Perky? Me?
“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m turning into a prune.” Susie wisely changes the subject. She displays her wrinkled fingers. “How about we dry off and find something delicious to eat?”
“Something chocolatey,” I decide. All this talk about my imminent departure is making me restless, and in need of a sugar fix. “Illegally chocolatey.”
When we’ve consumed enough gooey brownies to make me faintly ill, I take up residence on an overstuffed leather couch in the main lobby. Fiona is off wandering somewhere, and Susie has spotted a woman she knows working maid duty, so they’ve retreated to a secluded corner somewhere to discuss all the inside information about Blue Ridge. I’m left to people-watch, tucked away in my corner beside the looming stone fireplace as the other guests bustle by.
I’m not ready to go home.
Fairview, high school, my family — it all seems miles away, and a lifetime ago. The past weeks have been a jumble of sawdust and splattered mud and shady trees and cold lake water splashing on my skin. A kind of freedom. And now I think of going back to our house, with the plush peach carpeting and Mom’s careful dinner arrangements, and I feel a swell of sadness. I don’t know what’s waiting for me there, if there will even be a family when I get back. It’s not the divorce itself that scares me so much as everything that would come after. Dad moving out, or not coming back from Europe at all; Mom suddenly working long hours; the holiday visitation schedules. No matter how much I’ve tried to avoid the reality of my parents — and the future — I can’t help but see my departure date like some kind of execution.
“Kids, get back over here. Don’t touch those!” A couple of young boys run over to play with the small animal carvings by the fire. The lobby is full of activity: a prim-looking lady ordering the staff around, a pair of intimidated tourists looking at some pamphlets, and an old man giving some kind of talk to a group of guests, slowly touring the room with a cane.
“This here was taken back when there was barely a road up through the mountains.” He waves his cane at a black-and-white photo on the wall. Dressed in an impeccable suit with heavy gold cuffs at his wrists, he’s got a shock of white hair and deep wrinkles on his face. “We had to hike for days with nothing but a hatchet and a good pair of boots!” The group looks suitably impressed.
I pause, his words triggering some kind of déjà vu. A hatchet . . . ?
“Now, there are plenty of tours if you want to explore,” he continues, “with fully loaded Jeeps and an expert guide. Or how about a rafting trip? Best way to see the valley!” There’s a murmur of excitement, and several guests start flicking through their pamphlets.
I peer at him from across the room. It can’t be. . . . As he finishes up his history of the area, I try to remember the photo on the back of that mountain man guide. The man there was much younger, with a bushy beard and rugged plaid shirt, but if I add about fifty years and a thousand dollars of designer tailoring, it could just about be the guy in expensive leather loafers holding court for the rich spa ladies.
My mountain man wears loafers?
Our unspoiled paradise is coming under threat. Every year, those vultures swoop closer, looking to replace pristine mountain ranges with acres of concrete. They should be lined up and shot!
—“The Devil in Disguise,”
The Modern Mountain Man’s Survival Guide
30
When the group finally disperses, I edge over. “Mr. . . . Coombes?” I ask hesitantly, certain I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s been ages since I sent the book to Olivia, and I’m sure plenty of old guys around here swear by the service of a good hatchet —
“That’s me.” He swings around. There’s a square of crisp handkerchief folded in his breast pocket, and a lively gleam in his eyes. “What can I do you for?”
My mouth drops open. “It is you!” I blink at him, trying to match this distinguished gentleman with Jerry’s grouchy, no-nonsense voice that I’ve been carrying around in my mind. “I read your book! Wow, I can’t believe it’s actually you!”
Mr. Coombes looks at me, kind but clearly clueless.
“The survival guide?” I venture slowly. “For mountain men? It’s been a major help to me this summer!” He probably didn’t mean for it to save my social life, but without that book, I don’t know if I’d ever have made inroads with the Stillwater boys or found a way to deal with Fiona.
“Ha!” Mr. Coombes suddenly lets out a booming laugh. “They still have that ol’ thing around?”
“I found a copy at this old bookstore in town,” I explain. “I think it was one of the originals!”
Shaking his head with amusement, Mr. Coombes looks at me. “Well, kid, you have my apologies.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“For having to wade through all that self-righteous bull!” He checks his BlackBerry, still chuckling, while I try and get my head around his dismissive tone.
“I don’t, I mean, I didn’t think it was bad.” I blink, completely thrown. It’s not like I thought Jeremiah Coombes would be off living in a cave somewhere. Maybe an old log cabin by a fishing pond . . .
“You liked it, eh? Well, good for you.” Mr. Coombes looks surprised. “Now, if you don’t mind, kid, I need to get back. This place won’t run itself!”
“You mean, you own Blue Ridge?” I gape.
He pauses. “That’s right, going on a year now.” With an expression of sheer pride, the mountain man himself looks around at the spa schedule, gift shop, and line of newly arrived visitors with their stack of designer suitcases.
“I don’t . . .” I stop myself, not wanting to offend him, but then I can’t help it. “I don’t understand. I mean, you used to want to protect the environment!” I realize how accusing it comes out, but part of me doesn’t care. I’ve spent all summer thinking he’s some kind of wilderness guru, and now I see he’s turned into just another real-estate developer, with a fancy suit and fake hunting trophies on the wall. How could he be such a sellout?
Mr. Coombes looks back sharply, and for a moment I wonder if I’m about to get thrown out. Then his expression softens. “Come with me, kid.”
I pause, wary, but he nods toward the deck. It’s the centerpiece of the whole floor, stretching across the front of the building, and right now it’s busy with tourists snapping photos of the uninterrupted views. “Come on, it’ll only be a second.”