Cascade Nights
By
J. L. Kaye
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 J. L. Kaye
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Prolog
Edward Brightman brushed pine needles and dust from the back of Freya Barthelme’s borrowed bright blue warm-up suit. She took a deep breath, let her eyes wander across the ridges and hills that marched up the slopes of Mount Rainier, and basked in the afterglow of two spectacular orgasms.
It’s like I just rode the ninth wave surfers dream about; well I think that’s what they call it, Freya thought, maybe it was a tsunami. Who knows? Who cares? It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Admittedly, she never surfed; but based her impression about riding a perfect wave on what the rich and famous surfers told her during interviews for stories she wrote about surfing vacation spots. Tsunami. Waves upon waves. Apt metaphor!
Standing on the edge of a cliff 3000 miles from her Manhattan home and office, she felt Olympian, like a goddess, detached from her career as an up and coming travel writer and perhaps even an associate editor at “Travel in Style”.
Lust. High above the madding crowd, as they say. This beats the other Mile-high Club, I would guess; and it’s infinitely more private, too.
She turned and faced the man she’d met barely a handful of hours before, unsure of what to say. I can’t thank him any more than he should thank me. Besides, for what? A spontaneous hook-up while both of us are on our separate jobs, company time, reporter and subject?
She saw him about to say something, so she reached out with a finger and put it to his lips. “Save it for later, Edward. I want to savor what happened. Let’s not trivialize the moment with words.” He nodded to tacitly agree with her.
A day earlier, after finishing a feature about the opening of the upper end of the Havana market to well-heeled American tourists, Freya flew from New York to Seattle in business class, upgrading at her expense to celebrate filing the first cover story of her journalistic career. A mere two hours after landing at SEATAC, an unexpected event shook Freya out of her reverie. She thwarted an unwarranted come-on from the photographer assigned by her editor to illustrate the story that brought her west.
Then, in the wake of those two triumphs, there on that remote promontory in Washington’s Cascade Mountains, Freya Barthelme opened her own Pandora’s Box of emotions and, in doing so, violated one of Regina’s Rules for Probity.
Heady stuff for this hard-working woman of 30. One thing remains constant for me, she thought, turning away from Edward to look down into a long verdant valley below them, raising her face to take the sun more fully, when I initiate intimacy, wherever it is, I always, yes, Freya, always, have more than one orgasm and they’re deeper and infinitely more satisfying. So, Edward Brightman, you and I just proved for the record Freya’s Personal Theorem on Sexuality, which states “that when my partner leads and dominates in one way or another and initiates sex, invariably he gets off and I get hornier.” Now, I must determine whether it was so good because it was forbidden and neither of us were in dominant positions, or just so good because it was, well, so good. Hmm. In the name of personal journalism I gotta explore this more.
Edward finished dusting her off and patted her tenderly on the shoulder, a signal to turn to face him, which she did and passionately kissed the man she met a little more than five hours earlier and whose skill at foreplay brought on her sexual tsunami.
Freya, girl, what’s up with you? You’ve never tumbled into sex so fast with anyone, and now you’re thinking of the next time with this same guy.
“Thanks, Edward. Please understand that what we just did is not like me.” Even though that sounds like a cheap cliché, I mean it. “I don’t know what got into me.” I know what I’d like in me, though. “But I’ll bet you hear that from all the girls who fall for your good looks and manly charms.”
Freya looked for a sympathetic reaction from the tall, handsome and athletic man of roughly the same age, she guessed. His boyish demeanor made him seem more embarrassed than remorseful or, what would have been worse, accepting as if the intimacy they shared was an obligation on her part. He’s not that type, I don’t think. But I started it and now I don’t want to turn it off, not yet, anyway. But, good God, girl, are you putting something ahead of work, ahead of the profession, ahead of propriety, ahead of your narrow better judgment? Or …?
1
Five hours earlier, at 10:30 that morning, Freya Barthelme, slender, well-endowed and proportioned with full breasts and narrow waist, pulled into a turnout off State Highway 410 scraped from the fringe of towering old growth firs to retrieve driving directions the resort’s marketing director sent her. “Travel In Style” confirmed the magazine wanted to do a story on the Cascade Lodge. After writing a series of edgy reports on travel to once closed countries, her editor thought Freya needed something soft and cushy and dispatched the ace reporter to an upscale resort and spa tucked in the forests on the slopes of Mount Rainier in Washington. Freya’s editor told her to consider the lodge a “cushy assignment, the perfect type of story for you to use to cruise back to more traditional travel reporting.”
Every time Freya thought back about that suggestion to do an easy one she winced, wanting to tell the editor: “That’s not like me, anymore! I don’t need a marshmallow story about a rustic resort in the backwoods. I want something with meat!” But the moment and the words never coincided.
As Freya rotated in the front seat to open a leather briefcase on the passenger side, her knee collided with the row of bruises on her right leg and the dull pain reminded her of what happened the night before. Roald Jardin, the freelance photographer hired by the magazine, brutishly tried to pry his way between her thighs, and his clumsy attempt at sex left her with two perfectly matched rows of fingerprints that turned yellow before going purple on the inside of each leg.
For the first time in 30 years, Freya had a chance to do successfully what she often dreamed about: using a knee to fend off an unwanted sexual advance. She liked the sensation, and smiled at how automatic and easy she protected herself from the assault by jamming one knee hard into Roald’s groin while using her nubby little finger nails to scratch his face and neck. As she replayed those moments over and over, she suspected she probably mashed Roald’s testicles against the hard stretch of male anatomy that separated his anus from his mangled manhood.
Looking off into the lush green Cascade forest, Freya reveled in her moment of mastery over one male’s attempt at domination. The smile broadened as she replayed in her mind his howl of pain. For good measure, Freya imagined the sound echoing throughout the forest that surrounded her on the highway into Mount Rainier National Park. The aural fantasy faded in the woods as she heard again his gasping simpers of apology when she pushed him out of her room into the hotel corridor, intending that to be the last time she’d ever see him.
Though six feet tall and trim, Freya took many steps to appear less appealing than her friends. Intentionally, she kept herself plain, using minimal make-up and wearing loose clothing to hide her attractive figure. She also stayed away from gyms, disdaining the hard-body fitness levels many of her friends worked so hard to maintain. “Too self-indulgent,” she replied when asked why she didn’t join a fitness club near the office. “I prefer my body to be soft and tender like a good steak, not lean and tough. You can be that way if you want.”
She also passed on taking self-protection courses designed to acquaint women with the rudiments of martial arts; she thought herself so plain, “mousy” as Freya overheard a colleague describe her, that she considered it unlikely she’d get any sexual advances from anyone she couldn’t handle. Besides, who wants to take on an Amazon? The episode in her Seattle hotel room confused her and made her challenge that thesis.
Similarly, Freya translated her perceived and studied lack of sex-appeal into a reason to ignore other personal safety measures the more attractive staffers took when in the field. On assignment, which happened often because she wrote destination stories for the travel magazine catering to well-heeled travelers, Freya went out of her way to skirt situations that might require defending herself.
And, for good measure, Freya Barthelme held to that sense of security because she rarely received unsolicited attention from tour operators or staff members at properties who feared reprisals for uninvited flirtations, aware of professional risks from an angry or offended journalist. What few problems she did encounter on the job always came from free-lance photographers or guests of the venues she visited. Gays on the magazine’s staff said that photographers represented the worst of all threats.
Consequently, a late-night cross-country flight after 24 hours of non-stop work to beat a deadline followed by several glasses of champagne aloft dulled Freya’s defensive stance and, left her without a customary wariness over late night meetings with men, especially photographers. After the incident, Freya tossed about in bed, rebuking herself for dropping her guard. At the crack of dawn, she vented her anger and put the incident away by having Roald Jardin terminated from the project and future photo-shoots for the magazine.
Regina Stein, the editor, ran “Travel in Style” magazine with an iron fist and required absolute probity from the staff and the free-lancers they used. Freya’s first-thing-in-the-morning account of what happened convinced Regina that Roald should be blacklisted from future assignments. “I’ll take care of formally cutting him loose; however, you’ll probably have to cover the story at the Cascade Lodge without a photographer. Maybe I’ll find another one in the area; but, it’s unlikely at this late date so you’ll need to wing it and possibly take pictures on your own. It’s not that important of a story that we need A-grade shots, anyway.”
Before she got clarification on Stein’s photo requirements, the editor hung up and left Freya seething in anger as she set out on the network of roads that took her to the resort.
Shit, I hate to split my efforts. That’s one of the reasons this gig’s getting old, she thought, staring at the lush green forest that surrounded the roadway. She looked to the backseat of the rented car and saw again Roald’s silver Halliburton camera case. She suspected Jardin left it when she flushed him from her room and the bellhop then loaded it in the car while she checked out. Freya didn’t see it until well away from the airport hotel. Because of the way he attacked her as well as what Stein said about blacklisting him from future assignments at “Travel In Style”, Freya only foresaw problems if she tried to return it to him. Embarrassment should make him abandon the gear, anyway, she reasoned. However, each time Freya saw the case she felt uneasy, like a thief who stole someone’s professional tools.
To dispel the guilt, she swept the case out of sight onto the floor, wincing at the sound of impact. Stepping out of the compact white automobile, handwritten directions at her side, Freya scanned the dense and silent forest and smelled the rich loamy soil and pungent foliage that sloped down toward the turn-out. She thought back to a solo assignment a decade earlier and chuckled at her success all those years at avoiding a split of attention between reporting and taking pictures. “If worst comes to worst, you can always get the property to give you stock photos,” Martin Bourdon, her editor, assured the then rookie reporter on that first project.
The more cost-conscious Regina Stein encouraged her staff to be versatile, rewarding them with bonuses when they filled both roles on stories. Freya never collected those bonuses.
“The sameness of stories about pretentious hotels with snooty staffs and over-cooked food bores me, now,” she told the forest. “These new assignments in former Iron Curtain countries are a blast. When I get back I’ll crank out a new resume and see what’s happening out there at some of the more serious pubs. Besides, under Regina the book seems to be going after advertisers more than readers, which is probably one reason why I’m here covering a fairly pedestrian location. I mean, how often can we write about pristine lodges set in national parks? And this is my third this year. Yuck!”
A tour bus with Asian characters on the sides swept by and the paper flapped against Freya’s thigh. She lifted the note and studied her carefully penned directions. “Thirteen miles after the national park boundary marker, between markers 44 and 45, turn right at resort sign and follow the four-lane paved road to the lodge. Contact information and your itinerary will be in a press kit at registration.” She just passed the green and white numbered 44-mile indicator before the last bend of the road.
“Even their press kits look alike,” she announced to no one. Most properties she visited frowned on checking guests in early in the morning; however, as a travel writer, she expected to receive deferential treatment. “If there early, I leave early.”
With her chin thrust high, the corners of her mouth turned into a mock frown and a quick glance over her cheekbones at the note and then the Rolex she picked up in Hong Kong, she haughtily announced to the ancient trees across the road: “Robotic reporting and writing here I come.” Crumpling the note, she slipped back in the car, winked at her image in the mirror, shifted into drive and merged back onto the highway. Five minutes later she pulled up under the rough-hewn weathered logs that formed the signature portico of the sprawling four-story Cascade Lodge.
“Same old same old so far.”
After she announced her arrival to registration, a deep male voice greeted her: “Mrs. Bartholomew …”
Oh, shit. They can’t even get my name right. “It’s Barthelme with the last syllable pronounced like the pronoun ‘me’; I’m not a Mrs., and despite that call me Freya. You must be Mr. Brightman.”
The voice came from a tall and fit, but simply dressed executive sliding along the granite-topped front desk toward her. Freya quickly sized him up as a local because of the weathered but still youthful and attractive face. A shaggy head of curly brown hair along with style-less glasses made him look dull, unconcerned about his appearance, which seemed to her odd at an upscale property like the Cascade Lodge. Freya also noticed he wore no rings or other jewelry, carried a ballpoint pen with the hotel logo and a simple clipboard, none of the designer accoutrements used by his affected counterparts at five-star places she routinely covered.
He carries the country guy all the way through to every detail without the affectations that mark others in his position. That’s encouraging. She subtly sniffed the air, searching for the tell-tale aroma of expensive aftershave or colognes. None of that smelly stuff many of them must bathe in, either, which may mean I’ll be with a real man, though perhaps a dull one, too.
“Freya, in the spirit of bonhomie, please call me Edward.”
“That’s good. Edward it’ll be.” She stuck her hand out and he took it lightly.
Some strength there; not like so many in the hospitality business who have a limp hand; but what the hell, I’m here and might as well make the best of it.
After a brief familiarization tour of the main building, Edward escorted her to a quiet table along a towering window wall away from other guests in the Cascade Lodge’s cavernous main dining room. A quick lunch salad came and went and, as the help cleared away dishes, she leafed through several pages of prepared questions. Because of his simple affability that bordered on innocence, she found it easy to mix hard and soft questions, which he responded to with openness and genuine interest in being candid.
Edward had affected an “aw shucks” Ronald Reagan-like charm during the tour, which bored Freya, and her indifference allowed the marketer to stay mechanically on message. Until they sat down for lunch, the repartee between them remained light and it allowed her to feed him mushy questions, those she carefully crafted to sound obsequious. Freya knew that fawning questions disarmed sources, and, when she fired off the hard ones, it caught them off-guard, giving her unexpected insights into challenges resorts faced. Though the magazine’s print edition viewed each resort and tour operator as a major advertiser, “Travel in Style’s” blog operated differently; and Regina Stein wanted it that way, encouraging her staff to be brutally honest when leading a thread on a particular destination.
“Describe for me demographics of the clientele you go for, by season, and then give me an idea of how successful you’ve been in attracting people in that segment.”
After posing that A-grade question, she looked up to see if he contorted his face while pondering it. As Edward struggled to reply, she felt a twinge of regret at having thrown a complicated one at him unannounced. Poor guy looks like a specimen insect impaled on a pin.
His face blanked and he held his palms open, asking for forgiveness.
“Take your time, Edward, and get back to me when convenient. I’ll be here a day or so, unless that line of inquiry shortens my stay.” She smiled sweetly and waited for a response.
Edward’s hands remained extended, but a sly smile crossed his face as scores of muscles relaxed. “You know, Freya, there are some subjects I can handle, but others Ms. Gordon, the GM and managing partner, should answer for you.”
His pleasant and honest grin didn’t distract Freya.
“That’s fair. Many properties in your category divide disclosure between executives. When can I talk with her?” She tapped the sheaf of notes with her pen and squinted to emphasize the seriousness behind the hard-line direction she wanted to take for her story.
Edward’s face remained frozen in a smile, his eyes locked on Freya’s as he pulled out a cell-phone, keyed in seven numbers and reached Cascade Lodge’s executive suite. Edward introduced himself and spoke softly, asking for the general manager’s schedule, saying the interview should take no more than 30 minutes. He looked at Freya with raised eye-brows.
Freya ignored Edward and looked with casual disinterest out the huge plate glass window at the forest that encircled the lodge. She recalled from the drive in that beyond the forest, perhaps quite a few miles away, the perpetually snow-capped Mount Rainier loomed over the region; however, she lost sight of the iconic mountain when she entered the dense forest inside the park boundary. Edward’s silence drew her back to the table. In response, Freya shrugged her shoulders as an uncertain gesture about time needed.
He made an entry into a small wire-bound paper scheduler and put a free hand with his thumb up to let Freya know he booked the interview, signed off and closed the clam shell of the phone. He broadened his grin. “O.K. Freya, you’re set for tomorrow morning at ten when you and Ms. Gordon will have breakfast in her office.”
“Wonderful!” She said with feigned enthusiasm. “That’s far more than I could ask for.” As she dropped her eyes to record the time and place on her notes, Freya added: “You’ll be there, won’t you?”
He frowned. “No. The GM handles interviews alone; but I’m available up until then as well as after for as long you need, Freya.” He consulted his scheduler and, while his eyes scanned the little pages, added: “I’ll host you for dinner tonight and tomorrow, unless you have other plans.”
She saw him blush and mentally recorded his shyness as something for possible leverage if needed during her visit. “That’s nice of you, as long as I’m not taking you from family or other duties.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m married to my work; and, because we’re a year-round property, I don’t get off the mountain very often.”
“I fully understand,” she said, wistfully, comparing his concept of 24/7 work with her schedule. After discarding the idea, she said: “Interesting you should say ‘off the mountain’, Edward. Are we on Mount Rainier here?”
“In a way. Cascade Lodge is what’s called an in-dwelling; and, because the property sits on an island of private land surrounded by the park, we’re not obligated to report to the National Park Service or government authorities the way concessionaires inside federal boundaries do.”
“So, I’m in the National Park but not?”
“Yes, and we’re not quite so unique. What I mean to say is there are several in-dwellings, like this,” he waved a hand, “that were private property before the feds claimed the land for a National Park. Grandfather clauses let us retain private status but to avoid controversy we operate to their highest standards and even beyond. Many of the competing lodges around here are outside the park, which loosens the reporting requirements they have; while others operate inside as concessionaires reportable to the park service and Department of the Interior. These differences, among many others that you’ll see and hear about, make us unique.”
From independent research, Freya knew about the corporate parentage of the property. Watching and listening to Edward, she started to like his genuine enthusiasm for the hotel; and the commitment to his employer submerged his nervousness that she suspected either came from unfamiliarity with dealing with a journalist, working with a woman, or both. I’ll have to ask him about that later on, she promised herself. Maybe he’s just given me an angle I need for the blog if not the story -- how unlicensed concessionaires circumvent federal regulations. Then, on reflection: That, however, is not the kind of story we’re doing. Damn! It could have been an interesting feature. Good idea, wrong publication.
“Here’s how I’ve arranged the remainder of the day for you.” He paused and waited for her to encourage him to continue.
God, am I going to have to sanction every move we make? She cocked her head to one side and indicated with her hand to go ahead.
“When finished here, which I see we pretty much are, I’ll let you attend to any personal needs you have for half an hour or so if you need the time; then we’ll take a short trip off premises and into the park for a quick tour up the mountain and a possible sunset, though you might be tired by then, given the late hour it now is back east. They forecast clear weather today, but there’s a possibility of rain tonight and possibly tomorrow; so we should take advantage of blue skies when we can.”
He looked around the room, and said as he leaned across the table: “I didn’t see anyone else with you. Will you need photos or assistance taking pictures to illustrate your article?”
Freya forced a laugh; but she thought it sounded phony. Remembering the photographer’s case she said: “I’ll take my own, thank you, Edward. There was a, uh, problem with finding a photographer at this late date so the magazine wants me to illustrate my story.”
He looked at his scheduler again. “Hmm, I recall when your staff booked your visit that you were supposed to be here with another person.”
She quickly added: “We canceled the photographer who was to join me.”
“So I should release Mr. Jardin’s room, then?”
“Most assuredly.”
“That’s fine.”
It sounded to her like a comment of relief. Did we actually fire him for the right reasons? “Why’s that, Edward? I mean, does the absence of a photographer …”
“Not really, it’s not the presence or absence of a photographer, but it’s that one, Roald Jardin, that got me curious.”
“How so?” She decided against disclosing the prior night’s experience to anyone other than her editor for the moment. Edward’s position made it inappropriate to comment until Freya knew him better. There’s something intriguing about this bumpkin. Maybe it’s his ingenuous way of speaking, or the simple presence he has. Wonder if he’s as shallow when away from work as he is during company time. For that matter, I wonder if I am.
“This is a small community, despite the size of the cities and towns up along the Sound. We’ve hosted Jardin before and found it curious that ‘Travel in Style’ picked …”
Edward just vindicated terminating Jardin this morning. She remained impassive, studying his face for further signs he disapproved of the photographer.
“… someone who, well …” Edward paused and looked out the window for several seconds. After taking a breath, he started over: “Jardin has a reputation. An excellent photographer who’s done wonderful work on the mountain. Don’t get me wrong. What I’m about to say has nothing to do with his work.”
“Edward,” she put her hand on his, “please be honest with me. I’m sure whatever you might think that is not worth sharing might very well be something we already know.” She batted her eyelids and partly opened her mouth to encourage him to go on, but then pulled her hand back as she thought physical contact probably embarrassed him.
He swallowed and looked down where her hand rested moments before. “Based on his reputation we didn’t think you’d end up using two rooms.” His face flushed a bright crimson. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that since I don’t really know you.”
“That’s alright, Edward. Glad you did; that reputation is the reason Jardin’s not here with us.”
“Oh?”
How far do I go with this? If I disclose the incident discreetly, I’ll possibly engender some confidence and perhaps get even more of a story or at least a different slant on things here. “Edward?”
“Yes?”
“You seem like an honorable man, someone I can share a secret with. Promise me that what I say goes no further than this table.”
He swallowed again, bent forward and nodded gravely, taking his glasses off and polishing them with the corner of the table cloth.
She narrowed her eyes and leaned closer to mirror his gesture of conversational intimacy. “I’m a big girl from the big city and more than once have had to deal with dishonorable men.” Sort of, I guess. “What he tried to do last night came as no surprise to me; the only surprise was when he tried it and the force behind it.”
“I don’t get you.” Edward straightened up and leaned back with a puzzled look.
It won’t hurt to reveal a little more. “Until he called on me at the hotel after my flight arrived, I’d never met him, much less knew anything about him. We arranged to meet in the hotel lounge for a drink and to plan our coverage for this story. It all seemed so innocent, even productive, Edward, as we spread papers and notes across the table. When the hotel wanted to close the lounge, I foolishly didn’t think anything of suggesting we continue the conversation in my room. I assumed, because he lived in the area, he’d go home and come back for me this morning.”
“I think I know where you’re going.”
She watched as a reproachful look formed on his face. “Then, Edward, I don’t need to share lurid details.”
Disdain crossed his face and made Edward appear prudish, which intrigued her. Without hesitation she continued: “There are bruises on my thighs and I have torn undies, courtesy of Roald Jardin last night …”
“No!”
“Edward, I’m no beauty queen and, quite frankly, am surprised when a man makes a pass at me, especially when it comes from a work-related colleague. Sometimes it flatters me when the guy does it with finesse and, well, in a gentlemanly way, if you know what I mean.”
“Freya, I think you look fine, very attractive in …”
“Edward, don’t. I know what I look like and have heard what others say about my looks.” For emphasis she narrowed her eyes and hardened her demeanor, hoping to seem calloused against the opinions of others.
“Freya, I understand what you’re saying though don’t agree with you about …”
“Edward, leave it there, please.” Freya Barthelme told him how the incident started, embellishing as she went along, enjoying the onset of his horrified reaction as she spun the story. She labeled it an “unsuccessful rape attempt” and ended with graphic statements about how she thwarted Jardin.
He winced when she referred to “testicles squishing” and uncomfortably turned sideways in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He asked: “What’s odd, Freya, is that I think I detected sadness in your voice. Over what?”
Perceptive dude! “Close, Edward. The emotion I felt was disappointment. I’m disappointed that an otherwise fine photographer thought with his crotch instead of his brain and put a misguided sense of pleasure before business.” She did feel disappointed that Roald tried to hit on her so early in their assignment and not wait for when the project ended. I actually found him attractive and very interesting, she admitted to herself several times on the drive down to the lodge, and wouldn’t have minded a romp once the work was done; but not before. Never. Regina’s Rules. But after the work was done … “It’s my New York nature to be blunt about these things; I hope my forthright and lurid descriptions didn’t offend you, Edward.”
“No, not at all. Why would you think that?”
“You seem so,” she paused, “sensitive, I guess. A direct contrast, I might add, to Jardin.”
“I guess that’s a compliment.”
His nervous laugh sounded to Freya forced. “I think it’s cute, endearing; especially after dealing with some pretty crass characters. But that’s the life of a working woman in the Big Apple; and I long ago made peace with it.” She folded her arms in front of her, forcing her ample breasts to rise up and show him a healthy line of cleavage, a move she perfected for when she wanted to change subjects. “But we’re off topic, Edward. Whaddaya say we get back to the story at hand. Let me accept your offer for half an hour so I can retreat to my room and take care of a couple of important calls that showed on my cell-phone while we talked.” She held the closed phone up.
“That’s fine, Freya. Let’s meet in the lobby at two.”
She gathered up her papers as she pushed back from the table. “Edward?”
“Yes, Freya?”
“Treat what I told you as a freak incident. I don’t want to be the one to ruin Jardin’s reputation. Let’s say he got impulsive and acted inappropriately because of too much alcohol.”
“It’s our secret, Freya. I’m not a gossip, anyway.”
She stuck her hand out to shake. When he returned the gesture, she covered his hand with her other and winked. “Good.” She pulled her hand back just as he started to squeeze a little harder. “See you at two.”
He escorted her toward the door to the dining room, stopped and turned toward her. “By the way, Freya, do you have any clothes suitable for hiking?”
She looked puzzled.
With his hand he gestured vaguely at her clothing. “If OK with you, we’ll be walking through some pristine environments and your dress-for-success-outfit won’t be appropriate. You’ll need different shoes and, at the very least, you may mess up what you’re wearing beyond what a cleaner can remedy; at worst you could snag the fabric …”
“I got the idea, Edward; and no, I didn’t bring outdoor clothing with me.” In fact, I don’t have any much less expect to take a hike around in the weeds to get this story.
“Let me guess: you’re a size 12 and wear eights in shoes.”
Her puzzled look broadened.
“Quite often guests inadvertently leave some of their wardrobe. We clean and store whatever is still useable in case they ask us to return it or when someone has a special need, such as you.” His genuine smile warmed her.
“Shoe size is nine. The 12 is correct; though because I’m tall I often take a 14, depending on manufacturer.” She blushed, knowing that in her couture wardrobe back home she wore loose fitting 14s.
When they reached the lobby, Edward excused himself and returned several minutes later with a bright blue satin warm-up suit on a hanger, a sweat shirt with the hotel logo on the front and two pair of sneakers. “Here you go. Perfect for tromping around the slopes of Mount Rainier. Still need half an hour?”
“Yep. Gotta return those calls and then try on your costume for the day. What should I do if the outfit doesn’t fit?”
“Call the front desk, explain the problem, ask them to page me, and I’ll swing by lost and found and search for a replacement. If all is OK, just meet me here at two. I’ll drive one of our vehicles from the motor pool.” He stepped back a few steps away from her: “By the way, where we’re going and what we’ll see won’t be rough on you. I don’t want to sour a journalist by burning her out at our altitude or with too much strenuous activity. After all, there’s still our hospitality and the wonder of Cascade nights you’ll need to experience.”
“Ohh?”
“Evenings are magical this time of the year … great sunsets at a very late hour if you’re high enough, music from the lounge fits the locale …”
“It’s not Seattle Grunge …”
“No, nothing like that.” He laughed. “Our demographics separate us from those who like that stuff. And, well, let’s just say that good sounds get our evenings started here.”
Freya cocked her head in a coquettish way, and it surprised her she would even do that. “Let’s leave the details for later, but I need to know if this is only for my benefit. Is it? The magazine wants us to see things as normal tourists do, you know.”
“Don’t worry. We thoroughly researched your by-line and back issues of the pub and are planning only that which meets your criteria, Freya Barthelme’s and that of ‘Travel in Style’. Besides, we won’t go beyond the norm for our other guests. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”
“That sounds fair to me.”
In her room, it took five minutes to check email while she returned most of the calls and deleted a message from Roald before she heard any words of apology. She used the remainder of the time to freshen up and try on the abandoned clothes Edward gave her. As she pulled the bottom half of the warm-up suit on, she noticed that the bruises on her thighs turned a deeper shade of purple. Because of her very pale skin, especially where Roald grabbed her upper legs, the finger marks had a neon glow. “Though it’s a badge of honor, it’s also a stain. Glad I won’t wear a swimsuit.”
She looked herself over one more time and smoothed her hands down the margins of the blue satin; then she patted a few strands of sandy blonde hair in place and shrugged. After a wink of her blue eyes, she turned to study her profile in the mirror, saying when satisfied: “Back to the wars. Edward there seems a little light for the job, but I’ll get a story, nonetheless, and when I get home I’ll definitely test the waters for other jobs, maybe out of the travel biz.”
2
She almost didn’t recognize Edward in the lobby. He stood along the window wall staring out at the scenery; hiking shorts, long-sleeve blue chambray shirt and ankle-top boots replaced his business suit, completely changing his corporate quisling persona into a rugged outdoorsman. Taking in the image she noted the duds he wore reflected strength and confidence, and none of his clothes had manufacturer labels showing. Not a logo in sight. Even more impressive, he’s not wearing Birkenstocks and lederhosen. And all that authentic clothing is also well-worn, too, which impresses me, though I’m not sure by what just yet.
“Wow, Edward, I almost didn’t recognize you without the Madison Avenue threads, the glasses, you know, the corporate clothes.”
He demurely looked down, embarrassed by her observation. “Preferred uniform of the day for me.” Then he gave her a perfunctory scan. “Looks like what we had fit you, and rather well, too.”
“Good guesses on your part, down to the nines on my feet, though blue’s not my color.”
“Only in your eyes. Do you want me to …”
“Oh, no, Edward. Just trying to make a joke. These are fine, they really are. So, where are we going?” She moved closer to him, wary that his clothes might be gamey from excessive use and infrequent laundering, and perhaps even clumsily masked by cheap after-shave. On the contrary, she detected nothing, not even the aroma of detergent, only authentic evergreen scents, most likely from the surrounding forest.
“We’ll drive part way up the mountain, at first; and give you a chance to shoot pictures at several turn-outs along the way. After that, we’ll take a short hike down to a meadow and a lake. Then drive on up to Sunrise, and the jump-off point for several trails in the area.”
“Should I bring something to write with?”
“Your choice. But do bring your camera.”
She winced, recalling the camera case still on the floor of the car.
“I have a small point and shoot if you need one,” he said. A silver camera dangled at the end of a cord from his fingers.
“Thanks, Edward, but there’s a camera in the car I use.” Providing it’s not too high tech and I can figure out how it works.
“Good. I’m sure we’ll walk past your car on the way to the one we’ll use to go up the mountain.”
And they did. Freya retrieved the aluminum case, noting with relief the absence of a combination or keyed lock. At the far end of the covered parking structure she saw a row of white vans with the resort’s logo, an outline of trees arranged in a green row in front of a black line drawing of the mountain. Tucked among the vans sat an open-air Jeep Wrangler, coated with mud. Good God, I hope we’re not using that thing! The garage air remained cool from the night before, but beads of nervous perspiration formed across her upper lip.
As they passed the vans, he crossed in front of her, unlocked a cabinet and grabbed a set of keys. In the dark and tucked alongside that wall sat a new SUV with a more discrete logo on the driver-side door.
“We’ll take this one for the day,” Edward announced, using the remote to unlock the doors and activate interior lights. “It’s more comfortable and, surprisingly, just as rugged as my little buddy over there.” He gestured toward the Jeep. “It’s also Ms. Gordon’s personal car.”
“Won’t she …”
“Not today. She’s off property on company business. The controller drove his car.”
“Oh, good for us, then.” That’s a break. One small step for creature comfort...
Inside the luxurious SUV Freya detected an expensive perfume available only through a big city retail outlet. Well, Ms. Gordon has taste and sense in more than one area, Freya thought as she leaned back against the comfortable leather seat. Before the lights blinked off, she recognized the tight swirl and high polish of hand-crafted walnut trim on the dash. A two-way radio, activated when Edward turned on the ignition, blared out a conversation taking place between the front desk and someone in housekeeping with a thick accent. Edward turned the radio off and apologized.
“No problem. I’ve ridden in enough noisy cabs to be used to it.” As the vehicle emerged into filtered sunlight that streamed down through the canopy of firs, she looked admiringly around the cockpit, noticing as her gaze returned to the road Edward’s lean powerful legs, dotted with several round scars. A conversation topic for later, I’ll make sure.
The tour guide in Edward went on automatic and he launched into a non-stop stream of facts about the mountain, local ecology and tourism in the area. At each bend in the road, he slowed to minimize the sway and Freya relaxed to enjoy several hair-pin turns and views of the land that dropped further and further below. His well-modulated voice had a soporific effect, and she half-listened while she played a game by anticipating a word he’d use and repeat it silently. Most of the time, the words he used differed from any she anticipated, which kept her attentive.
Several turn-outs had simple camera images on a sign but she waved each off. “No thanks, Edward. This is the kind of venue the magazine sees all too often from amateurs who think they’re Nat Geo photographers. I’ll wait to click my own.”
“As you wish, Freya. Let me know when the right one comes along.” He slipped the car back into gear. “And by the way …”
“Yes?”
“I may ask you if I can snap some myself at that time. I’ve always wanted to get my hands on one of those new digital cameras and maybe I can borrow yours later on.”
Freya tried to make her laugh sound natural, but the nervousness of being on stage while taking pictures bothered her, particularly with a “borrowed” camera.
The major stop he picked occurred at a large parking area set inside a sharp 180-degree curve. Several cars and tour busses parked neatly between white lines. Many tourists milled along the precipice taking pictures of the mammoth snow-capped mountain that loomed ahead. Others focused shots on the drop-offs that descended down into verdant valleys below. Some visitors snacked; others stood and talked, ignoring the panorama of beauty that stretched all around them. She thought that they might be sated by it.
Freya responded enthusiastically: “Magnificent, Edward. Absolutely magnificent, and I’m sure at sunrise or sunset this is a magical place to be at when low warm light splashes across the face of the mountain. Right now this is not a picture we’d need, my book, that is, but I’m glad you stopped.”
“Actually, Freya, I anticipated that this wouldn’t be any more than a point of interest to you, visually. What I had in mind is our first foray into scenery, away from these crowds.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t be skeptical. There’s more to this mountain than glaciers and sunsets. Come. I’ll show you.” He slipped out and walked around to her side and opened the door. “Want to take your camera?”
She nodded. The moment of truth had to come sooner or later. I guess now is as good as any. Freya opened the rear door and placed the case on the leather seat, hesitated and then, overcoming a moment of trepidation, opened the camera case for the first time.
Edward erupted into gales of laughter. Simultaneously, they saw a row of thongs neatly arranged and held by Velcro straps, men’s toiletries and a handful of condoms stacked in their own compartment and set firmly in the gunmetal-gray of the foam rubber. They also saw embedded in sections carefully cut for unique shapes a battery-powered dildo, manacles and several leather ties. Her face blanched into a pale mask, whiter than ordinary for an easterner who never ventured outdoors; and then she blushed, the redness creeping up from the throat and around her neck. More color suffused her face the night before when she defended herself against Roald than from seeing his sex-toys displayed there before them in the early afternoon.
Edward reached around in front of her and fingered a tube of salve in the toiletry section. “Apparently, someone has a rash, or something worse.”
Freya, stood silently for a moment, mouth agape, lips dry, blue eyes winced to narrow slits. Then, while Edward scanned the contents, she told him what apparently happened that morning when she checked out.
Edward studied the tube while she spoke, replying when Freya finished: “And, I guess, it’s a good thing he never succeeded in getting it on with you.”
“Well, yeah; but what else do you mean?” The words tumbled out of her mouth. She couldn’t look at Edward, yet.
“I think this stuff is for a herpes infection. If he succeeded last night, Freya, you’d probably be through with unprotected sex, most likely for the rest of your life.”
“You think …”
Edward stepped back from the open case and put a hand on her shoulder. “C’mon, Freya, you’ve got a story to write and I’ve got a journalist to help.” He dropped his hand to his side, and added in a fatherly way: “Put this behind you and let’s enjoy the magic of Tahoma.”
The Indian word cut through the maelstrom of thoughts swirling in her mind. “Tahoma?”
“Original name given to the mountain by Native Americans before Brits named her for one of their admirals.”
“What does Tahoma mean?” The journalistic style of inquiry came out automatically.
“Mother of waters.” His voice softened, and the way he whispered the words told her it reflected reverence.
“I see.” Mechanically she closed the case and slid it away, a smile, hidden from Edward, crossed her face. “It looks as though you’re both my tour guide and now also just might be my photographer, too.” She turned to face him; the color still flushed her face. Freya’s grin spread wider and only a huge amount of self-control kept her from outright laughter. “This may seem ironic to you, but to me it’s much more. It’s actually quite liberating.”
“How so?”
“I tell you what. Later this evening, over a glass of wine or two, I may have the fortitude to tell you. For right now, let’s enjoy Tahoma and all she has to offer. I’m looking forward to seeing the real mountain as only you could show it to someone.” She placed her hand on his shoulder and rolled her lips under her teeth to keep from bursting out in laughter, shaking her head as she did. “C’mon Edward Brightman, there’s much I have to see and learn about the Mother of Waters.” Though almost the same height as Edward, she felt smaller than him in the wake of the embarrassing moment with Roald’s case. Maybe this puny feeling will pass too.
As she studied the rip rap stone barrier that separated the parking area from the overlook, Edward turned to her. “One last question and then I promise never to bring the subject up again.” She gave him an uncertain nod, squinting into the sun over his shoulder. “You told me about his attempts to get it on with you, but how is it you have that case instead of the camera gear?”
“As near as I can tell, he left the camera in his car and brought that to my room, fully expecting to get my cooperation in using his play-things. When I resisted, bashed his nuts and threw him out, he must have waived further rights to that stuff.” After looking down and thinking, she added: “All morning long I wondered why he didn’t chase after me for his camera equipment.” She chuckled. “Now I think I know why.”
“That’s probably the only understandable thing he’s done.”
“You’re right, Edward. Now, in exchange for never bringing this up again, do me a favor.”
“Sure. Name it.”
“When we get back to the resort, let’s leave the case in lost and found for someone who might need it.”
“Or for Roald to retrieve if he ever screws up the courage to come looking for it.”
They laughed heartily as Edward pulled a daypack out of the back end of the SUV and slipped it on. Then he put his hand on her shoulder and ushered her across the parking lot, through an opening in the rock wall and onto a path that carried them into a forest of scrubby pines and Douglas fir. Descending into the forest he identified numerous colorful wildflowers in bloom that flanked the path, some almost invisible because of their tiny size; the most plentiful, purple lupine, carpeted open areas between the trees. Asters, daisies and over-sized dandelions filled in. The trail trended up and out onto exposed areas, the blooms diminished and that gave her a chance to scan the horizon with the mass of Mount Rainier anchoring her field of vision.
As if reading her mind, Edward chimed in, “From trails above Sunrise and on to the other side of Tahoma you can see Mount St. Helens.”
“That’s the volcano that …”
“Yep. Constant reminder how transitory humans are in the face of Mother Nature.”
“What about your buddy here, the Mother of Waters? Isn’t she a volcano, too?”
“A sleepy one, not like St. Helens.”
“We all know about what happened when Mount St. Helens erupted. When was the last time Rainier went off?” And what about you? When’s the last time you lost your perfect composure, Mr. Mountain Man, and lost it in a lusty way? Oops. Where did that thought come from? Perhaps the shared exposure to Roald’s sex toys?
Edward continued: “She’s slept for more than a thousand years, according to those who study and set labels on these things. Most of what we’ve experienced in recent history has been little rockslides from temblors and melt from her glaciers; nothing attributed to the pyrotechnics that create earthquakes and eruptions and generate headlines.”
Hmm, it always comes back to what we journalists report, doesn’t it. But that disaster stuff is for the dailies. Unfortunately, I guess, my beat is beauty and luxury. Maybe someday I’ll sign on with someone that covers more interesting stories like that. “Earthquakes. Now there’s something I’ve never been through, as often as I’ve been on the West Coast.”
“You’re probably better for it, Freya, especially here in volcano country. Even those who’ve lived here their entire lives stop what they’re doing when the faintest rumblings occur; and the closer we are to these sleeping beauties, the more pause we give temblors.” He turned and studied a large lenticular cloud hovering like a flying saucer over the dormant volcano.
Then Mt. Rainier disappeared from view behind the ridge as he led them further down along the trail. She interpreted his silence that followed the comment to mean Edward said all he wanted to say about volcanoes and earthquakes. Probably doesn’t want to spook me with further talk about cataclysmic events for fear I’d dwell on them in my story. She shrugged. He’s wrong in thinking that way and probably suspects all journalists look for the sensational but that kind of stuff isn’t part of my beat. Then as an afterthought: Maybe someday, though. Gotta raise my periscope when I get back. Thinking about a possible change in her future took Freya’s mind off the trail and she dawdled as thoughts about juicier hard news assignments swept over her. A gap opened between them.
Edward rounded a bend, stopped and waited for her to catch up. Ahead the trail descended into a meadow where emerald grasses surrounded a clear blue lake. Coming out of her thoughts about the future, Freya estimated the lake to be about 100 yards wide and slightly more than that in length as it spread down and along a narrow valley. Standing well above the meadow, she saw a profusion of color: purples, yellows and splashes of red that turned the floor of the valley into a colorful Alpine rug.
“I really like this area, perhaps more than many most places on the slopes of Tahoma.”
“Why’s that, Edward? It seems so close to all those people up there.” She pointed with a thumb above them.
“It’s too daunting of a trail for the tourists and the hardcore don’t like to be around the visitors, so hardly anyone ever takes this path, and that little lake over there actually starts the creek that flows down the mountain past the resort before joining up with the Huckleberry…”
“And I thought never the twain would meet.”
Edward looked puzzled.
He didn’t get it. Oh well, I can’t expect literary acumen from a mountain guide.
The trail paralleled a ridge overhead before snaking back and forth through hair-pins and then leveled out as it approached the little lake. Purple mountain asters grew everywhere, marching up the slopes to the edge of the trail.
He held the camera up. “Should I take any pictures of you here, either for your story or for the record?”
“Edward, never of me. I’m not photogenic and my editors don’t run pictures with staffers in them, anyway. But if you see something that you feel has significance, like one of those glaciers we read about or …”
“No glaciers down here on this side of Tahoma. They’re up on the other slopes. And where the glaciers are it isn’t as pretty as here, though they are dramatic. Just not very photographable like I imagine your publication would like things to be. Quite frankly, I think the flowers and meadows are more likely to bring readers here, anyway.”
“You’re right on that. ‘Travel in Style’ encourages luxury travel as much as possible to bring the kind of people your lodge caters to versus the hearty souls who conduct archeological digs and rummage around caves in their spare time. That kind read some of the other pubs like the natural science books.”
“Gotcha. Well, that’s what I figured, which is why I brought you here.”
“And, for the record, though demographically not anywhere near as wealthy as my readers, I do like my luxuries less arduous.” I’ve also noticed that the trail back up will be no piece of cake, either. Hope he doesn’t have to carry me out. Of course, on second thought, that might not be so bad. Quiet and simple Edward is growing on me in a nice way. “Edward, we haven’t turned around yet; isn’t it more difficult to climb up at these altitudes than to descend?” A quaver of nervousness reflected in her voice.
“Consider this hike the most strenuous we’ll take today; and, yes, we’ll take it easy on the way back up. On our drive into Sunrise you’ll have a chance to recover before tackling another trail.”
Thanks for the warning and the assurance!
He marched onward, only once looking back to make sure she followed. At an almost indistinct fork in the trail he stopped and waited for Freya. The main trail wound around to the right and down toward the lake below, while the left disappeared into evergreens, hugging the lower edge of the escarpment above them.
“Freya, we could walk up to the edge of the lake but I don’t like to see, much less participate, in human contact at that fragile area; besides I think you’d be more comfortable back here, anyway.” He motioned for her to follow him as the path virtually vanished through a series of small couloirs before ending below the huge overhead ridge. At the end of the trail, he slipped off his pack and hung it from a broken branch a few feet above the landing.
“Here we are, at one of the loveliest scenes in the Cascades,” he said as he looked down and across the verdant valley, the asters giving way to lush green grass along the banks of the pond.
They had regained just enough elevation above the meadow that she could see several ranges of mountains, ridges and hills trending off toward the west. Small white clouds hovered overhead, each one casting a shadow down on the lake and then them before moving eastward on toward the slopes of Mt. Rainier. When sun shone down on their side of the valley, the blue reflection of the sky sparkled in the lake.
“I see why you like it, Edward. What a lovely place to sit. I’ll bet you think great thoughts here.”
“Very peaceful here. I like to come to this spot on days off and just sit.”
Hopefully you won’t pull out some cliché and say you’re a poet. It’d ruin the rugged image you’ve created, amigo, though I do expect you to say something that bespeaks of sensitivity of some kind. “And what do you do when you get here?” I shouldn’t have asked that. He might say what I hope he doesn’t. She winced in anticipation of hearing something banal and looked away, hoping he didn’t see the frown. When in control of her expression, Freya turned back.
“Sometimes nothing.”
“Nothing? You mean you come here for the sake of coming here?”
“Sure. Does that disappoint you? I mean, should I bring a harmonica or sketch pad or perhaps a journal to write words with hopes of becoming another Thoreau or Emerson?”
A smile spread across her face and she winked at him, involuntarily. “No, Edward, it doesn’t disappoint me. In fact, it makes you more human in a genuine kind of way. If you did any of those things, or even said you did, I’d suspect you of being, well, phony. But because you come here for the sake of coming here, that’s in keeping with the magic I suppose you feel in this little place.”
“There’s one other thing that this niche in the side of the hill is good for.”
Oh, here it comes. Is this a set-up for Rape of the Sabine, mountain-style? “What’s that?” Wariness tinged her comment.