Chapter Two

            I woke, finding myself not in my bed, but under the gaze of Andromeda and Cassiopeia, with a breeze on the ridge, stirring the oak trees surrounding us to stretch and moan lazily, only for them to whisper gently before going still in the darkness. It was cold, and I was grateful for the sleeping bag draped across us. I turned to see John peacefully sleeping with his arm tucked under his head, his hair covering his eyes, which when opened, warmed my soul more than a cup of fresh hazelnut coffee in the morning. I reached out, lightly running my fingertips over his eyebrows and temples-- his dimples faintly showed before his legs intertwined with mine. I pulled the sleeping bag over our shoulders and moved into the crook of his arm, feeling his warm breath pass over the crown of my head, a great contradiction to the cold metal under us in the bed of his pickup truck.

            I lay there, hearing the trees stirring: a dog faintly barking from the neighbors that were a mile or two down the road, it’s voice carrying across the hills-- without any sounds of traffic, as it was too late in the night and we were too far from the road. The few cirrus clouds that covered the ­­­­­­­­­Sap moon intermittently were translucent and added warm shapes to the cold, offsetting the stars that were the only lights seen. We were too far from town to see even the haze of light and smoke coming from the plants that fed the local economy. On the opposite ridge you could see both towns, one east and one slightly south-west, a spot visited for off-roading and July 4^th to catch the fireworks that rose above the tree lines in the valley.

            The field we were in was framed by two ponds: to the north of us was my second favorite piece of the property, an area covered in large evergreens and rocks with moss scattered amongst uncovered root systems-- the only picturesque piece missing was a small stream, which had dried up when the property was farmed with the first owner, John’s great-grandfather. The field we were parked in was my favorite spot on the property, as it was the field we had decided to build our home on. We envisioned a two-story home with a wrap-around porch, the upper balcony leading to our bedroom with French doors, and quiet nights spent watching the sun set from our bed. The morning sun would rise into our kitchen window, framed by the rhododendron bushes and cardinals at the bird feeder. Bare feet would tread across hardwood flooring into the living room, where the hearth was encased with bay windows, bookshelves underneath, where I would curl up with Hemingway until the coffee had brewed. Once John rose, as he would never be a morning person, we would join on the porch for breakfast, next to the railing where I could perch my glass pitcher to make his beloved sun tea.

            “Sophie.”

            “Hmmm?” I turned to see John openly reading my expressions, a smile on his lips, dimples showing. I came out of my reverie and realized I couldn’t feel my toes.       “You have that hazy look in your eyes, like you do when you are thinking, yet your eyes are sparkling rather than that dullness, that void, that fills them when you are upset. What are you thinking about?”

            “I was thinking about this field, with our home built upon it, and us sitting on the porch in the cool of the shade drinking sun tea, made just for you.”

            “It’s too cold for tea, hunny.”

            “Yes, it is; I can’t feel my toes. What time is it?”

            “It’s almost one. Start the truck so that you can warm up. I’ll roll up the sleeping bag. Let’s go home.”

            I scooted across the back of the truck, off the gate onto the ground, sliding my hand against the side of the truck until I found the door handle, as it was so dark that I couldn’t see in front of me. Postcards sold in the state often gave a night scene in which the card was pitch black, a surprising truth in the deep country when the stars and moon are hidden behind clouds. Opening the truck door, the quick shine of the interior light was a shock to my pupils, and I squinted as I hopped into the truck, leaning across the worn leather seat covered in gray and plaid cloth. I reached for the keys in the ignition. The truck turned over without hesitation, always a shock to me since it would be classified an antique within the next few years. I leaned against the seat, knowing the truck wouldn’t warm up enough to blow warm air through the vents before we reached the house, grateful just to be out of the direct breeze. John opened his door and I leaned forward, hugging the dashboard, giving him room to fold the seat and place the sleeping bag in the compartment behind us. He tucked it into place and I leaned back to apply my body weight to lock the seat. He got in and swung his legs under the steering column. Our legs weren’t greatly different in length, separated only by inches. His torso was, nonetheless, superior in height, causing his head to almost graze the ceiling of the cab. I moved to the center of the seat, placing my feet crossed at the ankles on the right floorboard, so that if we should find any ruts in the dirt roads crisscrossing the property, I wouldn’t interfere with his driving.

            I slid my hand onto his upper thigh, his worn jeans under my fingertips, his leg cool to the touch, and gently squeezed as I looked at his side profile and leaned into kiss his cheek. He turned and kissed my forehead before turning on the headlights and putting the truck into gear, wrapped his arm around the back of the seat and onto my shoulders.

            We crossed the field to the dirt road that was below us, hugging the hillside as we snaked through trees, avoiding ruts in the road from the last rain storm, staring down at the bottom of the mountain before we maneuvered around the campsite, drove through the gate, and shut it behind us. The gate served no true function, as the cows were long gone, but it was a simple gesture in the country as all the locals know that when you come to a closed gate, you either don’t belong there, or you need to respect the property and leave it as you found it. With over one hundred acres beyond the gate, we wanted to ensure it stayed as it was. It was unlikely that people would cross the property that didn’t belong, as this gate was behind his parent’s home-- but two other gates to the property lay off the main road, which stayed locked.

            We came down the hill behind the house, creeping down the driveway so that we wouldn’t wake the household, and turned onto the main road. I buckled my lap belt and lay my head on his shoulder, gazing out the window at the passing scenery. Cabins, trailers, and split-levels, a ranch here and there, filtered past us. We passed the old gas station, a one-room wooden A-frame that was still open for sodas and gossip. Around the bend were the salvage yard, church and grave yard, more farms, and to the right a paved driveway highlighted with perfectly aligned trees and a house that was never seen from the road, no matter what the season.

            The only signs of life were the trail of smoke lifting with the breeze, too late for even the deer to stir along the roadsides, licking the salt or finding water and shelter before retiring for the night. We crossed the intersection leading to the vineyards and the radio station, around the dairy farm where I first learned to milk a cow, and across the river by the new park. I stared at the old train trestle, a rusted steel apparatus that in its heyday would have been a lovely bridge, but was now a sad, yet oddly quaint, reminder of the flood two decades ago-- the one that neither of us was old enough to remember. We topped the road at the lumber yard, which growing up had been the drive-in movie theater, and turned towards town.

            On the hillside was the mansion with the widows-walk that was haunted: an estate that was left to the surviving family members, which everyone within the family argued about, but no one really wanted. From the mansion you could see most of town, a stretch of maybe two miles at most, less than a mile wide, sitting within the valley of the mountain range, a river crossing in the midst and running the length of it, shaping the layout of civilization. In the center of town had been the mill, which was long gone-- replaced by a dam to keep future floods from devastating the land. Next to this river are the industrial plants that keep the town surviving; without them the economy would tank and my hometown would be non-existent-- a ghastly image and as empty as the time the whole area lost power for that ten hour stretch: nothing moving about, just sheer darkness and stillness. I knock on wood that the plants don’t leave town to take business elsewhere. I’m not normally a superstitious gal, but it’s better safe than sorry when it comes to something as serious as that. There isn’t much wood within this truck, this paneling and my notebook made of wood pulp will have to do. I’m not a very religious gal either, but dear God, don’t let our folks here lose those plants.

~to be continued~

Chapter One

            Daddy swore the new highway would put town on the map, which would always frustrate me as a girl, since Roaring Creek had been on every map I could get my precocious little hands on. Town was founded in 1777 and folklore has it that, during the Civil War, the local church changed hands between the North and South thirteen times in one day. Things here no longer change that fast. In my eighteen years, the most excitement I’ve seen is town growing from one to three stoplights, a grocery superstore moving in, and our high school football team winning seven state championships. Oh, and that highway which is gonna carry me out of these mountains opened.

            I work at the local video store, which isn’t too bad, considering I can do my homework and watch the new releases for free. After hours, I can sneak in fifteen minutes in the tanning bed if I really wanted -- which I haven’t done since realizing I’d rather sit through an extra hour of trigonometry than have a panic attack onset by two fans whirling and 2400 watts enclosing me. 

           The door jingled bringing me out of my reverie. “Hey there Sophie, what’s new?” Dear God, I haven’t seen Richard since he roasted marshmallows over a rubber tire he had placed in the bonfire over the weekend, while sober, oddly enough. He’d gotten ill from it and had nursed himself on his favorite soda for the rest of the night, much to the amusement of the guys, who had consumed more than a few beers by than. “Hi Richard.  We have ‘Just Friends’, ‘Prime’, ‘Capote’, ‘Get Rich or Die Tryin’, and ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ in. I think ‘Capote’ would be more your style, or even ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’.”

            “Sounds good, but I was asking more along the lines of what’s new with you, rather than what’s new in the store.” Richard had been inquiring after the same information for weeks now, and according to his rental account, only seemed to stop by when I was working. “When am I going to have the delight of your presence for dinner and soft-serve, Sophie? Surely you’re tired of John by now and in need of intellectual banter.”

            “Richard, as you well know, John and I have been dating almost four years, and although we have our moments of irritation, I doubt that we’ll be separating anytime soon. Also, as you are friends with John, you’d likely know before I if he should decide to leave me, since men so often account for the tribulations of their women over a drink or two.” I made a mental note to start parking my car out of view from Main Street: maybe he won't drop in if he doesn't see my car out front.  I then realized that the absence of vehicles out front may confuse other patrons. 

            “Indeed, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. ‘Capote’ it is then. Let me guess, due back tomorrow by six in the evening?” Richard removed his wallet and attempted to recover flirtation. “You know it, Richard. Town does close at nine, after all.” I gave him my business smile and handed him the rental, sighing a breath of relief as the door closed behind him. I kicked my sandals off and hit play, knowing I should be typing a paper but there was something irresistible about John Cusack on an ice rink in the snow, even if the movie was five years old. The door jingled and I reluctantly paused the movie again. 

            “Hey Hunny, how’s your night going? Has the store been busy?” I bounced off the stool and hopped around the rental counter to nab a kiss from John. “Hey! The store’s been steady, and the night is going really well, although Richard came in and asked me out again. Would you please talk to him Honey and put a stop to it? It’s fairly annoying.” 

            “Nah, he’s harmless and doesn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how Richard is.” John came behind the counter and started to count the drawer: I locked the door.

            “He may be harmless, but it’s still annoying. What are you doing tonight? I haven’t finished my paper yet, but it’s not due for a few days, so it can wait a little bit longer. Would you want to go for a drive or grab a bite to eat?” I popped the movie out of the VCR player and slid it back on the shelf, before grabbing my purse and slipping my sandals back on. 

            “I’m not really that hungry, but we could grab something if you want. I was thinking about driving out on the ridge since the sky is clear and we may be able to see the stars. I nabbed you a surprise on the way here - that has cherry and vanilla in it, and it rhymes with proctor stepper.”

            “Get outta town! I had given up hope that they were going to stock them. I’m not that hungry either, and sitting on the tailgate with you and my good friend proctor stepper under the stars sounds more enticing. Should I bring my car with me?” I wonder if I should call Momma and let her know I’m not going to be home before she goes to work. Is she even up yet? It’s nine fifteen; she should be up by now. I better call and leave a message just in case. 

            “I’ll bring you back to town Sophie, no need for both of us to drive out there. Do you need to call your mom?” Good gravy John, you sure are a mind reader. “Yes, I better call Momma just so she doesn’t worry. May I use your phone, hon?”

            “No, but you can use your phone, Sophie.”

            “John, you know I don’t have a phone.”

            “Sure you do, go look in the truck while I lock up. That pink and silver one isn’t mine you know.”

            “You’re something else John Bernhardt. Do you want a kiss now or later?”

            “Later, now go call your Momma and let’s get out of this store before people start to talk or someone drops in wantin’ somethin’.”

            “Yes sir.” He got me a cell phone. What would’ve possessed him to get me a cell phone? I’ll have to ask him that. “I’ll be in the truck callin’ Momma, John; and thank you honey. Getting me a drink was sweet. Getting a cell phone is outright thoughtful.”

            “You’re welcome. I’m right behind you. Just have to turn off the lights and lock the door.”

            I walked out and headed for the truck, a Ford the color of a red delicious apple before it’s polished for display.  I swear that truck is going to outlive me: if it doesn’t, I have every intention of turning it into a flowerbed, which may be controversial, but with lavender, tulips, daffodils, sweet William, snapdragons, and maybe even some forget-me-nots-- well that flowerbed would rival any claw-foot bathtub planted in an English garden.  I opened the passenger door and there sat a pink and silver cell phone topped off with a bow, right next to cherry vanilla heaven. I hopped in the cab and pulled the door behind me, rolling the window down, and reached for the new phone, gently pulling the bow off and placing it behind my ear like a Senorita’s flower. I flipped open the phone and wondered what my number was so that I could give it to Momma. The phone was ringing and she wasn’t answering so I left a message on the machine before hanging up. Then I twisted open the greatness of cherry vanilla proctor stepper. Lips, meet my little frien’. 

            John walked out of the store and opened the door to the cab while I was trying to give my best sultry look, which made him laugh but he recovered quickly. “Hola, Senorita. ¿Cómo está?” I smiled and leaned in towards him as he climbed in. “Muy bien, Señor, gracias, pero necesito un beso, porque sin un beso de John, estoy triste.”

            “You lost me after ‘I need’, Sophie.”

            “You had me at ‘hello’, John.”

            “Jerry Maguire, 1996. Good movie reference, hunny. As you were saying about ‘I need’...since you said something about being sad without it, and you’re sitting so close to me looking so cute with that bow in your hair, I’m guessing it’s a kiss you need.”

            “Si, por favor, un...” John leaned in and laced his fingers thorough my hair, loosening the bow from behind my ear, and as it fell, slipped his other arm around my waist, pulling me in closer. My eyes closed and I could smell his cologne: tones of cedar and amber, light citrus-- mixing with the old leather interior of his truck, and the faint smell of gasoline. I sighed and let the tension of my shoulders go, leaned in closer to him, wrapped my hands behind the nape of his neck, and as I slowly opened my eyes, he gently pulled away and smiled at me.

            “Are you sad now?”

            “No, not at all, thank you honey. How was your day?”

            “It went really well; had a lot of people locking themselves out of their cars today. One of the last calls I had sent me towards the mall, and as I was crossing the railroad tracks, traffic stopped and I was smack dab in the middle of ‘em. We were stopped for a bit, and I started to get antsy, and lo and behold, a train was coming down the tracks and was laying on its whistle. So I hit the gas pedal and squeezed past the vehicle in front of me, and up on the sidewalk I went. I sat there for a bit breathing, grateful that I wasn’t hurt, and then got out of the truck to see if I’d done any damage to it pulling up on the sidewalk, and by then traffic was starting up again, and the train was still passing behind me. I didn’t see anything wrong with the body of the truck, so I climbed back in and pulled off the sidewalk to meet the customer at the mall. When I got back to the shop, the boss was there, so I told him what happened, and he said he was glad I was alright and that it had happened to him once too. Said he’s avoided those train tracks like he avoids driving during the Cranberry Festival. Then he thanked me for making a quick decision to pull up on the sidewalk, and told me that the truck was insured but life isn’t, said ‘I know you’re not going to ever find yourself on those tracks again, but if for some freak reason you do, and have nowhere to put that damned truck, fuck the truck son. Get out of there and run like the devil is chasing you! I don’t want to have to make any phone calls back home, alright? Now go home and live a little, take off early, we’ve got the calls from here.’ He patted me on the back and I left for home. I don’t think I’ve ever driven so cautiously crossing that mountain as I did on the way here. I usually make that drive in forty-five minutes, but it took me an hour and fifteen on the way back. I stopped at the store and added you to my plan after that. I knew you were in class and wouldn’t have been able to answer, but from now on, I know that I want to at least be able to try and get a hold of you Sophie, even if leaving a message is the best I can do then and there. Hearing your voice from the voicemail box would be better than not hearing you at all if something like that ever happens again, and I want to know that if you’re ever in danger like that, you can get a hold of me.”

            “Oh my God, John, I am so glad you are alright! Oh, just listening to you talk about it gives me such a fright: oh, hold me! The thought of losing you makes me sick. Are you okay? Does your Momma know?”

            I wrapped my arms tight around him and snuggled into the crook of his neck, reveling in the smell of his cologne, the feel of his skin against mine, and placed my palm over his heart to feel it beat, comforted and so very grateful that he was here with me. What would I do without him? Dear God, thank you for keeping this man safe and alive. Thank you for blessing him with the time to react and drive off those tracks safely, and please, bless him so that he doesn’t find himself on those tracks again. Thank you, in Your name we pray, Amen.

            John had buried his nose in my hair while he was holding me and hadn’t let go when he murmured against me, “I’m okay, honest. Mom knows. I’m just happy to be here with you. Especially since you smell so good. You’re hair is making me hungry after all. You smell like cheesecake. What perfume are you wearing?” I laughed. It wasn’t likely my hair was really making him hungry but that he had forgotten to eat or had been too nerve-wracked to do so.

            “I’m not wearing perfume today, but my shampoo is called strawberries ‘n cream, which is probably why I smell like cheesecake. Did you eat after work?”

            “No, forgot to. Are you hungry? We could go grab some cheesecake at the ‘mart.”

            “Or, since we’re hungry, we could go grab some chips and queso while you decide between a combo number five or a twelve, and I debate between chicken or beef enchiladas.”

            “That sounds good. But as much as I eat there, they’re likely to give me a t-shirt and put me to work.”

            “Ha, that’s true. Well, should they put you to work, I’ll have to stick around and help out. We do, after all, have constellations to identify.”

            “Alright then, Dos Amigos Restaurante it is.”

            “What time is it?”

            “It’s nine forty-five, Sophie. Why, do you have somewhere to be?”

            “Yes, I have a hot date at Dos Amigos, but I can’t remember when they close.”

            “Hot date, huh? What’s he like? And they stop serving at ten-thirty, so we have plenty of time to eat.”

            “Wow, ten-thirty? That’s late. Oh, he’s round six-three, has dark hair and blue eyes, and every pound of him is pure sugar. He’s thoughtful and caring, and the first time we met he was a freshman in the high school marching band.  My best friend and I had been walking through the football stands and saw him in his uniform with this ridiculous plumed hat, but he was still so cute. I turned hot red when he made eye contact with me and started to giggle madly, then I grabbed my friend’s hand and we dashed down the steps under the bleachers. We hit the bottom step and stood to the side looking up through the slats, and she double dog dared me to go back up there and ask him his name and take a picture with him. Well, I had never turned down a double dog dare before, and I wasn’t going to start then, so I turned right around and went back up those steps, camera in hand. I walked up to him demurely and tried real hard not to blush and said, ‘Hey there, what’s your name?’ to which he replied, ‘John, what’s yours?’ and I batted my eye lashes and smiled and said, ‘Sophie Marshall; what’s your last name, John?”

            “And I said, ‘My last name is Bernhardt. I play the drums. Are you in a band?’ You snapped a picture of me as I leaned against the railing to hear your answer and then you ran off to meet Amy Lynne. On the way down the bleachers, you shouted back, ‘I play the clarinet’ and off you went. You were eleven and I was fourteen. Whatever happened to that photo anyways?”

            “Oh, Amy Lynne found that picture our freshmen year, about five months after we were dating, and said ‘My God, I’d forgotten about that night.’ The photo’s in my room now in a scrapbook.”

            John pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant and came around the truck to open the door for me. I slid out and hopped to the ground. I was almost a foot shorter than him and usually I didn’t think anything of it, except for when getting in and out of the truck. He shut the door and I interlaced my fingers with his, and we went into Dos Amigos. The waiter sat us in our usual spot and we pretended to look at the menu. I decided on beef enchiladas and looked up to see John gazing at me intently.

            “What is it? Do I have a cherry vanilla mustache?”   

            “No, I would have warned you about a mustache Sophie. I’m just watching how the lamp is filtering through the pink crepe paper decorations and giving you a rosy glow. You’re really beautiful Sophie.”

            I blushed and smiled at him. I wasn’t very good at taking compliments. He knew this and smiled back at me as the waiter approached to take our order. I opened my mouth to order, but John put his hand over mine and raised an eyebrow at me. So I raised an eyebrow back, challenging him to read my mind. 

            “Hello, we’ll have chips and queso, with a virgin strawberry daiquiri, a sweet tea, one beef enchilada with rice and queso,” John looked at me and I smiled, nodding my head in approval, “and a number twelve for me, please.” The waiter nodded and walked away.

            “How do you do that, John? Read my mind like that? You even thought of what drink I wanted.”

            “I don’t think it’s really reading your mind. It’s just knowing you well enough to understand what you would choose or prefer, really.”

            “Well, either way, it’s lovely that you know me so well. Thank you, John, for being a wonderful man and I’m so grateful you’re safe! I’ll be right back.”

            I kissed him on the cheek and then grabbed my purse and headed towards the rest room. When I got back the drinks and appetizer were there. I sat down and munched for a bit, and as I was taking a sip of my virgin drink, pretended I had just remembered something. “Oh! The staff wanted me to give this to you John.”  I handed him a Dos Amigos shirt and grinned, than took another sip of my daiquiri.

            “What on earth? How did you finagle a staff shirt?”

            “I was talking with the other waitress and told her how you had joked that as much as you ate here, they were going to put you to work. She laughed and told me to give this to you, and said that you could try your hand at cooking or the dishes if you wanted, but either way, the shirt was yours.”

            John looked at me incredulously and laughed. Then he tugged the shirt on and lifted his sweet tea. “To Sophie, for being fun and loving.”

            “To John, for being caring, thoughtful, and very much alive.” And to another almost four years. I love this man. 



© 2011 Anastasia Artayet