Her Beautiful Mind Page 14

  My tent is tubular shaped with the door at one end. It’s barely tall enough for me to sit up, and there is space, both at the narrow foot and in the doorway, for me to stash my gear. It’s a little harder to enter and exit.

  We eat, we clean up, we hang our food bags at the shelter, and we sleep. A deep, restful, dreamless sleep that restores the body and mind and prepares us for another day on the trail.

  ~***~

  Songbirds have become my alarm clock. Long before the sun makes its appearance, even before the slightest gray colors the eastern sky, the birds are awake and singing. With the warmer temperatures, there are a lot of birds here, and they’re really, really loud.

  Comfortable in my little tent, I listen to the birdsongs, picking out the familiar notes from my childhood. A mockingbird cycles through his repertoire, and I follow his tweets, trills, and warbles. The pattern of his note progressions takes form in my mind, and I contemplate the possibilities of incorporating music into random sequence codes. The sound of a zipper opening on Yellow and Wonderland’s tent lets me know they’re awake, so I file the music theory away and begin to prepare for the day.

  We have nine miles to travel today. Not an insignificant number but still easy to manage, particularly in this amazing weather and with the trail slowly dropping in elevation. The plan is to reach the highway by mid-afternoon. It gives us enough time to find a ride, get to a motel, and clean up before going out for dinner. The girls have a mail drop to pick up at the post office, which they’ll be able to do tomorrow morning only since it’s closed on Saturday afternoon.

  It’s another beautiful day on the trail, perfect weather, perfect pathway, and perfect companions. In no time, we’ve covered six miles and pull into a shelter for a food break. Yesterday’s hot lunch made us feel so good, we decide to splurge again and cook something to eat. Pulling out our food bags, we rummage through them, picking out favorites and pulling together a shared picnic lunch. A nap soon follows.

  The road crossing at Winding Stair Gap comes quickly. A man sits in an open van door, watching a young child play on the ground near his feet. When he sees us, he stands and approaches us with a friendly smile.

  “Ariella Dobbs?” he asks, glancing down at a card in his hand, and then back up at me.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Tator. I do a little trail angelin’ around here. Rides to town and stuff. Liam Crow down at Neels Gap called and asked me to meet you this afternoon and make sure you get into Franklin safely.”

  He hands me a small business card with his name and phone number printed on the front. “He told me to tell you to call him at the number on the back, and he still thinks you should come home.”

  Chuckling, I flip the card over, finding Liam’s private cell phone number and email address.

  “Do you have room for all of us?” I ask Tator, who nods and leads us to his van.

  Tator picks up the little girl, who watches us load our packs into the rear of the van. “This is my granddaughter,” he explains, smiling proudly at the little girl who appears to be about four years old. “You want to tell the ladies your trail name?”

  His granddaughter ducks her head shyly, hiding her face against his neck.

  “Would you like to know my trail name?” Yellow steps closer to the little girl and holds up one of her braids. “It’s Yellow, like the color of my hair. Please tell me your name.”

  The little girl smiles at Yellow, then leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, “It’s Tator Tot.”

  We’re all laughing as we arrange ourselves in the van and start down the road to Franklin. We’ve only gone a short distance before Tator is discreetly lowering his window to let in some fresh air. In the warm, confined space of the van, it doesn’t take long before we’re also reaching for the window controls.

  Tator Tot’s face is scrunched in a disgusted scowl as she surveys us. From her car seat in the back, she leans forward toward her grandfather. “Stinky hikers, Papa,” she complains.

  She keeps us entertained all the way to Franklin.

  Chapter 22

  Town Days

  Date: Friday-Saturday, March 21 & 22

  Starting Location: Franklin, North Carolina

  Destination: Franklin, North Carolina

  Total Trip Miles: 106.8

  Tator drives us directly to the Franklin Motel where Liam has reserved a room for me. It’s a good thing, too, because hotel rooms are in short supply this weekend. Hikers, outdoor enthusiasts, and tourists have invaded the little town due, in part, to the great weather and the town’s proximity to the Nantahala Outdoor Center.

  When we find out the room has two queen beds, Yellow and Wonderland agree to share with me. Tator refuses any payment or tip, claiming it’s all been taken care of. Before he leaves, he makes sure I have his phone number and reminds me to call for a ride back to the trail.

  Liam also left a box for me. We open it to find more packaged, freeze-dried dinners, an assortment of snacks and trail bars, and a huge bag of Dreamer’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. Best of all is a sack of fresh fruit. Grapes, apples, an orange or two, and a carton of fresh blackberries. We moan in pleasure while we gorge ourselves on the juicy grapes. Fresh fruit is too heavy to carry on a multi-day hike.

  Yellow wins our coin toss and gets the first shower. While she washes away the hiker funk, Wonderland and I tackle the backpacks. Dirty clothes go in one pile, trash in another, and leftover food makes up the third pile. Sleeping bags are pulled from their stuff bags and unzipped. The bags are then draped over the beds for a good airing. We take the tents outside and shake as much dirt as possible from them. They, too, are left out of their stuff sacks and folded neatly in one corner of the room.

  Their gear is similar to mine: newer, lighter weight, innovative fabrics, and unique construction details. Each piece of clothing or gear in their packs has been carefully chosen with an eye toward usefulness and overall weight. So I’m more than surprised when Wonderland pulls out the biggest first-aid kit I’ve ever seen. It looks like she’s brought an entire emergency room with her. She laughs at my gawking. “Same reaction I get from everyone, but I can’t help it. I’m a trauma nurse, and if someone were to get hurt, I’d be the first one to help. I could never forgive myself if I didn’t have something that could save someone’s life. I just hope I never have to use it.”

  Yellow emerges in a cloud of steam, groaning in pleasure from the hot water. “I swear, sometimes I think hot water and ice cubes are mankind’s greatest inventions,” she says as she plops down on one of the beds. “I need a Coke on ice.” Then, with a muttered curse, she quickly opens a window. “Damn, this place stinks.” She laughs.

  Before Wonderland can get in the shower, I hand her all our dirty socks. “Put these in the tub while you shower so they can start soaking.”

  She gives me a questioning look but takes them with her anyway. Two minutes later, I’m laughing at her surprised yelp, and Yellow is running into the bathroom to see what is happening.

  “Holy shit!” I hear Yellow exclaim.

  Socks take the brunt of day-to-day hiking. Dust from the trail filters into the yarns, building up from daily use. I’ve seen socks so stiff from dirt and sweat they almost stand up by themselves. Most hikers bring at least three pairs with them—two to hike in, and one clean pair to sleep in and wear in town while the other two are in the laundry. Getting them clean is the problem. If you dump them in with the rest of your clothes, they’ll turn the wash water into a muddy mess unless you pre-wash some of the dirt out of them. Which is what Wonderland is doing right now by letting them soak in the tub while she showers. Of course, it also means she’s standing in a big puddle of muddy water.

  Then, it’s my turn. I luxuriate in the hot water, letting the pressure soothe my sore shoulders and stiff neck. I have to shampoo my hair twice before it feels clean. Finally, feeling rel
axed and refreshed, I turn my attention to those nasty socks. Each one is rinsed under the faucet and squeezed, then added to the pile of clothes waiting to be washed.

  Like me, Yellow and Wonderland have saved one set of clean underwear and one clean shirt to wear in town. We’ll wear our rain pants while everything else goes into the laundry.

  The motel has one coin-operated washer and dryer, as well as a dated computer with dial-up internet access available for their guests. Both are located off the main lobby. While I get the laundry started, Wonderland uses the computer to email her fiancé. She’s been unable to get in touch with him since they began hiking and is clearly worried. Yellow adds a note to her brother before they finish.

  When the hotel attendant offers to watch our laundry, we decide to get something to eat. An hour later, we’re stuffed with chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with gravy, green beans, and cornbread. We each get a piece of homemade berry pie to take to the room.

  After we pick up our freshly washed, dried, and folded laundry, it’s back to the room and into bed. For a while, we flip through the channels on the TV, but the busy day soon takes its toll, and we’re asleep by the time the sun sets outside.

  ~***~

  Yellow and Wonderland head to the post office early the next morning, taking along an empty backpack to carry their mail drop. We’ve decided to save any supply shopping until after we see what they have. Between what Liam left me and what’s in their package, we probably have plenty of food to get us through the next 28 miles to the Outdoor Center where we plan to spend the night and resupply. We could be there in two long days, but just in case, we’ll take enough food for three.

  While they’re gone, I use the computer in the lobby and email Dr. Albright, telling him I’ve taken a vacation in Georgia to visit family and will get in touch when I return. Then, I send Susan a message, letting her know I’m fine. I also tell her that although I won’t fight Hudson’s leaving, I will definitely be defending my intellectual property rights and expect a very generous compensation for their use. A quick note to Liam, telling him I’m here and safe, thanking him for the ride and food, and promising to call later when I can find a payphone, and I’m finished.

  Later, while getting our money’s worth at an all-you-can eat lunch buffet, Wonderland tells us she wants to get her hair trimmed at a salon they passed on the way to the post office. They’re giving free haircuts to anyone who donates to Locks of Love. Even though she doesn’t have enough hair to donate, she wants to support them.

  Everything is within walking distance, and we soon find ourselves in front of the beauty salon. Sure enough, a large sign in the window announces free haircuts for anyone donating their hair. We follow Wonderland inside while she arranges for a cut. Yellow declines, saying she’s fine with her length.

  The receptionist’s eyes widen when she sees my braid. “Oh, honey, are you thinking of cutting off your braid?”

  Up until her question, I hadn’t thought of getting a haircut. I was just following Wonderland. But now, I wonder what it would be like to have shorter hair. It would certainly be easier to deal with on the trail. “I think maybe I am,” I reply.

  She gets me settled into a chair, and soon, a stylist is behind me releasing my braid. “You have beautiful hair,” she tells me, running her fingers through its length. “Has it ever been cut?” When I shake my head, she studies me carefully in the mirror. “This is a big step, and you need to be sure. I won’t cut it unless you’re absolutely positive.”

  My reflection looks back at me from the mirror while I watch her run a comb through my hair. “Such beautiful hair,” I hear her mutter to herself. Suddenly, I’m back in my apartment, sitting in front of my bathroom vanity getting ready for the meeting.

  “May I?” Hudson asks, taking the comb from my hand. He runs it carefully through my hair from the top of my head to the very tip where it falls against my waist. “So beautiful, so beautiful,” he whispers to himself. Brow furrowed in concentration, he repeats each stroke, bringing the comb deliberately from crown to tip and letting the strands fall through his fingers. He glances toward the mirror where I watch him.

  “I’ve always loved your hair,” he tells me. “And I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

  “Why did you wait?”

  His eyes search mine before he speaks. “You were so young when I met you. I was afraid you might think I was too old. Then, when we started working together, I didn’t want you or anyone else to think I was trying to take advantage of you. But I wanted to, Ariella. I wanted to hold your hand, wanted to kiss you, wanted to run my fingers through your hair.”

  “Hudson, you’re only four years older than I am. Twenty-eight to my twenty-four. That’s not a big age difference.”

  “It isn’t now,” he agrees, smiling at my reflection. “But it was when you were eighteen and I was twenty-two. You were so—” He breaks off, frowning.

  “Naïve?” I answer for him. “Backward, countrified, gullible, inexperienced?”

  “Absolutely not.” He glares at me. “Don’t ever call yourself that. I thought you were wonderful … so real, so innocent and unspoiled. I was in awe of you and your beautiful mind.” He chuckles before starting to comb my hair again. “And this beautiful hair, too.”

  Once more our eyes lock in the mirror before he leans over and kisses me lightly on the top of my head. “Promise me you’ll never change from the wonderful girl I fell in love with, and promise me you’ll never cut your hair.”

  “You decided yet, hun?”

  The stylist’s words cut short my memories. She’s still standing behind me, studying my reflection in the mirror and waiting for my decision. “Cut it off,” I answer.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m still staring at my reflection but for a completely different reason. I barely recognize the person in the mirror. After she had cut off the heavy length, the hairdresser began arranging my hair, trying to get an idea of how it would lay on its own before she started shaping it. She studied the shorter hair in the back, frowning a bit before asking me if I had curly hair. When I replied no, she sprayed some water on it, crunched it a bit, and then turned me around so I could see the back in the mirror. Freed from the weight of the braid, the shorter hair curled around on itself and lay in soft waves against my head.

  Grabbing a magazine lying beside her station, she quickly thumbed through it before showing me a photo. “This is how I’d like to cut your hair.” Yellow and Wonderland glanced at the photo, and then at me before smiling and nodding.

  And now I have a new hairdo. Shorter in the back and over my ears, the layers gradually lengthen on top. It’s curly and spiky, messy and casual. Best of all, I can wash it, finger comb it, let it dry, and be done. The hairdresser rubs a little product through it, spiking it up a bit and feathering the ends.

  When she’s almost finished, the bell over the door dings and a loud voice startles us.

  “I told you it was Ella. Oh, dear Lord above, girl. What have you done to your hair?” No Filter and Curly Dan rush over to stand behind my chair. They join Yellow, Wonderland, and the stylist, who are all grouped around me staring at my reflection.

  “Would you look at those cheekbones,” No Filter continues. “And those eyes. I swear they take up half her face. A little liner, a little mascara, and some lip gloss, and you’d be ready to go.” He grins at me, then sobers a bit. “You really do look amazing. And who knew there were curls hiding in that braid. Great haircut,” he adds, turning to the hairdresser. “Would you like to fix mine?” He winks, running his hand over his bald head.

  She rolls her eyes at him, then slaps his arm playfully before glancing at Curly Dan. “Does he belong to you?” She nods toward No Filter.

  “Yes, madam, I am happy to acknowledge he does indeed belong to me,” Dan answers her in his best upper-crust British accent.

  “Hikers,” she lau
ghs, shaking her head before shooing us out the door.

  As soon as I’ve introduced everyone, No Filter turns to me with a glare. “I want you to know I just about had a heart attack when I read your entry in the register at Plumorchard. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Glancing around, he spies a nearby coffee shop. “Come on, girl, let’s talk.” Grabbing my hand, he leads us across the street and into the shop.

  Over the next two hours, we laugh, talk, and get reacquainted. When I didn’t join them at the Blueberry Patch, they assumed I’d left with my cousin. They weren’t worried until they saw the entry in the shelter register and began hearing stories from hikers they were meeting. “Everyone is talking about it, trying to spread the word. The authorities are tracking down leads, and local trail angels are watching the road crossings for anyone acting suspicious. What you did was a good thing. Hopefully, they can catch these two scumbags before they hurt anyone else. However”—he cocks his head at me, twitching his mustache—“I think you probably left out a few deets, and I want them all.”

  I repeat my story about the bullies, filling in all the details I left out of the register, including pushing the rocks down the cliff and the insults I hurled at them. No Filter laughs so hard he has to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  “Mealy-mouthed?” Curly Dan asks. “You called them mealy-mouthed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, good one. Do you know what it means?”’

  “Not really. Granny used to say it all the time. I always assumed it was some kind of insult. ‘Mealy-mouthed motherfucker’ just sounded really good together,” I add, sending No Filter into another fit of laughter.

  Dan grins at his friend, then turns back to me. “It’s an old, old saying,” he explains. “Dating back well into the 1600s. It means someone who is afraid to speak plainly or directly. I don’t think anyone could ever accuse you of being mealy-mouthed, Miss Ella.”