Working It (14 page)

“Ah, I see we are having a cultural misunderstanding, Mister Baranov. Allow me to explain. In the lower forty-eight, taxi drivers load a customer’s luggage into the trunk and then drive them wherever they want to go for an outrageously exorbitant fee.” I lean my back against the manky upholstered seat and cross my arms. “Tell me, what are the transportation customs in this strange land?”

Laney gasps. I know I am being condescending, but I can’t help myself. A shroud of apprehension and melancholy settled upon me the moment we stepped out of the airport. It happens every time I move somewhere new. I usually become apprehensive, and then irritable, and then depressed. It’s my process. I just need to get to my new home, claim my space, drink some wine, and cry myself to sleep…and Alexi Baranov is interrupting my process.

“I would drive you where you want to go, but the road is closed.”

“What do you mean it is closed?”

“We had a pretty big snowstorm last night. Most of the major roads are clear, but some of the smaller ones haven’t been plowed yet.”

Laney and I exchange worried glances.

“Mister Baranov,” Laney says, leaning forward. “We have come to Sitka to teach with a charitable organization. We need to get to 1102 Sockeye. What do you recommend?”

“I can take you to Halibut Point Road where it intersects with Sockeye Circle, but you will have to walk the rest of the way.”

“Is it far?”

“Nope.”

“How far would you say 1102 Sockeye is from Halibut Place?”

“Point,” he says, putting the car into gear. “It’s Halibut Point. And it’s not far. Maybe half a mile.”

“A half a mile? Is that all?” I turn to look at Laney. “I do a half mile just to get my afternoon frappe. We got this one.”

Snagging a Lumbersexual

“We so don’t have this one, Fanny!”

The taxi has just pulled away. We are standing at the bottom of a steep snow-covered road, clutching the handles of our rolling suitcases, and gazing up at a big, beautiful log cabin perched at the top of the hill. Trudging up the hill would be a crazy hard cardio workout, even if we weren’t dragging sixty-five pound bags and Laney’s guitar case.

“What the”—I draw in a deep breath and let the last word explode from my lips in one violent exhalation—“fuck?”

An endless stream of French curses flows from my mouth as I look around for a gondola, chair lift, or any motorized conveyance capable of ferrying two women and nearly two hundred pounds of luggage up the mini-Mount Everest. But all I see is snow, snow, and more snow.

The Each One, Teach One facilities are located on the outskirts of town. This is a laughable concept in itself as Sitka is barely a town. It’s more of a quasi-village. Halibut Point Road, it turns out, is the major thoroughfare, skirting along the coast from one end of town to the other.

“What are we going to do?”

This is the first time I have detected anything less than buoyant optimism in Laney’s tone. I look at her face. Her lips are quivering. Tears tremble on the ends of her thick lashes. The irrepressible perky girl has left the building! Great! We’ve only been in Sitka for an hour and already they’ve beaten the bounce out of her.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say, grabbing her frozen hand and giving it a good squeeze. “We are strong, empowered, modern-day heroines, and this is merely a trifling inconvenience. We aren’t going to let a silly old hill and some snow dampen our enthusiasm for the beginning of our new beginning, are we?”

She sniffles and shakes her head. The tears fall from her lashes and plop onto her pink cheeks. “But how are we going to get up this hill? The road is buried in snow.”

Frankly, I don’t know how we are going to get up a steep snowy hill. We each have a suitcase and carryon. Four pieces of luggage plus purses.

“Maybe we could hire a Sherpa.”

Laney does one of those hiccup laugh-cry things, and it reminds me of Vivian. My best friend believes every person is put into your life for a reason. If that’s true, maybe Laney is in my life to help me recolor my aura, and maybe I am in her life to take care of her, the same way I take care of Vivian. It’s just what I do.

“I have an idea!” I open my suitcase, shove my hand inside, and pull out the belt of my new flannel robe. “We’ll
be
Sherpas.”

Laney frowns. “You’re not suggesting we carry our luggage up the hill on our backs, are you?”

“Of course not,” I chuckle. “That would be insane!”

I bend over, secure one end of the belt around the handle of Laney’s suitcase, and make a loop just big enough for my hand at the other end.

“
Voila
!” I tip her suitcase over so the smooth plastic side is resting on the snow. I take a few steps, pulling Laney’s suitcase behind me. Although my feet sink in the deep snow, her suitcase glides over it like a sled. I stop and turn around, grinning. “We can take turns pulling the bags up the hill. You stay here while I pull the first bag up.”

“Are you sure?” Laney shields her eyes with her hand and looks up at the log cabin perched on the top of the hill. “It’s a long way up.”

“Bah!” I wave my free hand at her. “It’s a hill, not a mountain. Besides, it probably isn’t as tough as a seventy minute spin class or forty minutes max incline on the elliptical.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am sure.”

I leave her standing on the side of the road beside an evergreen with sagging branches covered in thick, sparkling snow and begin my long, plodding trek to the cabin.

I have barely made it a quarter of the way up the hill when I realize this undertaking makes a seventy minute spin class seem like a bucolic ride in the park. The snow has spilled over the tops of my Uggs and soaked my heavy woolen socks. My calves are quivering—literally quivering—and my lungs feel as if they are about to explode. I stop, take several deep breaths of crisp, clean pine-scented air, and give myself a pep talk. You’ve biked Provence and Tuscany. You’ve run the San Francisco Marathon—three times. You can do this!

By the time I reach the top of the hill, my legs are wobbling worse than when I ran my first marathon. I drop to my knees on the circular drive and draw in ragged, wheezy breaths.

My newcomer’s packet listed the names of the two other volunteers assigned to Sitka TTF. Since the facility is dark and there are no signs of life, I have to assume we are the first to arrive.

I stagger to my feet. I can do this! I carry Laney’s suitcase up the stairs and set it down on the porch near the front doors. After untying my belt and shoving it into my pocket, I begin my trek back down the hill.

Laney chants my name and jumps up and down like a cheerleader encouraging her quarterback to lead their team to V-I-C-T-O-R-Y! Normally, such unbridled enthusiasm would irritate me, but I deserve to be cheered. Dragging seventy pounds a half mile up a steep incline is pararescue shit! In fact, the next time I meet a
général
in the
Armee de L'Air
, I am going to recommend he send his elite soldiers to Sitka for their training. I do, however, refrain from slamming my belt on the ground at Laney’s feet and doing a celebratory dance.

I hand her the belt and collapse on the ground. My legs and lungs hurt worse than they ever did after any Body Combat class.

I am lying spread-eagle on the ground only two hundred feet from Halibut Point Road—Sitka’s version of a main street—and I don’t even care if my new neighbors drive by and see me lying prostrate in the snow. My pride is that obliterated. I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing.

Laney is still tying the belt to my suitcase handle a vehicle with a monstrously loud engine turns off Halibut Point Road and pulls to a stop beside us. I should sit up, put my legs together, and try to manage a modicum of decorum, but my trembling limbs aren’t listening to the signals my brain is sending them. Besides, what do I care if some random backwoods, bushy-bearded, beaver pelt-wearing fur trapper thinks about me, anyway?

A car door opens and slams. Laney lets out a low, long whistle. I hear snow crunching under heavy foot and then…

“I always ken I would have ye falling at my feet
banfhlath
, but I didn’t think it would happen this fast.”

Putain de merde! Cela ne se produit
. I hold my breath and count to myself.
Un, deux, trois…
Maybe if I play dead, he’ll go away. It works with brown bears. Or is it black bears?

“Have ye stopped breathing, lass?” He squats down beside me.

I catch a whiff of his woodsy cologne. This is really happening.

“Do I need to give ye mouth to mouth, then?”

I crack open an eye and find Calder’s handsome face staring down at me, his broad shoulders blocking the sun and casting a shadow over me.

“What are you doing here?”

He stands and holds out his hand. I take it and feel a spark of electricity run up my arm.

“I came to see if ye needed help with yer bags.”

I stare up into his handsome, arrogant, grinning face, and my pulse, which had returned to a normal rhythm, quickens. I suddenly realize he’s still holding my hand. I pull it away, but my fingers continue to tingle as if I’d shoved them in an electrical outlet.

“
Merci beaucoup
,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I can manage just fine though.”

“Well, I can’t!” Laney steps closer and holds her hand out to Calder. “I am Delaney Brooks, Fanny’s new friend and co-worker.”

“
Je suis desloée
.” I look from Calder to Laney. “It was rude of me not to introduce you. Laney, this is Calder MacFarlane. We met in Scotland last year, when he made a valiant but failed effort at seducing my best friend. Calder, this is Laney.”

Calder’s grin never slips, but I detect a tiny spark of something—perhaps humiliation, frustration, or excitement—in his blue eyes.

“Hello,” he says, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “’Tis a pleasure to make yer acquaintance, lass.”

Laney giggles and slides her glasses up her nose with her free hand.

“Calder, Calder, bo-balder. Banana-fana, fo-Falder. Fee fi, fo—”

I clasp my hand around Laney’s forearm and give it a squeeze. She only misses a beat before resuming her ridiculous name game song.

“Calder! Calder Abbey. Calder Memorial Trophy. Alexander Calder!”

She snaps her fingers twice, like some kind of poetry reciting beatnik.

Have you ever noticed how much quieter the world becomes after someone has done something extremely embarrassing? It is so quiet I can hear Calder breathing. I am just about to explain Laney’s odd name association game when he starts singing.

“Laney, Laney. Bo-baney. Banana-fana, fo-faney. Fee fi, mo maney. Laney!” Calder grins at Laney and she grins back. “I dinnea ken about that last part, though.”

“Oh! That’s simple,” she explains. “I think of something that has the person’s name in it and mentally attach it to them.”

“Like Laney, Ireland?” he asks.

“Sure!” Laney looks as if she has found her kindred spirit. “Only, what about Ireland reminds you of me?”

“You’re friendly. The Irish are friendly.” Calder quickly answers. “But maybe I should have said Laney Amps, because ye like to sing.”

“Nice.”

They fist bump. Fist bump! Like two prepubescent mall rats. It’s really…fucking irritating!

Don’t ask me why their juvenile bonding ritual is irritating me so much. It just is. I mean, they’ve only just met, and already they are serenading and fist bumping each other.

You’re just jealous.

I am not jealous.

Yes, you are. You envy them their easy camaraderie because being at ease around strangers is a social grace you have failed to master.

I look at Laney and Calder laughing together. My officious little conscious is right. I am envious of outgoing, charming people because I want to be a let’s-hug-and-be-best-friends-forever kinda girl. I come off as snobbish around new people. Erecting an invisible barrier is a defense mechanism that protects me from the sting of rejection.

Also, I am French. French people aren’t as open and welcoming as Americans. Americans are like big, loveable golden retrievers, bounding up with a ready supply of affection. The French are like suspicious cats, reluctant to approach and judicious with their attentions.

“Fanny?” Laney snaps her fingers in front of my face. “How’s Rod Serling?”

“What?”

“You were in the Zone again.”

“Sorry.” A wave of heat washes over my body. “Hauling that suitcase up the hill must have depleted my energy. I can’t seem to concentrate on anything except my aching quads.”

Calder looks up the hill and then back at me, narrowing his blue eyes. “You didn’t carry one of your steamer trunks up that hill. Did you?”

I nod my head and wince as a lightning-hot bolt of pain shoots down my spine, starting at my neck.

Calder chuckles and shakes his head. “You didn’t need to do that, lass.”

“The taxi driver refused to take us up the hill,” I snap, shoving my hands on my hips and glaring up at the insufferable Scot. “What was I supposed to do?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t ken, maybe set aside your bloody French pride and ask for help.”

I look around. “And who was I supposed to ask?”

Calder crosses his muscular arms over his chest and grins.

“You?”

“Of course.” He looks around. “That is, unless you have an army of wee Frenchmen hidden somewhere nearby capable of hauling your shoe trunks up the hill.”

I roll my eyes, because I can’t very well admit to the arrogant Scot that I actually considered sending him an SOS text.

“Your choice,
banfhlath
. What’s it to be? A single able-bodied Scotsman or an army of wee weakly Frenchmen?”

I shift my gaze from Calder to his big, shiny blue Jeep Rubicon. My quads hurt so bad I want to cry. Hauling the rest of the luggage up the hill might kill me, but admitting I need Hottie McScottie’s help will definitely kill me.

“I will take the Scotsman,” Laney chimes, pushing my suitcase at Calder. “Every day of the week and twice on Sunday, thank you very much.”

She marches over to the jeep, opens the back passenger door, kicks the snow off her boots, tosses her guitar case on the seat, and hops inside. She waggles her eyebrows at me before slamming the door.