Seventh Wonder Page 5

  He wasn’t looking at the book, though. He was looking at her.

  “I’m all right,” she replied. Stating the obvious: “I fell asleep.”

  His expression softened as he exhaled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because of course I’m...beyond pleased to see you - but aren’t you supposed to be somewhere else this weekend?”

  “I didn’t quite feel like myself this morning,” she said slowly. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. “I’m better now, though.”

  He searched her face, possibly for some sign of disappointment at having missed her trip. Finding none, he allowed himself half a grin. “I’m glad you’re OK.”

  Voices belonging to a German family drifted over his shoulder from a short distance away. The father stood apart from his wife and two children, directing them into a huddle as he lifted the heavy Minolta around his neck and began snapping photos. Tracking Meg’s line of vision, John twisted to glance back at them.

  “Would you like to go somewhere?” he asked her. He sounded as if he were sharing a secret only she had any right to.

  She nodded, careful not to appear excessively eager despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Her damp palms and the rapid cadence of her heart, for example, would have been quite damning were John to examine her more closely. Thankfully, he didn’t.

  She tucked her journal back into her shoulder bag and allowed John to tug her to her feet. They walked side by side, aiming for the top of the path where the lodge reared its corniced head above the treetops. John kept his hands clasped behind his back, which led Meg to wonder whether he was trying to avoid accidentally touching her.

  “There’s a place we could get coffee,” he offered, after waiting a moment to break the silence. “Or...we could go back to my place. If you want.” His voice was tentative, perhaps unsure.

  “I am thirsty,” Meg replied. “But I’m not big on coffee.”

  In mute response, he led her down the familiar path toward his cottage. The Jeep was again parked near the front door, this time crusted in a layer of red mud. “Where did you go?” Meg asked as they passed by the grimy vehicle.

  “Into one of the side canyons,” he said as he unlocked the door. “One of the Paiutes I’m acquainted with said there’d been a rock fall the other day, shortly before we drove down to Cape Royal.” She followed him into the darkened cabin and waited while he lobbed his key onto the table. “Usually those cause a good-sized heap of debris in the slots, and it all gets swept away by flooding in the river. I knew from the shape of the clouds when we were out the other night that rain was on its way, so I wanted to go down and have a look.”

  Meg found she was quickly growing attached to the way he spoke of the natural world with such conviction and savvy. She thought of the column of rain she’d seen hovering the day before and envisioned him weaving among the boulders beneath it. “That would’ve been incredible,” she said, meaning it. “Maybe I could see it sometime.”

  He paused with his hand on the refrigerator’s door handle. “I thought of taking you with me.” Shaking his head minutely, he added, “Flash floods can be dangerous, though - rock slides, too. I didn’t want to chance it.”

  She turned his statement over in her mind. She’d never considered that, in his sketching and drawing, he’d be subjected to real or impending peril. It was a sobering thought - one that would take some getting used to.

  “What would you like to drink?” he asked. “I have beer, water and orange juice.” He winced at the relative lack of selection.

  “Juice, please,” said Meg as she took a seat at the table. Her level of comfort in being here was uncharacteristic for her. She propped her chin in her hands and watched him pour her juice, embracing the sense of abandon it lent her.

  After John slid the tumbler across the table to her and cracked open a bottle of something dark and potent, he stood back, watching her with the look of a man who’s tormented by the burn of an unasked question.

  “What is it?” Meg asked.

  His face pinched in uncertainty, as if he hated the words about to pass through his lips. “Meg, how old are you?”

  For the first time in her life, she felt tempted to lie about her age. Within her conflicted mind, a battle was waged. “I’m twenty-two.” The truth slipped out even before an armistice could be reached, causing her to cringe.

  “Twenty-two,” he repeated. “That’s...young.”

  Convinced this was the beginning of the end for them, Meg wasn’t sure whether to feel more insulted or defeated. “How old are you?” she asked, already miserable from the weight of it.

  He tipped his bottle against his lips, then pulled out the chair across from her. Falling into it he replied, “Thirty-three.” He eyed her searchingly, and it suddenly occurred to Meg that he may be just as afraid as she was.

  “OK,” she said after a moment. Eleven years. That really wasn’t so large a difference - especially considering they were surrounded by the embodiment of so many thousands of centuries, built up and embedded in the rockscapes John loved translating onto paper. In the vast scheme of earthly existence, eleven years was the blink of an eye or the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. It was insignificant. Negligible.

  “OK?” he reiterated. “I’m not...that isn’t too old for you?” His tone was cautiously optimistic.

  She wanted to ask him what they were even talking about. Was he asking whether she considered him too old to be her friend? Or was he referring to something more than that? Dating? Kissing? ...Sex?

  She warmed through from the inside - she could feel it in the glow of her cheeks and the throbbing in her ears. “That all depends,” she replied, barely managing to keep the warble in her voice in check. “Am I too young for you?”

  His expression was guarded - perhaps he feared she was laying a trap for him. Meg repressed the urge to offer reassurance. Instead, she rolled back her shoulders and lifted her chin, playing the part of someone far more self-possessed.

  “No,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “I don’t think you’re too young.”

  Their smiles sparked and spread in unison, until a moment later they were gazing at one another with wide eyes and daft grins. It felt like something they could move past, now they’d aired their concerns and put them to rest - a satisfying, red block of an X on a lengthy checklist of requisites.

  Remembering the glass of juice in her hand, Meg took a generous swallow. Her nose wrinkled in surprise as a thick layer of fruit pulp coated the back of her throat.

  “You don’t like it?” asked John.

  “It’s fine,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’m just not used to having to chew my orange juice.”

  “I squeezed the orange myself,” he replied with a smirk. “I can get you a fork and knife if you’d like.”

  Meg waved him off with a sporting smile, suddenly impatient to check more off the list. She’d waited long enough to know him - to find out where he came from and what his motivation was for being here.

  “Where do you come from, John?”

  He used his fingers to drag furrows through the roots of his hair, then rested his hand at the back of his neck. “Before we get into that, there’s just...one thing I have to do first.”

  “All right.” Meg waited, nonplussed, as he stood and walked around the table.

  “Come here,” he whispered. Her breath hitched in her throat as she rose to stand inches before him. John smoothed a wisp of hair away from her face and spread his hand against her cheek. He stroked the pad of his thumb over her malar bone in a gesture that was at once fervid and tender, and his eyes strayed to her lips. “You don’t know how often I’ve thought about kissing you again,” he murmured.

  His admission freed Meg from her state of frozen bewilderment. Quickly she moved her hand to cover his. She gave an infinitesimal nod of her head as her eyelids fluttered shut, and then his lips were upon hers. He breathed heavily against her, sliding one hand to cradle the back of her h
ead while fitting his other against the curve of her waist. Meg looped her arms around his neck and dragged him closer while dividing her lips to admit the smooth slide of his tongue.

  He didn’t withdraw - not this time. He used his hands on either side of her face to rotate her head and angle it upward and back, so that her mouth could accept the full, graceful onslaught of his tongue. Here he demonstrated remarkable expertise: a push for every pull, and a dip for every rise. Meanwhile, Meg used her hands to map the hard planes of his chest and thought of how little use she had for the shirt he was wearing.

  Too soon, he pulled away. Meg fought back the frustrated sob that clawed its way up her throat. Her vexation, however, was still evident in the curl of her fingers and the dilation of her pupils. She felt confident the feeling was mutual: John’s nostrils flared as a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Soon,” he breathed, perhaps more for his own sake than hers. “I promise you, soon.”

  * * *

  “Where will you go when you leave here?” asked Meg. “Where is home?”

  They were seated on the ground, facing each other in the narrow space between two ponderosa pines, their legs outstretched and parallel. Meg had kicked off her shoes. She dug her thumbnail into the thick rind of a grapefruit, determined to disinter the fruit within.

  “These days, it’s northern California,” he replied. “I teach Life Drawing and Art Appreciation at a community college in Eureka.”

  “Do you like teaching?” She licked her lips as she worked to remove the peel in quarter-sized chunks.

  “Sometimes I do,” he replied. “As an artist, teaching is one of very few available means of bringing in a steady paycheck. And of course it’s rewarding when you find the odd student with exceptional talent - someone who flourishes with the right amount of guidance and nurturing.”

  Meg found herself wondering whether he’d ever had an affair with one of his students - she didn’t imagine they’d be far off from her in terms of age, after all. Somehow she doubted it, though. He was too principled, too conscientious to pursue an illicit relationship, no matter how tempting. Something stirred deep in her belly as her thoughts drifted to whether he’d ever had to resist such a temptation.

  “Hey,” he said, nudging her leg with his foot. “Are you with me still?”

  She shook her head to clear it, feeling a tad guilty. “Where did you grow up?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Connecticut.”

  “Are your parents still there?”

  He waited a beat to answer. “My mother is. My father passed away last year.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Meg.

  He nodded, his forehead puckered in a thoughtful frown. “I am, too. We were...estranged. I really regret that we weren’t able to patch up our relationship before he died.”

  “What happened?” she asked. As soon as the words were out, she feared they were too intrusive. “I mean...if you don’t mind my asking.”

  Sighing, he laced his fingers behind his neck and leaned his head back against the tree trunk. “He paid for my education at Dartmouth - one of the best geology programs in the country. He was...unhappy when I decided to pursue a career in art instead. Guess I can’t really blame him.” He lowered his eyes and dropped one hand to pick at something on his pant leg. “There were other problems, too, but that was the main one, at least at the end.”

  Meg lowered the half-peeled grapefruit to her lap. She bit back the urge to utter some trite expression about forgiveness or unconditional love.

  John grabbed hold of her bare foot and gave it a light squeeze. “I want to hear about you,” he said. His voice rang clear, as if he’d just swallowed the sour dregs of a less pleasant train of thought. “Where are you from?”

  “Santa Monica,” she replied, allowing him to redirect the conversation. “Born and raised.”

  He smiled. “California girl. I’d never have guessed.”

  Returning her attention to the grapefruit she nodded, unsurprised. She had to remind herself not to interpret his statement as an affront, the way it might have been coming from someone else.

  “Did you go away for college?” he asked.

  “Not far. I just graduated from Berkeley.”

  He let out a low whistle. “That’s a good school. You must be smart.” When she didn’t reply, he asked, “What did you study?”

  “Comparative literature.”

  “So you like to read.”

  “Yes. Always have.”

  “What do you like to read?”

  She glanced up at him. His eyes were fastened on her, incisive and intense. “Anything, really,” she admitted. “I suppose...most of all I like poetry.”

  His mouth slanted in a grin at the far-off look in her eyes. “What’s your favorite poem?”

  Her breath escaped as a laugh. “Impossible to say,” she replied, pushing the curtain of her hair behind an ear. “It changes almost weekly.”

  John’s eyes held liquid warmth as he leaned forward, fascinated. “What is it right now?”

  Meg pressed her lips together. “Um. Rilke, I think? It’s called ‘Lament.’ Have you heard it?”

  He shook his head, and she squinted her eyes, summoning the words. Her voice gained strength gradually as she spoke.

  “Everything is far

  and long gone by.

  I think that the star

  glittering above me

  has been dead for a million years.

  I think there were tears

  in the car I heard pass

  and something terrible was said.

  A clock stopped striking in the house

  across the road...

  When did it start?...

  I would like to step out of my heart

  and go walking beneath the enormous sky.

  I would like to pray.

  And surely of all the stars that perished

  long ago,

  one still exists.

  I think I know

  which one it is—

  which one, at the end of its beam in the sky,

  stands like a white city...”

  When she finished, John was staring at her, transfixed. His eyes held wonderment, but something else, too - sadness, perhaps? For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Finally he asked, “Why is that your favorite?”

  Her right shoulder lifted and fell in a gesture of ambivalence. “I don’t know. There’s just something...hopeful about it. Like we’re confronted with this big, menacing world, filled with so much pain and sorrow, and yet, in the end, it’s sort of impossible to quell the urge to look heavenward anyway.”

  His eyes never strayed from her face as he contemplated her words. A moment later, his smile, though slow to form, provided all the affirmation she needed. “You—” He cleared his throat. “You’re just...something.” He dropped his gaze, chuckling a little to himself as he shook his head and rubbed a hand across his mouth.

  Meg felt dazed by his reaction. Was that admiration in his voice, or was he making fun of her? She focused on paring away the last of the grapefruit peel, determined not to slip into another introspective stupor. “Do you have a favorite poem?” she asked without looking up, affecting a tone of detached interest.

  “You know Yeats?” he asked. “‘Cloths of Heaven’?”

  Her lips twitched in a grin, but knowing his eyes were still upon her, she resisted the impulse to look up. “I do.”

  “Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths...” John’s voice trailed off. “I have trouble remembering the rest of it. I’ve never been good at committing these things to memory.”

  Meg broke the grapefruit in half and handed one hemisphere of ripe, pink fruit to John.

  “Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,

  Enwrought with golden and silver light,

  The blue and the dim and the dark cloths,

  Of night and light and the half-light,

  I would spread the cloths under your feet:

  But I
, being poor—”

  Here John chimed in, his memory refreshed.

  “—Have only my dreams;

  I have spread my dreams under your feet;

  Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”

  He smiled at Meg, and she blushed in return. Turning her head to gaze out at the quiet canyon, she slid a slice of fruit into her mouth and swiped away the juice that spurted from her lips.

  “So now that you’ve graduated,” John said after a moment, “what will you do next?”

  Meg’s slumped posture bespoke her disappointment at having to relay the truth. “I’m not sure yet,” she replied. “Find a job hopefully - something that will pay me to read all day, if such a thing exists.” She chuckled without humor. “It seems to be the only thing I have any real talent for.” Pursing her lips, she sighed. “Until then, I guess my only option is to go home to my parents’.” Again she bristled at the implications of her statement. She was growing weary of feeling childish.

  John’s eyebrows knit together. “Don’t do that.”

  She looked up, startled by the rebuke in his voice. “Do what? Go to my parents’?”

  He shook his head. “Talk about yourself that way. I may have only met you a few days ago, but I can already tell you’re good at more than reading. You have this...magnetism.” He shook his head. “I’m still trying to figure out what it is exactly. I’d bet everyone you meet falls a little bit in love with you.” He didn’t look as if he was trying to flatter her. Instead, he looked at her as if she were a puzzle he’d yet to solve.

  Meg breathed an incredulous laugh. “Hardly—”

  She started to protest, but he interrupted her. “Just because you don’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t so.” His smile was warm but slight. “Trust me on this one, Meg.”

  Her jaw slackened as she beheld him in disbelief. She didn’t argue, however. Doing so, she felt, would be futile - at least until he grasped that she wasn’t without flaws, some of which she felt were fairly momentous. It was only a matter of time, after all.

  A cool wind fell unexpected from the sky, tossing the pine boughs above them. The susurrant clicking of wax-tipped needles was nearly stamped out by the faint roll of distant thunder. In a matter of seconds, the sky had darkened by several shades, from faded denim to muted pearl-gray, to a mercurial hue that rested, for the moment, between heather and black.