Jonah peels away and takes a step back, letting out a soft, shaky breath as he goes. It’s the first and only sign that I might be affecting him as much as he is affecting me.
“Hey!” Mabel stands in the hallway, dripping water from her canary-yellow rain slicker onto the floor, her wide-eyed gaze flickering back and forth between us. “What are you guys doing?”
“Umm . . . We’re . . .” I stutter. Is she too young to sense the tension in the air? To figure out what she just interrupted?
“I’m just giving Calla something she needs,” Jonah says, back to his normal, cool self, though with a hint of amusement in his voice.
I turn to stare at him, momentarily speechless. Well, if Mabel hasn’t already picked up on it . . .
With a knowing smirk, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls something out. “Here.” He tosses it in the air and I fumble to catch it. It’s my antiperspirant stick. “See? I’m not a complete dick.” He strolls away, playfully mussing Mabel’s hair on his way past. Moments later, the door closes with a thud.
Mabel’s face crinkles up. “Jonah bought you deodorant?”
I’m too overwhelmed to try and explain any of this. “What do I need to bring with me?” I ask, ignoring her question.
“Just yourself! I’ve got you covered.” She grins and holds up her arms. A yellow slicker dangles from one hand and a stack of baskets sits in the other.
“Perfect.” A morning of picking berries in the cold rain with a bunch of strangers is probably the best thing I can do right now, while I try to sort out what the hell just happened between Jonah and me.
And whether I want it to happen again.
Chapter 20
“Max has his heart set on ‘Thornton,’ after his grandfather.” Sharon’s lip curls in an unpleasant way.
I shrug. “It could be Thor, for short? That’s a cool name. Unique.”
“Except his mother would refuse to shorten it. Everything would be ‘Thornton’ this and ‘Thornton’ that.” She rolls her eyes. “I’ve given up a lot, already, being here and all. I am not naming my son Thornton.”
“I don’t blame you,” I mock-whisper. “Where are you moving to, anyway?”
“Back to Portland, Oregon. I can’t believe I’ll be home soon.” Sharon’s hand smooths over her belly in a slow, circular motion while the other reaches for another blueberry from the basket Mabel and I brought to the airport. After several hours of crouching in drizzle among an endless stretch of prickly bushes, my thigh muscles are still burning and I haven’t been able to shake this cold-to-the-bone chill. “I still remember the day Max came home three years ago and said, ‘Babe, guess what? I got the job! We’re movin’ to Alaska!’ I didn’t even know he’d applied.” She chuckles, shaking her head. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re going to miss the people like crazy, but everything is so hard up here. And now we’re going to have a baby to add to it.”
I’m betting Sharon and my mom would get along well, commiserating. “And Max is okay with leaving?”
“For now. He’s already talking about coming back in five years to work for Wren again. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Or should I say, airstrip.”
In five years. I can’t help but do the math. I’ll be thirty-one in five years. Where will I be by then? Back in Toronto, obviously. How many trips back to Alaska will I have made? Will Dad come to see me? Will I still be living with Mom and Simon? Or will I be married and gone? Will I be rubbing my pregnant belly like Sharon is?
Will my dad be around for any of it?
I swallow against the lump in my throat.
A shrunken Alaska Native woman shuffles toward the desk, clutching a small weekend bag. Her gray hair is wrapped in a hot-pink floral handkerchief, but otherwise her clothes are drab shades of brown and green, meant for warmth and nothing more.
“Any news yet?” she asks politely, smiling. As if she hasn’t been sitting in this lobby since seven this morning, which is how long most of these people have been lingering, according to Sharon. People who’ve been playing the waiting game all day, hoping that their flights will take off at some point. I count fourteen in total. Mostly fishermen, anxious to get out to their camps. It’s easy to spot the ones who aren’t from Alaska—they’re pacing around the lounge like caged animals, peering out at the sky every time they pass the window, grumbling with impatience. Those familiar with how things work sit quietly in their chairs, their attention on their phone screens or their knitting needles, or those they’re traveling with.
Planes were cleared for takeoff an hour ago. Half the flights have already left. Now it’s just a matter of being called.
“The guys are loading it up, Dolores.” Sharon smiles sympathetically at the woman. The supply plane that she’s hitching a ride with was stuck in a village overnight and was just landing when I got here. “You must be excited to see your sister again after a year.”
Dolores shrugs and mutters, “I wish she’d move down here.”
To me, Sharon explains, “You should see the village where Dolores is from. It’s near Barrow. I haven’t been, but Max has. The sun hasn’t set since when, Dolores?”
“Early May,” the old woman confirms.
“Right. Early May. It’ll finally go down in a few weeks. And then it doesn’t come up for two months in winter. At all. We can’t even fly there during the polar nights.”
“They get their supplies in the fall, or not at all,” Dolores confirms.
“And it’s cold up there, all the time.” Sharon shivers. “What’s the high for there today?”
“Forty.” Dolores tugs on her quilted coat as if to emphasize that.
I do the quick calculation in my head. That’s three degrees Celsius at the beginning of August. I shudder at the thought.
Dolores’s wise gaze zones in on me. “Who’s this girl? Your replacement?”
Sharon laughs. “No. This is Wren’s daughter. She’s just visiting.”
I get a curious once-over, much like the one I got from the woman at the grocery store. At least I don’t feel as out of place today, with my bare face and my flannel jacket. And then her gaze shifts to something behind me. A genuine smile stretches across the old lady’s face, showcasing misshapen yellowed teeth. “There you are.”
“On your way to see Helen again?”
My heart skips a beat at the sound of Jonah’s deep voice.
“Unfortunately. Are you taking me?” A hopeful sparkle dances in her black eyes. Does everyone in Alaska know and like Jonah?
“Not this time. But don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands with Jim.” He moves in to lean against the end of the desk, a position that allows him to face both of us while he talks.
I can’t seem to find the nerve to acknowledge him with a look or even a nod, and so I keep my focus on the old woman while watching him in my peripherals, all while my skin prickles with an electric current and my cheeks heat.
Three hours in the drizzle helped cool my hormones, both literally and figuratively. Letting that happen with Jonah this morning was a bad idea. I don’t regret it—how can I regret anything that felt that good?—but it can’t lead anywhere, so what’s the point? I’m going back to Toronto, where I belong, and he’s staying here in Alaska, where he belongs.
It’s a dead end.
It was a mistake.
Dolores’s black eyes crawl over Jonah’s face, pausing on his stitches. “I heard about the accident.”
“Just a scratch—I’m fine. I’m ready to go.”
Because you’re insane.
She frowns. “There’s something different about you, though.”
“No, there isn’t.” His voice is gruff, but his tone is teasing.
“Yes, there is.” She searches his face again. “I can’t put my finger on it.”
And I can’t tell if she’s joking or
not.
“He finally got a haircut!” Maxine hollers from her seat a few feet over. She’s a short, plump woman with a loud voice and an even louder laugh.
Dolores makes a grunting sound, then studies him another long moment. “I liked the old beard better,” she finally states, as if he were waiting for her to pass judgment. “You’re too pretty now.”
He grins, a move that shows off those deep dimples. He’s not in the least bit offended by her blunt and critical opinion. “Not as pretty as I’d look without it. Besides, some women like their men pretty.” A pause, and then he turns to look at me dead center. “Right, Calla?”
I feel all their eyes on me as my face burns. I clear my throat. “Some might.” You ass.
His knowing eyes crinkle with amusement. An ass you want to kiss again, he seems to be saying.
And he’d be right.
Bad idea, Calla. Bad. Horrible.
“Marie!” Sharon’s excited shriek breaks up our intense deadlock. She waddles around the desk in time to greet the tall, willowy blonde woman who just came through the door.
Did she say Marie? As in the Marie? The veterinarian who flies in once a month to save everyone’s animals? The crusader who vaccinated a raccoon for Jonah? The friend who Agnes is convinced wants to be much more than friends with him?
The stitched DR. MARIE LEHR across her jacket’s breast pocket pretty much confirms it.
I try not to gape as I take in those mile-long legs clad in blue jeans and her long, golden-blonde tendrils of hair, damp from the rain and yet still falling around her shoulders in a natural sexy beach wave. She has lively teal-blue eyes surrounded by a fringe of lashes that are thick and long, but naturally so. Her nose is dainty, her lips are full, and while her cheekbones may not do much for her, the rounded shape of her face is flattering. I’d put her in her early thirties, with a fresh girl-next-door vibe. Not a stitch of makeup touches her face.
I remember wondering what kind of woman would interest Jonah. I feel like I just met her.
And friend or not, I’d bet money that he’s slept with her.
Dolores is scuttling back to her seat as Sharon ropes her arms around Marie’s neck. “Did you just land?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Rough flight.” Marie returns the hug, but she seems discombobulated, her attention flickering from Jonah to Sharon and then Jonah again, as if not sure where to focus. “Okay, first of all, wow, look at that belly! And it’s only been four weeks since I saw you last.”
“Only, you say.” Sharon groans, smoothing her hands over her midsection.
“And you.” Marie’s eyebrows arch halfway up her forehead as she comes around the desk. “What the hell, Jonah?”
He folds his arms around her, pulling her against him. She’s tall, but she looks petite pressed up against him like that. “What the hell, indeed,” he murmurs. “Hey, Marie.”
They break apart and she reaches up to smooth her long fingers—with bare, neatly trimmed nails—over his beard, in a way that screams intimacy. The way a woman might reach up to lazily stroke a man’s face in bed, after sex.
“I like it,” she murmurs.
I’m sure you do.
How many times have they done it, anyway?
Does Jonah like to play childish games with her, too? Did he corner her in a narrow hallway to steal a kiss that first time? Did he realize she’d be coming in today when he was busy making moves on me this morning? Will he be MIA for the next however many days, while she’s in town?
At least Jonah’s hands aren’t all over her. In fact he’s moved back to his casual leaning-on-desk position. His gaze drifts to me. “I was the victim of a cruel and vicious prank.”
I push aside my growing unease to roll my eyes dramatically for him.
He chuckles. “I probably deserved it.”
“Probably,” I echo, my voice laden with sarcasm.
Marie’s teal eyes do a curious but quick down-and-up scan of me.
“This is Wren’s daughter, Calla,” Jonah says. “She’s here, visiting.”
“I didn’t realize Wren had a daughter,” Marie says slowly. She offers a hand and a smile, though it’s not nearly as bright a smile as the one she flashed Jonah. “First time in Alaska?”
“Yeah.”
“I picked her up from Anchorage last weekend. It’s been . . . interesting, so far.” Jonah smiles secretively and, dammit, I’m blushing again.
Marie’s gaze darts back and forth between us, and there’s no way she’s as clueless as Mabel was. “So where are you in from?”
“Toronto.”
“Oh, that’s far.” She says it in an “oh, that’s too bad” way, emphasizing it with a pointed glance at Jonah. As if to make sure he realizes it. “And how long are you here for?”
“Another week.”
“Okay . . .” If I’m not mistaken, a sigh of satisfaction passes her lips. One more week and she’s away from Jonah for good.
“Unless I decide to stay longer,” I blurt out without thinking.
Jonah’s left eyebrow quirks.
I don’t know why I said that.
That’s a lie. I know exactly why I said it. An uncomfortable feeling pangs in my stomach.
I don’t believe this. I’m jealous of Marie.
I caught my boyfriend of a year being handsy with Stephanie Dupont and I waved goodbye. Meanwhile, one moment of intimacy with Jonah and I’m ready to extend my stay so I can stake my claim against his attractive female friend.
This is what I get for kissing Jonah.
A coughing fit on the other side of the office door announces my dad a moment before he pops his head out from the office. “Hey, Marie. Has it been a month already?”
Marie’s face splits into a wide grin. “It always feels too long for me, Wren. I thought you got rid of that chest cold already.”
“Yeah . . . Guess it’s hanging on there.” No one not the wiser would notice the way he shifts on his feet, as if uncomfortable with the lie. To Jonah, he says, “The report says the fog has cleared for the time being, but there’s heavy cloud cover. Possibility of light rain.”
Jonah stands upright with a resigned sigh and I can’t help but admire the shape of his chest, remembering what my hands felt like pressed against it just this morning. “I’ll fly low. It’s probably as good as it’s gonna get.”
“What’s going on?” Marie asks, her eyes seemingly absorbed with Jonah’s face.
“Going to pick up some hikers. They’ve been waiting at the checkpoint since Thursday.”
“You want company?” she offers eagerly.
“I’ve already got it, thanks. Promised her a flight up that way. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
It takes me a moment to realize Jonah’s talking about me.
I struggle to wipe the shock from my face. He never promised me anything. Is this his way of avoiding time alone with Marie?
Or spending more time alone with me?
This is where I need to decline, to tell him to go ahead and take Marie. It’ll send a clear message that this morning was a mistake, and that I’m not interested in repeating it.
“Are you ready?” He looks pointedly at me.
“Yeah, let’s do it.” Oh . . . Calla. An odd blend of excitement and fear churns inside me. Am I ready? Forget whatever’s happening with Jonah for the moment. Am I ready to get back in a plane after watching him crash just two days ago?
Why does this feel like a test? Another “let’s find out what you’re made of” Jonah adventure.
Only this time, I care if he likes what he sees.
My dad eyes the two of us for a moment, as if weighing something in his head. Finally he turns to Jonah. They share a long look. “No risks,” he warns him.
“In and out,” Jonah promises solemnly.
“There’s another one!” I exclaim, aiming my camera lens downward to try and capture the moose as it cuts through the river that snakes along the valley, the broad crown of antlers atop its head almost regal. “Those things are huge.”
My eyes have been glued to the ground ever since we spotted a small herd of caribou grazing near the opening of the mountain range. It’s an entirely different landscape on this end of the Kuskokwim River than the side that weaves through the tundra. Here, the valley is a mingling of tall, tapered evergreens, meadows with smatterings of pink and purple wildflowers, and wide, rocky river shorelines, the colors that much more vivid against the murky gray ceiling.
“You’ll find pretty much everything up here. Wolves, caribou, reindeer, sheep . . .” Jonah’s attention is on the flight path ahead, which I’m thankful for because we’re flying low and on either side of us are mountains, their tops shrouded by mist. “Keep an eye out and you might catch a grizzly or three.”
“Are there a lot?”
He chuckles. “You’re in bear country. What do you think?”
I shudder, and yet find myself scouring the waters with new interest. “How long have these hikers been in here, anyway?”
“We dropped them off eight days ago.”
“Eight days?” I try to imagine what that means. That’s eight days of slugging camping gear up and down mountains. Eight days wandering around the wilderness—with bears, sleeping in a tent—with bears, searching for food—with bears. Eight days without a toilet or a warm shower. With bears. “That’s crazy.”
“That’s pretty normal for up here. It’s crazy if you don’t know what you’re doing. Hopefully these two did. They’re a husband and wife from Arizona. I think they said it was their fifteenth anniversary, or something.”
Pooping in a hole for eight days. “How romantic,” I mutter wryly.
“Some people think so. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, you can do pretty much whatever you want,” he counters, and I get the distinct impression that he’s speaking from experience.
“Yeah, it’s just them, a million mosquitoes, and the giant grizzlies roaming around their tent at night.”