Читать книгу Taking the Heat - Victoria Dahl - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

GABE STRETCHED OUT on the sun-warmed surface of the rock and let his sore muscles absorb the heat. The sky was a pale, pure blue above him and the breeze dried his sweat. His fingertips ached from bracing himself in a vertical crack after a misstep, but even that was perfect. He closed his eyes and melted into the mountain.

“Water?” his climbing partner asked.

Gabe opened his hand and felt a bottle hit his palm. “Thanks.”

“You’re out of shape, man.”

“Fuck you,” Gabe said, opening one eye just so he could glare at Benton. “You try living in Cincinnati and see how rusty your climbing skills get.”

“We’ll work on it,” Benton said.

“Hell, yeah, we will,” Gabe sighed. “Sunday?”

“You got it. Are you up for climbing Exum?”

Gabe sat up and stretched his left arm. “Jesus Christ, what is that? Eight hundred feet?”

“Sure, but it’s six pitches. And I’ll lower you down if you get too tired.”

“You’re an arrogant ass, you know that?”

Benton grinned. “That’s why you love me.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Gabe muttered. “Hell, I’m not even sure I love you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re just using me as a route leader?”

Gabe shrugged. “You come at the right price. Free.”

“Yet again, I’m just a cheap piece of ass.” Benton adjusted the tie holding back his dreadlocks and slipped on the shades that Gabe’s sister had once said made him look just like Lenny Kravitz. He tipped his head toward the cliff edge. “Ready?” he asked.

“Just give me another minute. I’m enjoying the hell out of this.” He closed his eyes again and let the silence wash over him. It wasn’t completely quiet, of course. Trees below them rustled in the breeze and Benton’s equipment clinked when he moved. But it was more profoundly quiet on the rock than it was when hiking or camping. There was no rustle of chipmunks through brush, no chorus of birds singing, no crackle of dead leaves under boots.

He stretched and pulled himself up. “I’ll see you Saturday morning, too.”

“No shit?” Benton asked. “You’re in?”

“I’m in,” Gabe answered. He’d just gotten word that his application for Technical Search and Rescue had been approved. After a couple months of training, there was a good chance he’d be out there helping with mountain rescues during the summer months.

Benton clapped him on the arm. “I never doubted it for a second.” He gestured toward the edge of the cliff. “After you.”

Gabe hooked back into the line and stood at the edge, but before he leaned out, he took the chance to look around one last time. This was his first solid climb since getting settled in Jackson a week before, and it was the perfect day. Sixty degrees and unlimited visibility. Valleys and peaks stretched out beneath him, the trees looking like stunted bushes from this height.

A hawk glided by, not shifting a feather as it rode an air current down. “Christ, I’m happy to be here,” he said quietly.

“I know. I still remember the day I decided I wasn’t leaving Jackson. It’s a great place to stay forever, even if I do have to live on a bartender’s tips and the occasional guiding gig. I’m guessing librarian doesn’t pay much more, but I guarantee you won’t find a reason to leave.”

Yeah. Unfortunately, Gabe already had a reason to leave. He couldn’t put good views and crisp air over his family, no matter how much he loved living here. He didn’t have the option to stay. Not forever. But he’d be damned if he’d waste his time here dwelling on that.

“Rappelling,” he called out, checking the anchor, the rope and the lock on his carabiner one last time.

“Rappel on, my friend,” Benton said.

Gabe turned around, stepped down and let his weight settle him into the right position. There was nothing but two hundred feet of air behind him and it felt perfect.

“Hey!” Benton called as Gabe began to descend. “You coming out with us tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

“Great. We’re heading over to a new locals’ night at Three Martini Ranch. Dear Veronica hosts it. Supposed to be a blast.”

Gabe’s hand tightened reflexively around the rope, slowing his descent. He loosened his grip and shook off his surprise.

Between moving all his belongings into a new apartment and working his ass off at the library, he’d been too busy to think much about Veronica Chandler in the past week. She was a distraction Gabe didn’t need. But she was definitely a distraction.

He had no idea what to think of her. She was pretty, a pain in the ass and absolutely not his type. She was also funny and smart as hell, if last Thursday’s performance was any guide. She’d been transformed into that warm, welcoming version of herself once she’d started speaking, but more than that, she’d been bright as a star.

He’d agreed with every one of the answers she’d had for the letter writers, and he’d been looking forward to discussing them with her after the performance. So much so that he’d realized what a bad idea it was to stay, and he’d said his goodbyes and hauled ass before she could come out to join Lauren.

He’d figured that was the end of it, but apparently, he was going to see her again tonight. Not that he had to go, but...what good was a day off if he couldn’t hang out with old friends?

Gabe slid past an overhang and kept up a steady descent until he was back on flat ground, then shouted the alert back up to Benton.

“Geronimo!” Benton yelled back. He was down in a few minutes.

“What time tonight?” Gabe asked.

“Starts at eight, but we’d better make it closer to seven. I hear it might be packed.”

That would work in Gabe’s favor. He could check out Veronica again, but he wouldn’t draw her attention. He didn’t want to date her. He just wanted one more chance to figure her out before he filed her away.

“Hey,” Benton said, nudging Gabe’s elbow as they began to pack up the gear. “Did you bring that book?”

“Sure.” Gabe dug into his hiking pack and withdrew his worn copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Benton’s nephew had been diagnosed with autism and Benton had read through two dozen nonfiction books about the condition. Now he was looking for fiction, too.

“If you want anything else, let me know and I’ll see if I can order it in to the library.”

Benton shot him a narrow look. “I don’t know, man. Will I have to sit in on circle time on the rug?”

“Benton, it’s a library, not a preschool.”

“Same thing, right?”

Gabe was used to this, but he still rolled his eyes. “I don’t run the kids’ section. Come on.”

Benton shrugged. “All right. Since you’re in the adult section, any sexy librarians I should be aware of?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said, slipping on his pack. “Me.”

“Tempting,” Benton countered. “But I’m gonna need you to take the lead next time so I can get a better look at that ass.”

“I’ll wear running shorts,” he promised, prompting Benton to groan.

“Now I’ll never get that image out of my head.”

Gabe grinned. “I like that you pretend it’s awful. That’s cute.”

“Good Christ, man,” Benton muttered. “Your hairy fucking thighs. To change the subject entirely...how’s your sister?”

Gabe shook his head. “Naomi is great. Want me to pass her a note from you?”

“I can pass my own notes,” Benton said. “I’ve still got her number from last time. Is she coming to visit anytime soon?”

“No idea,” Gabe said, throwing Benton a wary look. He didn’t want to know if his sister had hooked up with Benton three years ago when Gabe and Naomi had met up here with a group of friends. He didn’t care who his sister slept with; he just didn’t want to know any details.

“Fine,” Benton said, holding up his hands. “How’s your dad? Still pressuring you to take over the family business back in New York?”

“Always,” Gabe answered, not adding more. Even Benton didn’t know about Gabe’s plans. He wanted to live the next year as if he wasn’t planning to return to the city. He didn’t want to field questions about MacKenzie’s. He didn’t even want to admit the truth out loud.

His dad knew, of course. It had been the only way to get his agreement to retire in a year. And his sisters knew, because Gabe had tried to talk each of them into stepping up and taking over the MacKenzie’s chain of restaurants. His sisters were older, after all, and someone had to do it or their dad would work himself into an early grave.

But they’d refused, and so it had come down to Gabe, the one who liked to keep the peace and make things right.

“Well, if Naomi does come out here, let me know.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Benton shouldered his own pack. “All right, you’re not as pretty as your sister, but you’ll have to do for now. Come on, beautiful.”

Gabe laughed as Benton started down the trail, but Gabe didn’t immediately follow. He was distracted by the echo of his own laughter off the rocks behind him. How long had it been since he’d heard that? His voice bouncing off mountains instead of being swallowed up by a cacophony of cars and air conditioners?

He took a deep breath and felt years of stress fall away. If he’d been in any kind of shape, he’d have turned around and headed right back up the face again, taken a slightly different path, pushed himself a little harder. But his arms already burned and there was no way his hands would hold up. Sunday would be soon enough to push himself. And then every Sunday after that.

Gabe rolled his shoulders, stretched his hands and set off down the trail, suddenly eager to get out, have a beer and watch the Dear Veronica show from the crowd. He’d just be careful not to get too close.

* * *

VERONICA CHEWED HER gnocchi and watched as her father typed out an email on his phone. She didn’t know why she’d accepted his invitation to dinner. It wasn’t as if there’d been any chance that an hour with him would be relaxing. On the other hand, the stress of his disapproval did distract her from the stress of worrying about tonight’s performance, so maybe that was what her subconscious had jumped on.

And he always chose great restaurants. Judge Chandler was used to the best.

He finally looked up, glancing around the restaurant before he looked at her. “Did you say something?”

“Yes, I said that it went so well I’m doing a live Dear Veronica again tonight.”

He frowned. “For free?”

“No, Dad, I’m getting paid.”

“Not much, I’d bet.”

No, not much. Not as much as she’d get paid if she’d followed in his footsteps and gone to law school. “I told you I’d be happy to pay rent.”

He waved a dismissive hand before picking up his Scotch. “At least I don’t have to worry about the unit being vacant during the spring and fall.”

Yes. At least she could do that for him. Fill space in the smallest apartment in the building he owned.

“I only got you that job as temporary work,” he grouched, settling back into his sweet spot of disappointment combined with magnanimous gestures.

“I’m a writer, Dad. It is an actual job.”

“Is it?”

She stuffed more gnocchi into her mouth and stared hard at her water glass. If she’d been making even a few hundred dollars more a month, she’d never have accepted her dad’s offer to live in his building. She’d known exactly what it had meant. But she’d spent her life savings trying to make ends meet in New York. When she’d come home to start over and try again, she’d thought maybe—just maybe—she’d find a soft place to fall.

She’d been wrong. “Just tell me the market rate on the apartment and I’ll pay it,” she said, not for the first time. “Then you won’t have to worry about my job or my decisions.”

He gave the same answer he always did. “You can’t afford it.”

The problem was that he was likely right. As small as the apartment was, it had a nice kitchen and a fireplace and it was in Jackson. It was a place she definitely couldn’t have afforded during ski season, but she told herself that a yearly lease wouldn’t be quite so much. It wouldn’t be like living in New York. Nothing was that expensive.

She set her fork down hard. “I’d better go,” she said. “I need to get ready for the show.”

“Knock ’em dead,” her father said, already looking at his phone again.

He was always like this. She knew it had nothing to do with her, but it was sometimes hard to believe it when he was directing his arrogance at her. “Sure, Dad,” she said. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. He patted her hand, then got back to his phone.

Maybe her plan to see her dad tonight had actually worked. She was still nervous about the show, but she had a little anger to energize her now. She stalked toward her apartment, pissed that her dad was such a self-absorbed ass and mad at herself for failing so hard at life that she was relying on him again. She was living one of her Dear Veronica letters.

“Dear Veronica,” she snarled as she jammed the key into her apartment door, “I’m a stereotypical twentysomething who couldn’t quite make it out of the nest and now whines nonstop about it. What should I do?”

She slammed the door behind her and looked around at the furniture that had once filled a Brooklyn apartment she’d shared with two virtual strangers. “Shut your mouth,” she told herself, “stop whining and find something you’re good at.”

Actually...

She stared at the stylish little chair she’d found on the curb in front of a nice brownstone near her subway stop. It had been one of her most triumphant moments in the city, sadly, and she still loved that chair.

Find something you’re good at.

Hadn’t she already done that? She was good at writing. Her editors in New York had rarely offered anything less than praise, and her boss seemed happy with her work here. She was a good copy editor and she was surprisingly good at giving advice, despite having zero qualifications for it. Aside from the normal trolls, commenters on the paper’s website seemed thrilled with the column and eager to contribute their own thoughts. So maybe “Find something you’re good at” wasn’t the right advice.

It wasn’t her work that was the problem; it was...everything else. And everything else was a lot harder to fix than the wrong job.

She needed advice. And she was good at giving it. She just had to dig a little deeper.

Veronica made herself move slowly as she got ready for her show. She couldn’t rush or she’d panic and lose all this hard-won calmness. So she changed from jeans and a sweater to the dress she’d already laid out on the bed. It was a cute little blue A-line number she’d found at a charity store in New York.

She’d found a lot of her clothes there. So many women in New York would wear a dress only one or two times before they moved on.

She added high-heeled ankle boots and a silver necklace that looked expensive but had been on clearance at a department store. Her hair was already styled, so she freshened her makeup, darkened her eye shadow and put on some earrings that swung and sparkled when she moved.

Her transformation was complete.

She’d never thought much about her apple cheeks and blue eyes before she’d moved to New York, but once there, her look had drawn attention. Men had called her Heidi on the street, as if she were fresh off the mountains of Switzerland. They’d called her “baby doll,” yelling out that they’d love to dirty her up a little. Her stupid round cheeks had flamed with mortification every time, which made the men howl with laughter and get even filthier. Catcalling was not something she’d grown up with in Wyoming, and it had taken months for her to school her response.

But she’d done it. Walk taller, tune them out, don’t look at them, don’t respond. She’d learned to put on heavier makeup, a mask to hide behind, along with high heels and a long black jacket anytime it was less than eighty degrees outside. Stare straight ahead. Look impervious.

It had worked moderately well with the catcallers, and the rest of New York, as well. Don’t let them see the real you.

Don’t let them see the real you... Wasn’t that what she was doing in Jackson, too? Hiding behind this costume she’d assembled in the big city?

If she wrote in to her own column, the answer would be easy. If you feel like you’re faking your way through life, then stop faking it. Let people see the real you. Take a chance. If you don’t open yourself up to others, then they won’t be open to you.

It wasn’t even complicated. It wasn’t something she needed to research. But it was still scary as hell. Letting people see the real you.

Veronica stared at the big-city version of herself in the mirror. The smoky-gray shadow made her eyes even bluer. The blush gave her cheekbones. The lip stain made her lips fuller. But she could tone it all down. Be the natural girl she’d been when she’d flown to New York all those years ago. Let people see her.

No.

She picked up her mascara and added another coat, then packed her makeup into its bag and put it away. “Not tonight,” she murmured to herself before she snapped off the light. But before she walked out of the apartment, she found a black marker and wrote a big note and stuck it on the fridge.

#1—Let people see the real you.

She’d start taking her own advice. Tomorrow, maybe. But definitely when she wasn’t standing in front of the whole damn town.