Читать книгу Weathering the Storm - Morgan Q O'Reilly - Страница 7

Chapter 1

As promised, Karl met me at the airport. Walking through the security partition, I spotted him immediately. He stood half a head over most of the people milling about checking the directions to baggage claim or hooking up with tour company representatives.

The logoed chamois shirt he wore over a t-shirt and ball cap with the logo of The Smashed Boulder Inn from Talkeetna, Alaska sitting on top of his black curls helped me locate him.

The drive from the Anchorage airport north to Talkeetna took two hours, and I spent the time deflecting his questions while I noted the changes that had taken place since I’d last been back. Anchorage was growing up, polishing the old image, expanding as best it could in the limited space between mountains to the east and water on the two remaining sides. The trees were just beginning to bud out with brand new, bright green leaves, and grass poked up through the matted remains of winter’s ravages. I felt a sense of rebirth.

“Yeah, so, Zettie,” Karl said, using the nickname he’d given me so long ago. “We need to talk about this organic stuff.”

“Dad mentioned that, did he?”

“Yeah. Now, I’m as health conscious as the next guy, but really, is it necessary to go all organic? Has it made a difference? Other than costing more?”

I shrugged. “I know I’m in the best physical shape I’ve ever been in. Probably because I spend at least half my time working out or working in the garden. We grow most of our own vegetables or trade with other gardeners who also shy away from chemical pesticides. The doctors are concerned about what effect those pesticides will have on my brain while it’s still healing.” By the time we reached the B and B, I had him agreeing to start out with a few more organic items, such as flour and condiments. He’d consider more based on feedback of the customers. If the cost didn’t get out of control.

“You can have your own stash if you like,” Karl said. “I can’t go all organic, but you can do what you want for yourself.”

Not a bad compromise. “All we can do is try,” I said. “Besides, I’ve learned a thing or two about cooking the past couple years. The food will be so good, people will gladly pay extra.”

Karl snorted. “I thought you were here to rest and recuperate?”

“I have plenty I want to do. Is my room big enough to set up a worktable? My boss is sending me a couple boxes of parts so I can try and get back up to speed on the project I was working on.”

“You’re not going to burn down my house, are you? Aunt Deni warned me about your experiments.” He shot me a glare from across the truck.

“No, I won’t burn down the house. I promise. I’m here to get back on track with my life. I’ll earn my keep by helping in the kitchen.”

“When did you learn to cook? Seriously, last time I saw you in the kitchen you burned water.”

I ignored that. “Cooking is no more than chemistry. Only edible. Simple enough. And to defray the cost of organic food, I’ll even put in a vegetable garden and take care of it for you.”

Karl groaned. “I know what that means. Who’s paying for the plants and all the equipment?”

“You are,” I told him cheerfully. “But I’ll make it work. You’ll love it.” And the chickens I planned on setting up, too.

The tour of the inn was quick, and we tossed my bags into my room for the summer.

“Rest, change, cleanup, unpack–whatever,” Karl said. “One hour and we’re heading over to the season kick-off street party. It’s BYOM, but Bill’s promised to save us some moose burgers. Can’t get more organic than that.”

Because I hate the smell of commercial airplane antiseptic, I quickly unpacked and found the shower. I was ready, and comfortable, by the time an hour was up.

Karl took in my casual look and shook his head. “What’s with the hippie look?”

“It’s comfortable.”

A long, loose cotton skirt in a swirl of colors over yoga pants covered my lower half for warmth. I wore warm socks and my favorite Birks. On top I wore a tank top covered by a zippered hoodie that partially hid my ever-present belt. A fresh gauzy scarf was wrapped around my head. I hoped I’d be warm enough, and had considered a sweater between the tank top and the hoodie.

“You look like something the sixties spit out and regurgitated in the present.”

Maddie, Karl’s girlfriend I’d heard about but had only just met, was dressed in jeans and a logoed polo shirt that matched Karl’s. She handed him a casserole dish, took my arm and led me out the door. “Ignore him. You look great. Did you get these clothes in Boulder?”

The conversation lasted us the entire stroll across town. All four blocks. I’d never, ever in my life, discussed clothing of any kind with anyone other than my mother. It was odd, but fun too.

Since my accident, whatever was comfortable worked. Yoga pants and tees for working out. India silk or cotton skirts worked best during hot weather, but could be layered for cooler temps. Slip-on shoes, or barefoot whenever possible. Buttons and zippers hadn’t worked well during rehab, and so far I’d accepted the pull-on style for as much of my wardrobe as possible. Why mess with easy?

The sounds of music and laughter grew louder the closer we walked. Talkeetna remained fairly untouched since I’d last been there, but Karl pointed out the changes. A few of the businesses had spiffed up their exteriors, but the Fairview and the Roadhouse remained frozen in time. Living history.

The street party wasn’t far from Bill’s B and B. Since Bill was a long-time family friend, I always made it a point to spend time with him when I was back in town. I looked for him, but the one block section of street was filled with locals, summer temp hires and a few early tourists. The tourists were easy to spot. They wore bright white walking shoes and matching sweaters or jackets. Most of them silver-haired. Nearly all carried cameras and would eventually land on a cruise ship heading south.

It looked as if the casual party was just really getting rolling. Smoke belched from a couple of large barrel grills and people dove into coolers filled with soda. A table held what looked like small kegs or party pigs of local beer on one end, condiments, buns and side dishes on the other. On the other side of the street someone played DJ with a pair of old boom-boxes and a stack of CDs.

Gentle reggae was playing at the moment. Bob Marley. I’d been cramped up in some sort of vehicle all day, so the urge to move was more than I could ignore. I pulled Maddie into the crowd with me, and we danced while Karl headed off to set down the casserole. Other dancers nodded, smiled, and saluted us with red plastic cups of beer. I didn’t recognize a single person, so I smiled back, then closed my eyes and let the music move me.

All around me, the laughter and conversations buzzed. The smells of beer and the smoke pouring off the grill mixed with thawing leaf mold. Under my shoes, gravel scraped and rolled. The air was cool, the sun high and filtering through the newborn leaves. I could smell the freshness of spring. Childhood memories rushed in and my whole being filled with peace. I’d never been hit with that sense of home some people talk about, but that moment clarified the meaning for me. I danced for the pure joy of remembered youth and a sense of belonging. The sense of belonging had been missing since my accident had barred me from my work. It was nice to know I could feel a part of someplace else. I still missed my lab. In the meantime, I could belong here for a while. The lab would be part of my life again soon enough. It had to be, or I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.

As I danced, relishing the movement of my body, the strength and agility of trained and reconditioned muscles, I also sensed something else. I couldn’t place it until I opened my eyes and met the gaze of a man through the crowd of dancers. He stood off to one side. A big man, tall, muscled–if the breadth of his flannel-clad chest meant anything. I couldn’t see his waistline, but I could tell it was lean from the drape of his shirt. Thick, dark red hair, a little on the long side, topped his head, and bright, intelligent blue eyes pierced the distance like a laser beam. He had a short beard and the air of a woodsman about him. Put a stocking cap on him, suspenders over his shoulders, an axe in his hand, and he could play Paul Bunyan.

When he smiled, I couldn’t help but smile back. It had been a long time since a man had smiled at me. I hadn’t realized it until then. A wave of heat infused me and I no longer worried about the slight chill in the air. The dancers closed in again, cutting off my view.

Maddie bumped my shoulder. “He’s new in town. I think he’s building the addition for Bill.”

“Oh?” I turned my back on him. Purely an instinctive move, as I had little experience with flirting or men. Sure, I’d had a boyfriend or two, but had been out of the game for a long time. Like a whole year before my accident. Most of my connections had been made under the influence of alcohol. Apparently it was the only way we geeks could relax enough to get physical. Otherwise we tended to debate the merits of this crystal or that chemical doping in regards to our research. We tended to talk spectrums, ohms, pump lasers and the various means of cooling the systems down. Hey, brainy worked as sexy in its own way.

Socializing was also part of the reason someone had started an outdoor recreation group at work. A way for us to get out, get exercise, build teamwork, and attempt to mingle and meet like normal people. Hiking, mountain biking, and rock climbing on the weekends kept us busy. We’d been working our way down the list of Fourteeners, all fifty-three of them. That would be the mountains in Colorado over fourteen thousand feet tall, with at least three hundred feet of topographic prominence. Easy, compared to Denali. Many could be hiked in a day, or in some cases, two days.

HR had liked it because it made us healthier, which helped reduce sick days.

Management had mixed feelings. Especially after my fall.

My accident had interrupted the contract I was deeply involved in. I wasn’t the lead on the project, not by a long shot, but my ideas had been the freshest and had redirected the research down new and promising paths. Progress had been stalled once I was out of the game. No one else had been quite able to follow my thinking, a fact the Director of Research and Development had griped about one of the times he came to see me. He’d kindly waited until after I could identify myself and count my fingers and toes again. The rants were not because he wanted to make me feel bad, but rather, I think he wanted me to know I was missed. And he wanted to me to heal fast and get back to work before he had to find someone to take my place.

I missed being there and it was my supreme goal to get back. However, that required a doctor’s approval, and until I passed a few more brain tests, they weren’t signing on the dotted line. Which was why I’d flown to Alaska in the first place. To build new paths around damaged memory cells. Part of which included new experiences, such as, maybe, wooing the opposite sex.

And Mr. Paul Bunyan looked like a viable candidate to practice on.