Now I sing it for Blake and Heart’s Edge by proxy.
I’m asking if he’ll soar with me.
He doesn’t make a sound until it’s over, and I’m trailing off with my breath and heart both going just a little too fast. The silence that follows makes me nearly hurt with the awareness of the wild riot of noise and feeling inside me.
He finally breaks the stillness with a low, appreciative mm-hmmm.
“Don’t think I’m ever going to forget that,” he says. “The way you sound when you’re putting all your heart into notes like raindrops.” He pauses, then adds, “Guess I’d better get on those Fuchsia stories and this caller who Mario says swears he played tag with Sasquatch...but maybe you’ll sing for me again some time?”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Goodnight, Blake. Thanks for taking my call.”
“Goodnight, darlin’,” he rumbles against my ear.
The line goes dead, and I’m alone.
Except for the millions of butterflies taking flight in my belly.
I barely get any sleep that night.
It’s hard to pass out when I’m all twisted up, thinking about Blake.
About the way he teased me.
About the soft words of apology.
About the intimacy in his voice, the warmth, the gentleness, the tease.
All the little things that tell me this push and pull means something.
Something more.
And maybe I’m not just insane for losing myself in his magnetism.
I finally drift off, though, long after midnight.
In the morning I oversleep a little, but I wake up zinging—and I don’t even need coffee to make my morning appointment with the rich folks who tip amazingly well, and then an older woman vacationing here at the inn. She says she used to be a silver medal skier, but time and age and repetitive stress injuries knocked her off her feet.
She’s sweet. Teases that she likes places like Heart’s Edge because they don’t even tempt her to ski, with the trees walling off all the good slopes. And I’m full of laughter as I work around her joints and calves to loosen things up so she can walk and enjoy the cold beauty in peace.
I’m feeling good by the time I pack up.
I always feel good after a positive session, when I can leave people just a little happier, a little more free of their pain.
But who does that for you?
Oh—no, nope.
I’m not letting that thought in.
I know I had my little existential crisis a little while ago, but I’m not letting it come back today to chase my buzz away.
If I putter around the cabin, I’ll either start brooding or thinking about Blake too much. As forward as I’ve been, I’m a little too embarrassed to give in to the urge to run and find him and hope that warmth he shows over the mic will be there in his face when he sees me.
God, what am I? A giddy teenager with a crush?
I need to get out.
So I bundle myself up, strap on a good pair of boots, and go.
I’ve got a little pocket brochure, courtesy of Haley and Ms. Wilma. They keep them for the tourists, showing all the best places for a scenic view. Haley mapped them herself with her hubby, looking for the best places to paint. I trust her judgment.
So I pick a spot on the map.
It’s exhilarating to set out under a bright sun and yet still feel so cold, like all the wonderful things that energize me are bundled up in one: the crisp snow, the brightness of the day, and the beautiful blue sky.
Everything smells like frost, dry leaves, and something starker like ozone.
I love it.
And I love the little hidden trail in the woods I find by meticulously following little markers in the brochure—a broken signpost, a cairn of rocks, a poplar tree that looks like a praying woman.
It’s like a scavenger hunt.
And it’s a delight when I spot the smooth, flat rocks set into the earth, turning the trail into a set of steps leading up into the woods.
I park my rental car on the last bit of paved road before that hidden trail, get out, and slip up to mount the first step. It takes me up a winding path through tall, skinny trees with their leaves stripped off, giving me some footing on the ground in the snow.
Dead leaves crunch under my boots as I hike up and up and up until my breath burns, and suddenly the trees open up on a peak that makes me feel like I’m on top of the world. I look out over stretches of mountains that seem to march off forever in the distance.
The brochure has a story in it, too. One variation of the lovers’ cliff legend everybody seems to know around here.
It says that way back when the town was founded, the mayor’s daughter and a farm boy fell in love.
But the mayor said the boy was too poor, so they couldn’t be together. He forbade them to fall in love.
So they went to the half-heart-shaped cliff behind the Charming Inn, and jumped.
It’s not as morbid as it sounds.
In the story, they turned into a shower of flower petals and blew away into the pretty mountains I’m looking at right now.
The legend says their love lives on, these strange creatures forever with the wind, and all their generations upon generations of children. Wood-waifs guarding every impossible love that blossoms in this town.
And that’s why when people in the town fall in love, they go to the famous overlook and toss flowers over the edge.
They make a wish, with all their hearts, hoping their love will last forever.
I wonder if I can work that into the song I’m slowly piecing together. My tale of the wandering desperado, protector of a town he can never call home and yet always watches over.
Maybe there’s a fire in him that can’t burn out.
A fire in his heart, a love as lasting as wishes cast on petals in the wind.
I feel lyrics starting to take shape, so raw and real that I can almost smell the fire on the chilly midday breeze.
Wait.
It’s not my imagination.
I smell smoke.
Again.
Lord, it’s like fire follows me everywhere. I’m kind of getting sick of it—even if it summons the hottest man in town.
I’d rather have an excuse to see Blake that doesn’t involve something smoldering.
I turn, scanning the horizon, then back to the forest.
There.
A plume of smoke rises against the trees, thick and black and oddly slender.
Probably a small, controlled fire. Burning brush or something.
I sigh.
If those kids are messing around again, though, or some idiot tourists...
Hold up. The last time I snuck up on kids playing with fire, I almost made it worse by startling them as soon as I stepped on that twig.
So this time I’m quieter, making my way through the trees, keeping the bigger ones in front of me as a shield, placing my steps slowly. I’m careful to avoid crunching down in the snow and leaves as I make my way down the slopes.
I stick to the path where I can, but as I get closer, I break off and crouch down behind some bushes as I sneak closer.
Movement. I freeze.
That’s not the kids.
That’s definitely not the kids.
I don’t know who this man is, but considering he’s dressed in black from head to toe and wearing a black ski mask that completely covers his face...
I think he might be trouble.
Especially since he’s pouring water over a big pile of wood, making it flare with thick black smoke as the flames choke out.