probed her mind for her purpose,
her heart’s desire. Yes, she wanted to be with the man lying beside her,
possibly forever, maybe longer, but she couldn’t see how it could work, never
mind where she’d be in six months’ time.

This thought carried her to a
dreamy vision of the granite steps in front of Columbia University. Her mother
waited there, nagging, droning on about the future, and blowing over Baskia’s
ideas and interests. She steamrolled Baskia’s pleas to listen in a giant slab
of
don’t do this, do this,
but never, what do you want? She felt herself
suffocating, her spirit crushing under the weight of her mother’s intense
control. Baskia gasped for breath, blinking her eyes open. Trace rested quietly
beside her. She wiped her forehead and lay back down.

He’d fearlessly asked what she
wanted again and again. She still couldn’t answer, but the fact that he asked
was akin to breathing in the fresh mountain air. Maybe after so many years of
her mother not asking about or listening to her wishes, Baskia had shut up,
locked her wishes deep inside, nearly forgotten just so she wouldn’t have to look
at them and endure the agony of their going unanswered. Maybe Trace also kept
his secrets in a safe place, deep inside, where the pain was dull, but
familiar, not explosive with unmet longing.

As for her parents’ directives,
in recent times, she’d rebelled against every single one. She started slowly with
modeling and then followed a non-traditional path through high school. Of
course, there were also the things they didn’t know, or perhaps did, but
wouldn’t admit. She’d bucked up against what they wanted for her, but it didn’t
bring her any closer to figuring out what she wanted. Maybe it wasn’t so much
that she needed to do the exact opposite of what they expected: raging around
the house, slamming doors, swearing at the table, missing meetings and appointments,
drinking, and doing drugs. No, maybe what she needed to do was entirely
different; so different it was off the map.

A funny thought popped into her
head as an owl hooted outside. Maybe instead of rebelling against her parents,
and effectively taking the road to ruin in her own life, perhaps it was time to
do something completely unconventional, as far as her frame of reference went.
Maybe the mountain drew her north for a very simple reason; it was time just to
be. 

Part
Three: Fly

“Thousands
of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out going
to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity...” 

–John
Muir
 

Chapter
Twenty-One

One of the things Baskia liked
most about being with Trace, aside from the mind blowing sex, was how
completely comfortable they felt around each other. They could laugh over a
bottle of wine and chocolate mousse or sit quietly, side by side in front of
the fire and read. There was never an ounce of awkwardness, unless she brought
up New York or delved too deeply into personal questions, then he’d go prickly
and tight-lipped.

They spent the next couple of
days denned up in the cabin, Trace cooking, Baskia reading or writing in her
journal, the two of them playing cards, and watching old movies. Trace read her
poetry from a book that he’d found at the bottom of her library basket while
they snuggled on the couch, warmed by each other and the fire.

“We fit together jigsaw puzzle
perfect,” Baskia said, contentedly.

“Aristophanes-style.”

“Do explain my wise scholar,”
Baskia said, laughing.

“We’re like two halves of an
ancient whole.” His voice crackled and stroked her with its allure.

Baskia liked the sound of that.
She knew what she had to do to become more independent, but she drew great
comfort and security from the fact that she was part of something bigger, part
of Trace. She closed her eyes. “I sometimes forget you were a Classics major.”

“Am. I’m on the slow-track, but
I’ll get my diploma. I study it because it makes me braver,” he said, his open
expression showing a rare moment of vulnerability.

“And then what?”

“When you decide what your
then
what
is, I’ll tell you mine.”

“You’re a tough one,” she said,
undeterred.

“That’s what they tell me.”

^^^

The sun set, bathing the pine
trees in chromatic hues of pink and orange, blending into salmon, and softening
the mountain’s ridges.

“You know what I love about it up
here?” Trace asked, checking the enchiladas in the oven.

“Tell me,” Baskia said as she
rimmed two glasses with salt for margaritas.

“The mountain strips us down to
the bare essentials. It makes us more raw and real.”

“Yeah, you’re not as much of the
bad-boy you were when you crept in here in the middle of the night last
summer.”

“I’m every bit the bad-boy. But
I’m also more myself,” he said, pinning her against the counter, stealing
kisses between words.

“You don’t really have to go do
you?” Baskia asked, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Trace nodded. “I’ll be back.”

“Tell me where you’re going.”

He shook his head. “Next time I
come up, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Really? When’s that?” Baskia
didn’t want to beg or seem needy because she wasn’t. In fact, she was eager to
begin her transformation, to enact the plan she was sure was going to lead her
to where she wanted to be, free. Although she loved their time spent together,
hers was a solo mission. She needed time for her journey inward, but also
wanted him to return as soon as possible.  

“Soon.”

“Not soon enough.”

It was deep, dark night beyond
the windows of the cabin, but in Trace’s arms, Baskia glowed as brightly as the
noonday sun. They kissed and nuzzled, had sex and made love. She didn’t want to
miss one lick of the moments they spent together. She counted them in the
stubbly whiskers on his face, the creases around his eyes when he laughed, the
firmness of his chest, and in the outlines of his inky tattoos telling stories
of sailors and fate.

As the moon rose in the sky,
Trace hit the road. Baskia watched him disappear down the snow-covered
driveway. The cabin was quiet without him. Several times, she caught herself
turning to tell him something, but he wasn’t there. The chair was empty, and
the figure she thought was he, was just the old grandfather clock, standing
solidly in her periphery.

She told herself it was okay
though, she trusted he’d be back.

^^^

Baskia opened her journal, but
before she set pen to paper, she closed her eyes wishing and wondering what was
in store for her. An image of her mother with her back turned appeared in her
mind’s eye. Anne’s attention mattered, and yet it didn’t. It was time she
started paying attention to herself. She was ready to open to the possibilities
that weren’t on Anne’s checklist for her daughter’s future. She blinked open
her eyes, ready to write down some of her revelations over the last few days.
On the facing page, she saw the same handwriting from the note left by the
laundry.

Until someday, I wait patiently

For your hopes and dreams

And what is yet to be.

From where you are

Atop the mountain or adrift at
sea

The journey isn’t far. 

Set foot on the trail

That twists and snakes

You will meet thorn and crow.

You will see dew and dale.

But when you arrive

I promise to follow.

At our backs

We will see the treasures that we
gathered.

When we look forward

We will see the winding path
mattered.

I cannot ask you for forever.

But only for every someday spent
together. 

XO

Baskia read and reread the
promise for the future from Trace, her heart floating with happiness. Thoughts
of independence bubbled through the spaces between words, telling her not to
wait, not to do as her mother did and reach for a man while letting go of what
was important to her. She knew she had to keep going, not stopping for anyone,
not even Trace, but he knew that. He understood. And that if she kept to her
path, eventually she’d find him there.

She flipped to the next page in
the journal. Across the top, she wrote
Goals for Self-Sufficiency
. Then
in a numbered list, she added:

1.
                 
Learn
to cook and bake.

2.
                 
Learn
to sew.

3.
                 
Clean house
including windows, vacuum, polish things?

4.
                 
Shovel
as necessary.

5.
                 
Prepare
a garden.

Baskia paused, hoping these
outward tasks would lead to her inner truths. Wes’s comment about finding Zen
in painting made her nod. “I guess instead of asking so many questions, it’s
time to listen.” She’d already learned to do the laundry, make coffee, and
start a fire. If she had to survive on her own, at least she’d have clean
clothes, be caffeinated, and warm. A new determination to drop into those
moments with her full attention accompanied her quest to add more items to the
list. She left the next lines blank remaining open to possibilities.

Flipping open the laptop, she
searched,
Learn how to cook
. There were how-tos and videos, paid online
classes, and promises to make the perfect meal for guests. No, she wanted to
learn how to cook for herself, for one, for the simple act of knowing how to do
something and do it well. She glanced over to the bookshelf, but her mother’s
version of cooking was for appearances, cover material for a glossy magazine.
Baskia had to start with the basics; she wanted to learn how to nourish
herself. Then maybe the crowd pleasing, show-stopping dinners might be a
possibility. 

The next day at the library, she
scoured the shelf labeled
Cookery
. To be practical, she wanted to know
how to make macaroni and cheese, boil rice, and she ventured, chocolate chip
cookies would be useful too. Mary, the librarian, eyed her armful of books.

“New Year’s resolution? Everyone
vows to start eating better on January first, but do they stick to it? ”

“I just want to know how to
cook.” Then she added, “So I can feed myself.”

“You don’t know how to cook? No
wonder. What have you been living off? Don’t tell me frozen food or worse,
cereal. Here, I just ordered this. ‘Italian Favorites Made Easy.’ I think
you’ll like it, just don’t get any sauce on the pages.” Mary passed her the
Italian cuisine tome.

Once home, Baskia flipped through
the cookbooks. She had the Joy of Cooking, which weighed in at about ten pounds.
It was easily the dictionary of kitchen wizardry, but the thick text and lack
of photos made her set it aside. Next, she perused an ancient vegetarian
cookbook that intimidated her with the multitude of steps and unfamiliar
ingredients, though the photos were pleasing. She leafed through recipes for
breakfast dishes, light meals, starters, sides, main courses, and desserts in a
third cookbook, but none of it made her mouth water. Lastly, she opened the
Italian cookbook and the recipes combined with the high quality photos brought
her to her feet, but she didn’t have all the ingredients required. She doubted
the market carried anchovy paste, gnocchi, or fresh basil. She slouched back on
the couch.

“Where to start?” It was still
early. She shrugged. Breakfast. Carefully following the directions, Baskia
scrambled eggs, heated a pan, and began to cook. She turned the heat up and
then down, fussing and fumbling. The toaster dinged, and while she buttered the
burnt toast, she suddenly craved a croissant, warm and buttery on the streets
of Paris. Emerging from reverie, the sight of the eggs sticking to the pan,
made her jump to the stove. “No, I’m going to learn how to feed myself. I’m
going to do this right.”

Baskia sat at the table, her
plate artfully arranged. Just before she took a bite, she snapped a quick
photo, just to document what she was going to call,
Before.
Maybe she’d
succeed in making some of the delicious looking dishes in the Italian cookbook
and label them,
After.

She tried to choke the eggs down,
but they were somehow slimy and dry at the same time, nowhere near as tasty as
the ones Trace had made. Pushing her plate away, she reread the directions to
pinpoint where she went wrong.

The next day, Baskia tried again.
The eggs came out better, but were dense instead of fluffy. She photographed
each attempt, hoping the batch would be the winner until she’d run through the
carton. She searched online for the secret to perfect scrambled eggs, coming up
with almost a dozen different methods and variations on the original recipe
she’d used.

“Why does this have to be so
hard?”

Toward the end of the week, she
decided it was time to move onto lunch. After foraging for fresh ingredients to
make soup, she rolled up her sleeves and set to work in the kitchen. After
simmering a pot of Minestrone on the stove until well past lunchtime, it turned
mushy and lacked depth of flavor. But she’d photographed it anyway, documenting
the attempt.

Snowed in over the weekend, she
moved onto dinner, imagining she couldn’t go too far off track with the box of
macaroni and cheese she’d picked up at the market. It was sticky so she dumped
it into the leftover soup, but disappointingly, it turned out to be a gross
combination.

Baskia pouted, frustrated that
she couldn’t prepare simple meals, or even follow a box with directions. Then
she sneezed. And sneezed again. Curling up on the couch, in front of the fire,
she dozed off.

She slouched around the house the
next day blowing her nose and napping until Wes knocked on the door. She
considered not answering it; they hadn’t seen each other since New Year’s Eve.
Her head was so clogged she couldn’t remember if the night had been a disaster
for him or if he’d gone home with a smile; he’d chatted with Mellie and danced
with Gigi and Ali, after all. 

“Baskia, are you in there?” he
hollered.

She pulled open the door; afraid
that if she didn’t he’d hack through just to make sure she was still alive.

“Hey, how’s it—oh no, you’re
sick. Cold?”

Baskia nodded, wiping her nose.

“Do you have everything you need?
Tissues? Do you need cold medicine?” he asked as if he was the nurse on call.

“Thank you for your concern, but
I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said with a stuffed up voice. She knew she looked
pathetic with a red nose and her hair frizzing in every direction. 

“I just came to plow you out, but
it doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere anyway. Are you sure there isn’t
something I can do?”

She shrugged and then burst into
a fit of coughing as the cold air blew in through the open door. “Better go lay
back down,” she said. “Thanks.”