Her Beautiful Mind Page 15

  After numerous cups of coffee, a large assortment of homemade muffins and pastries, and more laughter and more talking, it’s time to head back to our hotel for an afternoon nap. The guys are staying in a local B & B where their host is taking care of their laundry. They still need to pick up supplies before the stores close, but they agree to meet us for a late dinner. Curly Dan has fallen in love with authentic Southern chicken fried steak and wants to find a restaurant that serves the dish. A request that makes No Filter roll his eyes and shudder dramatically.

  When we reach the hotel, Wonderland checks her email one more time, but there’s no word from her fiancé. She’s clearly upset and worried, but there really isn’t anything she can do.

  Saturday night means the restaurants are full and very busy. We meet No Filter and Curly Dan at the same little diner where we ate the night before. An almost hour wait means we have plenty of time to visit and compare hiking experiences. The night is pleasant, and we sit outside while we wait for our table. Yellow and Wonderland grill the guys about the PCT. Finally, No Filter asks if they’re thinking about hiking the trail. “Maybe.” Wonderland grins. “It might make a good honeymoon journey.”

  “Oh, spill the beans, girl. You thinking about tying the knot? I can see it now,” he continues before she can even nod an answer. “You could have the ceremony at the monument at Campo, and then hike off into the sunset in your wedding gown and backpack. We’d get a custom-made backpack, white with sequins and lace.”

  Thankfully, the hostess interrupts him by calling our names. Curly Dan grabs No Filter’s hand. “Come on,” he urges. “We need to feed you before you get too far into crazy land.”

  Later, stomachs full and the merits of deep-fried versus griddle-fried versus pan-fried steak endlessly debated, we wander down the main street. It’s easy to pick out our fellow hikers—we all seem to wear the same uniform. Hiking boots or trail shoes, moisture wicking T-shirts, pants that can be converted to shorts by zipping off the legs at mid-thigh. We’re greeted with smiles and nods by both hikers and townies.

  Loud music pours from an open doorway. “Brooks and Dunn,” shouts Yellow. “Come on, they’re playin’ my kind of music. Let’s do some boot scootin’.” She grabs my hand, pulling me and Wonderland into the crowded dance hall. Deftly skirting around the edge of the dancers, she finds us a table for five in a quieter area toward the back.

  When a waitress shows up, they quickly order their favorite drinks, but when she turns to me, I don’t know what to say. “Ella, what do you want to order?” Yellow asks.

  “I don’t … I mean, I’ve never.”

  Sensing my distress, Curly Dan leans in closer to me. “Have you ever had an alcoholic drink?”

  “Some wine a few times and a beer once or twice.”

  Four sets of eyes regard me, five if you count the waitress. “Tell you what, hun,” she says. “Let me turn in this order and you think about what you’d like to try. I’ll bring you some water when I come back, and you can tell me what you want then.” With a nod, she hurries off.

  My face feels hot, and I’m completely mortified as I look around at my companions.

  Wonderland is the first to speak. “Have you ever been to a bar before?”

  “No.”

  “Dance hall, honky-tonk, nightclub?”

  “No.”

  “I have a plan,” No Filter announces, slamming his hands on the table and breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Each one of us will order another of our favorite drinks. Then we’ll have one to drink and one for Ella to try. She can taste them, and if she doesn’t like it, then we’ll already have a second drink. If she likes it, she can have it, and we can order more later. Then,” he adds, “when she’s relaxed a little, I’m going to teach her how to two-step. And you two lovely ladies can see if you can teach Curly Dan his right foot from his left.”

  The night turns into more fun than I thought possible. I manage part of the margarita Wonderland hands me. Dan’s top-shelf Scotch makes me gag and choke. No Filter’s highball is okay, but I really like the drink Yellow gives me. Coca-Cola with a little kick—it’s cold, sweet, and goes down easily. She declares me a true Southern belle when I order another.

  “What is it?” I ask while she laughs.

  “Coke and Southern Comfort with a little twist of lime.” She grins. “The ultimate Southern party girl drink. So, drink up and let’s party,” she shouts.

  And we do.

  Although I wouldn’t have believed it possible, No Filter actually manages to teach me how to two-step. I find it quite easy. The rhythm is three quick steps and then a slow one. Three quick and one slow, three quick and one slow. He pushes me around the floor, smoothly guiding me in and around couples as we make a giant circle around the dance floor. Soon, he’s twirling me, swinging me around and under his arm, and I’m laughing at how much fun it is.

  A young man taps No Filter on the shoulder, asking him if he can cut in. When I smile and nod, he hands me off to him, and we dance two more songs before another man asks for the next dance. I spend the next hour dancing with one young man after another. All of them are polite, no one gets handsy or grabby, and all of them call me ma’am and thank me for each dance.

  When the music finally changes to a slow waltz, No Filter finds me again. “Are you having fun?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I manage to answer, finally catching my breath. “More fun than I think I’ve ever had before.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” He sways me gently back and forth before speaking again. “I read your other entry in the register at Plumorchard; the one you wrote in the back.”

  When I only nod, he continues speaking. “You told Hud you loved him.”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you told him goodbye.”

  “Yes.” Perhaps it’s the alcohol, perhaps the excitement of the night, or perhaps the fatigue I’m suddenly feeling, but tears well up in my eyes as I look up at my friend. “I had to. I need to move on.”

  He nods in agreement before pulling me in closer to him. Resting my head on his chest, I listen to his deep and steady heartbeat. “It’s not easy though,” he tells me. “And it takes a while, but eventually, the pain goes away. We never forget our first love, though.”

  We sway together for a few more minutes before he laughs. “Hey, at least, you’re not angry. Looks like I’ll have to think of a new trail name. RAW doesn’t work anymore.”

  The music ends, and we begin to make our way back to the table where our friends wait for us. Before we get there, he stops and turns me toward him. “There’s something you need to know, Ella. You look stunning tonight. The haircut is a killer, girl; a true killer. But more than that, you’re laughing and happy, and your face is flushed with joy. Those men, the ones who asked you to dance? They watched you all night. Any of them—hell, all of them—would have been proud to call you ‘girlfriend.’ You deserve someone who thinks you’re the most precious thing in the world. Don’t settle for anything less.”

  I grab his hand to keep him beside me. “No Filter, if Curly Dan ever gets tired of you, can I have you?”

  He grins back at me. “Sorry, girl, you know your plumbing doesn’t work for me, but I’ll always be your friend.”

  Chapter 23

  Becoming Beautiful

  Date: Sunday, March 23

  Starting Location: Franklin, North Carolina

  Destination: Siler Bald Shelter

  Total Trip Miles: 110.5 miles

  Our plans were to get an early start on Sunday morning. After getting a ride back to the trail, we intended to hike at least to Wayah Bald and, hopefully, several miles past it. That didn’t happen.

  It’s mid-morning before I open my eyes, groaning at the harsh light and the pounding in my head. “Good morning, boot scootin’ party girl,” Yellow greets me when I turn my back to the open window. “Wo
nderland is in the shower, and it’s your turn next. There’s a bottle of water and a couple Tylenol on the nightstand next to you. You’re supposed to drink it all. I’m on my way to the lobby for coffee, and I’ll bring you back a cup. Sugar and cream?”

  I manage a frowning nod, which she laughs at before leaving the room. The slamming door elicits another groan. When she returns with the coffee, I’ve managed to sit up and down most of the water. The pills, the shower, and the hot, sweet coffee make me feel almost normal again, but my stomach is still unsettled. Both of them assure me I just need something hot and greasy to soak up the rest of the alcohol in my system. So, while they giggle and crack jokes about “Ella’s first time,” we make our way down the street to a nearby café for breakfast. Dry toast, coffee, and bacon—a lot of bacon—are all I can manage. I have to turn my head away from Yellow’s runny, sunny-side-up eggs.

  There’s a TV playing above the cash register, and I catch a glimpse of a weather map. The forecaster is pointing at and saying something about a strong winter storm spreading across the northern plains. Getting out of my chair, I walk closer to the screen so I can hear above the noise of the diners. The screen advances through the next twenty-four hours, showing the storm getting closer to our location. Just as he’s about to give the forecast for our area, he’s interrupted with a breaking news bulletin.

  A serious-looking news anchor faces the camera, behind him footage of tanks rolling through desert towns and soldiers in combat gear plays. “The Pentagon has announced the first casualties in the latest fighting in the Gulf region. Eighteen US Marines and eleven US soldiers have died in what has been described as the fiercest fighting since Operation Iraqi Freedom began three days ago. The names of the deceased are being withheld until notification of next of kin.”

  Silence has filled the café during his announcement. I turn, as if in slow motion, to Wonderland and Yellow, who have risen from our table. I watch their eyes widen, then fill with shock and horror. And then Wonderland begins wailing.

  Yellow manages to hold it together longer than Wonderland, but she’s crying and sobbing as they hold on to each other. The owner of the café reaches them at the same time I do, and together, we lead them through the kitchen and into a small office. There is a small couch we get them settled onto. She leaves and returns with glasses of cold water, which she urges the girls to drink.

  “Is there someone they can call?” she asks me.

  “A grandmother, I think.”

  “I’ll leave you alone then. Y’all use the phone on the desk and make whatever calls you need to make. Don’t worry about anything and stay as long as you need.” When I nod, she leaves the room.

  “Rosemary? Rosemary. Listen to me.” Nodding, she gives me her attention. “You don’t know your brother is there. Just because you haven’t heard from him doesn’t mean he’s over there. Use the phone and call your grandmother. Find out if she’s heard anything.”

  “You’re right; you’re right,” she mutters before crossing over to the desk and picking up the receiver.

  While she’s punching in the numbers, I sit beside Wonderland, pulling her into a hug. She leans against me, hiccupping as her sobs slowly subside. “Allison, Travis could be anywhere. He could be stateside; he could be in transit; we don’t know anything at this point. There must be hundreds, if not thousands, of Marines over there. Please, it’s going to be okay.”

  “I know,” she finally says. “It’s just I’ve been so worried. I guess the stress of not knowing anything is finally getting to me. Dear God, why do we have to go to war again?”

  Rosemary must have reached someone on the phone, and the news must be good because she turns toward us, nodding and smiling as she listens. “Okay,” she finally says. “I’ll tell her. We’ll call you in three days when we get to Nantahala. Love you, too, Nana.”

  She joins us on the couch hugging her soon-to-be sister-in-law.

  “He’s safe, Allison. He called her a week ago, but she couldn’t remember where he said he was, except it was in Georgia somewhere. His papers were sitting on some officer’s desk and overlooked because of the preparations for the invasion. She thinks he may be trying to find us.”

  After a much calmer Yellow and Wonderland leave to return to the motel, I find the owner and thank her for her help. When I try to pay for our meals and the phone call, she waves me away, telling me the bill has been covered by one of the other diners. “You girls take care of yourselves and stay safe now, you hear,” she says. “And if you ever meet that young man they’re so worried about, you tell him he’s one lucky fella to have two sweet girls like that afeared for him. Thank him for his service, too, would ya?”

  We’re a very subdued trio that Tator picks up to take back to the trail crossing. We discussed staying another night in town, but we seem to need the physical release hiking offers, so we decided to hike the four miles to Siler Bald Shelter and spend the night there. It’s only after we’ve been hiking awhile that I realize we didn’t see No Filter or Curly Dan again, I didn’t call Liam or Susan, and I forgot to find out more about the bad weather headed this way. We should be at our next stop in a couple days, so I’ll call them then.

  The guidebook doesn’t have very much information about the four miles to the shelter. The trail goes up, of course—it always does. We cross several streams, one with a small log bridge and the others by hopping from stone to stone. At one point, we cross a beautiful mountain meadow, but we don’t linger to admire the flowers or the open views. Lost in our thoughts, no one says much. I’m sure Wonderland is thinking about her fiancé and Yellow about her brother, or maybe she has someone special in her life, although she’s never spoken of anyone.

  As for me, I can’t stop thinking about Hudson. Seeing how upset Yellow and Wonderland were about the possibility of losing Travis makes me realize how much he still means to me. I would be devastated if something were to happen to him. Have I deluded myself into thinking I needed this hike, that I would be stronger because of it? Or maybe it is time to go home like Liam wanted me to. Maybe it is time to take care of the mess I left in New York. Could the stronger, wiser, more confident me be ready to deal with Hudson and the fallout from his betrayal? Or was everything a sham and lies orchestrated by Gia, as Liam seemed to think?

  Thoughts of Hudson and New York are soon forgotten when the trail transitions from a moderate uphill hike to a very steep, very rocky, ridgeline scramble. There’s no trail here, just white blazes painted on jumbled boulders. We gingerly make our way over, and around, and under them. Sometimes, we have to hop across a gap from one rock to the next. When I look down into one, I can see patches of ground far below me. I shudder to think what a fall or slip would mean. Back and forth we scramble, like ants making their way along the bony spine of a skeleton. We can see down into the valleys below us as the hillsides fall sharply away on both sides. On a warm sunny day, this might be fun, but the sky has clouded over and a brisk wind smacks us in the face. Thankfully, the rocky section is a short one, and soon, we’re lowering ourselves over the last boulder and back to a more normal rocky trail.

  The shelter is located on a side trail before reaching the actual summit of the mountain. It’s tucked into a protected little hollow, which shields it from the worst of the north wind. There’s a nice grassy meadow in front and a piped spring located on the opposite side from the privy.

  We have the shelter to ourselves. With spring break over and the weather cooling off, there are fewer hikers on the trail. In fact, we haven’t seen anyone else all day. We eat the rest of Liam’s fresh fruit, share a couple of hot dinners, and finish the chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

  Although it’s dark, although we’re in our sleeping bags, although we’ve had a hard day, I can’t go to sleep. Lying on the wooden floor, I stare up at the ceiling, trying to still my mind and will myself to sleep. By their occasional sighs and constant shifting, I can tell Y
ellow and Wonderland are having as much trouble as I am. Sometimes when my anxieties or nightmares kept me awake, Granny would slip into my bed, hold me close, and tell me stories and legends of our people. Listening to her soothing voice always relaxed me, and eventually, I would fall asleep. I miss her.

  Sighing, I roll to my side, only to find Wonderland looking at me in the darkness. “Can’t sleep?” I ask.

  “No,” she replies. “My mind is going ninety miles an hour. I can’t stop thinking about Travis, and the war, and … well, everything.”

  “My gran used to tell me stories when I couldn’t sleep. Would you like to hear one?”

  “Please.” She smiles back.

  “Okay. So, this is the legend of the Cherokee Rose,” I begin.

  “Louder,” Yellow interrupts. “I can’t sleep either.”

  Wonderland and I both laugh. I begin again, this time a little louder.

  “In 1838, the People were driven from their homes and forced to begin the long walk to the west. The way was hard, and many fell sick and died. Their hearts were heavy with sadness, and their tears mingled with the dust of the trail.

  “The Elders knew the survival of the children depended upon the strength of the women. One evening, they called upon Heaven Dweller, galvladiehi, and told Him of the People’s suffering and tears. They were afraid the children would not survive to rebuild the Cherokee Nation and its seven clans.

  “The next morning when the People woke, they looked at the trail behind them, longing to return to their homes. What they saw instead was a fast-growing, vining plant covering the ground where their tears had fallen. As they watched, flowers formed and opened, releasing their sweet perfume into the air.

  “Each blossom was white for the tears they shed. The golden center represented the gold taken by the white man’s greed. The seven leaves on the plant represented the seven clans of the Cherokee Nation, and the sturdy vine was covered in sharp thorns, which defied anything that tried to destroy it.