Boys, Bears And A Serious Pair Of Hiking Boots Part 20

"Uh-huh." It's only a murmured agreement, but Susie leaps up, delighted.

"So we're all set!" She beams at us both. "Just grab your suits for the hot springs, and we can go!"

As Susie rushes off to get things together, I turn to Fiona with a warning look. "Please, she really wants this to be a bonding thing."

Fiona wrinkles her lip. "Like, with gossiping about boys and makeup?"

"Maybe." I keep my gaze fixed on her. "She's been working so hard for this place, she deserves some relaxing time."

"Whatever." Fiona sighs, but she gives me a grudging nod. "As long as she doesn't try and give me a makeover!"

As it turns out, even Fiona can't complain about the Blue Ridge experience. Soaking up to our necks in a tub of mineral salts later that afternoon, all domestic disharmony has been forgotten. Or, at the very least, stored up for later.

"So this is how the mega-rich live." I sigh, inhaling the deep aroma of rosemary and eucalyptus, or whatever magic potion they smeared on my face to release my pores, stress, and/or tension. "Maybe I should start buying lottery tickets." Steam drifts above the water, soft music plays quietly, and a gla.s.s wall affords us a stunning view of the valley.

"No . . ." Susie breathes, her eyes covered with a blue gel pack. "Who wants exquisite luxury when you can have creaky pipes and an old front porch?"

"Right," Fiona drawls, only a little sarcastic. "Endless perfection is, like, sooo boring."

I lean back, gazing out at the gorgeous vista. It's strange, to have the sprawling wilderness outside and this high-tech luxury inside. All around us is gleaming marble and metal, with a hovering host of uniformed "a.s.sistants" waiting to bring us anything we might possibly require. But this is probably as close to the great outdoors as some tourists will get: separated by a polished plate-gla.s.s window while a manicurist attends to their toes.

Susie lifts her mask and reaches for her flute of sparkling water. "I think it's time for a toast: To the Bramble Lane Bed and Breakfast. May she break even sometime in the next two years!"

"You picked a name? That's great." I congratulate her.

"It was Fiona's idea." She beams.

Fiona rolls her eyes, picking at the mud mask on her face. "I only said that people would have to fight their way through the brambles to even find the place."

"But it's perfect." I let my toes float to the surface of the water, wriggling them. "It makes me think the place is ramshackle yet charming."

"That's the plan," Susie agrees. "I decided we should keep up your 'rugged adventuring' marketing strategy."

"It's hardly a strategy!" I laugh, but she shakes her head.

"Don't sell yourself short, Jenna; it's worked out great. Your environmental tips have been a huge help, and we're fully booked for opening week."

"That's because you did such a great job with the renovations."

Fiona interrupts. "What is this - a mutual appreciation society?"

I grin. "OK, so maybe we're all awesome."

We relax again for a moment, lazily drifting in the water until Susie lets out a wistful sigh. "It's been great having you around, kid. You'll always be welcome here again."

Fiona perks up. "When are you leaving?"

"Ten days," I answer quietly. Noticing her expression, I splash water at her. "And you don't have to look so happy about it."

"Am not." She splashes back. "Well, it'll be cool not having to wait around for the bathroom."

There. Just think, a whole summer of b.i.t.c.hing, tantrums, and animosity could all have been avoided if only Susie and Adam had renovated those other bathrooms first!

"I'm sure Fiona will miss you," Susie says soothingly, like a true mom. My eyes meet Fiona's across the tub, and we share an amused look. "I know I will."

"She'll just miss your good influence," Fiona murmurs, as if Susie isn't here. "That's why she had you here in the first place."

Susie splutters, "I did -"

"Sure you didn't." Fiona arches a mud-smeared eyebrow, cracking the mask. "You were hoping all her perky enthusiasm would rub off on me."

Perky? Me?

"Now, I don't know about you, but I'm turning into a prune." Susie wisely changes the subject. She displays her wrinkled fingers. "How about we dry off and find something delicious to eat?"

"Something chocolatey," I decide. All this talk about my imminent departure is making me restless, and in need of a sugar fix. "Illegally chocolatey."

When we've consumed enough gooey brownies to make me faintly ill, I take up residence on an overstuffed leather couch in the main lobby. Fiona is off wandering somewhere, and Susie has spotted a woman she knows working maid duty, so they've retreated to a secluded corner somewhere to discuss all the inside information about Blue Ridge. I'm left to people-watch, tucked away in my corner beside the looming stone fireplace as the other guests bustle by.

I'm not ready to go home.

Fairview, high school, my family - it all seems miles away, and a lifetime ago. The past weeks have been a jumble of sawdust and splattered mud and shady trees and cold lake water splashing on my skin. A kind of freedom. And now I think of going back to our house, with the plush peach carpeting and Mom's careful dinner arrangements, and I feel a swell of sadness. I don't know what's waiting for me there, if there will even be a family when I get back. It's not the divorce itself that scares me so much as everything that would come after. Dad moving out, or not coming back from Europe at all; Mom suddenly working long hours; the holiday visitation schedules. No matter how much I've tried to avoid the reality of my parents - and the future - I can't help but see my departure date like some kind of execution.

"Kids, get back over here. Don't touch those!" A couple of young boys run over to play with the small animal carvings by the fire. The lobby is full of activity: a prim-looking lady ordering the staff around, a pair of intimidated tourists looking at some pamphlets, and an old man giving some kind of talk to a group of guests, slowly touring the room with a cane.

"This here was taken back when there was barely a road up through the mountains." He waves his cane at a black-and-white photo on the wall. Dressed in an impeccable suit with heavy gold cuffs at his wrists, he's got a shock of white hair and deep wrinkles on his face. "We had to hike for days with nothing but a hatchet and a good pair of boots!" The group looks suitably impressed.

I pause, his words triggering some kind of deja vu. A hatchet . . . ?

"Now, there are plenty of tours if you want to explore," he continues, "with fully loaded Jeeps and an expert guide. Or how about a rafting trip? Best way to see the valley!" There's a murmur of excitement, and several guests start flicking through their pamphlets.

I peer at him from across the room. It can't be. . . . As he finishes up his history of the area, I try to remember the photo on the back of that mountain man guide. The man there was much younger, with a bushy beard and rugged plaid shirt, but if I add about fifty years and a thousand dollars of designer tailoring, it could just about be the guy in expensive leather loafers holding court for the rich spa ladies.

My mountain man wears loafers?

Our unspoiled paradise is coming under threat. Every year, those vultures swoop closer, looking to replace pristine mountain ranges with acres of concrete. They should be lined up and shot!

-"The Devil in Disguise,"

The Modern Mountain Man's Survival Guide

When the group finally disperses, I edge over. "Mr. . . . Coombes?" I ask hesitantly, certain I've made a huge mistake. It's been ages since I sent the book to Olivia, and I'm sure plenty of old guys around here swear by the service of a good hatchet - "That's me." He swings around. There's a square of crisp handkerchief folded in his breast pocket, and a lively gleam in his eyes. "What can I do you for?"

My mouth drops open. "It is you!" I blink at him, trying to match this distinguished gentleman with Jerry's grouchy, no-nonsense voice that I've been carrying around in my mind. "I read your book! Wow, I can't believe it's actually you!"

Mr. Coombes looks at me, kind but clearly clueless.

"The survival guide?" I venture slowly. "For mountain men? It's been a major help to me this summer!" He probably didn't mean for it to save my social life, but without that book, I don't know if I'd ever have made inroads with the Stillwater boys or found a way to deal with Fiona.

"Ha!" Mr. Coombes suddenly lets out a booming laugh. "They still have that ol' thing around?"

"I found a copy at this old bookstore in town," I explain. "I think it was one of the originals!"

Shaking his head with amus.e.m.e.nt, Mr. Coombes looks at me. "Well, kid, you have my apologies."

I frown. "What do you mean?"

"For having to wade through all that self-righteous bull!" He checks his BlackBerry, still chuckling, while I try and get my head around his dismissive tone.

"I don't, I mean, I didn't think it was bad." I blink, completely thrown. It's not like I thought Jeremiah Coombes would be off living in a cave somewhere. Maybe an old log cabin by a fishing pond . . .

"You liked it, eh? Well, good for you." Mr. Coombes looks surprised. "Now, if you don't mind, kid, I need to get back. This place won't run itself!"

"You mean, you own Blue Ridge?" I gape.

He pauses. "That's right, going on a year now." With an expression of sheer pride, the mountain man himself looks around at the spa schedule, gift shop, and line of newly arrived visitors with their stack of designer suitcases.

"I don't . . ." I stop myself, not wanting to offend him, but then I can't help it. "I don't understand. I mean, you used to want to protect the environment!" I realize how accusing it comes out, but part of me doesn't care. I've spent all summer thinking he's some kind of wilderness guru, and now I see he's turned into just another real-estate developer, with a fancy suit and fake hunting trophies on the wall. How could he be such a sellout?

Mr. Coombes looks back sharply, and for a moment I wonder if I'm about to get thrown out. Then his expression softens. "Come with me, kid."

I pause, wary, but he nods toward the deck. It's the centerpiece of the whole floor, stretching across the front of the building, and right now it's busy with tourists snapping photos of the uninterrupted views. "Come on, it'll only be a second."

Cautiously, I follow him outside. The air is chillier, mists hanging over the mountains in the distance, telling me it will be raining soon. Ever since that hike with Reeve, I've learned to read the clouds better.

"You see that far ridge?" Mr. Coombes gestures with his cane to a craggy peak on the far side of the valley. We're facing north from Stillwater, and there's nothing but mountain, lakes, and valley from here on out. I nod slowly. "All the land between us and there belongs to me. Been buying it up the last twenty years now, and give me another twenty and I'll own the rest, too."

He surveys his domain, satisfied, but I don't understand. "You mean, you're going to expand the resort?" I can't keep the horror from my voice. All the Green Teen protests come back to me like a script I know by heart: the hours we spent writing fierce letters and leaflets about the perils of destroying the wilderness. "But what about all the trees? The wildlife needs the land for their -"

"You see any buildings there, kid?" Mr. Coombes interrupts me. "Any construction, any highways?"

I pause. "No . . ."

"And it'll stay that way. But how am I supposed to pay for it, eh?" Catching my expression, he chuckles again. "Getting back to nature's all well and good, but I learned a long time ago, the only way you know what's going on in those hills is if you own 'em yourself."

"So . . . you're conserving the valley?" I look at Mr. Coombes with confusion. "But that still doesn't explain why you opened Blue Ridge. I mean, what was it you said in the book: 'Every new building is a blight on the whole landscape!'"

"I thought things were real simple back then, eh? Follies of youth!" As if taking pity on me, he pats my arm. "When you're older, you'll understand." He turns to go but I stop him, still feeling betrayed.

"Why don't you explain it now?" If he even can. I know people sell out their principles for an easy life all the time, but I can't believe someone as pa.s.sionate as Jeremiah B. Coombes would take the dirty money. What happened to him?

He pauses, looking out at his valley, and when he answers, it's slow and deliberate. "Sometimes, kid, your ideals don't make a d.a.m.n bit of difference. You realize, there is no right answer; it's all just a bunch of choices."

I blink. Whatever self-righteous defense I was expecting, it isn't this. "But . . . of course you can make a difference! We all can!"

He looks at me kindly. "Sure, kid. You can chant and wave banners if it makes you feel better, but this is the real world. The people around here, they need the trade, and I need the money, and in the end . . . It's a compromise I'm just fine making."

With a nod, he begins to walk away. "I'll fix you up a gift pack, maybe the bubble-bliss bath sets!" he calls back to me. "My staff tells me they're a dream!"

I think about the reinvention of Jeremiah B. Coombes all the drive back to Stillwater. I know what Olivia and the other Green Teens would say about him, and all his jaded self-justification, but I'm not so sure anymore. . . . For a moment, I wonder if I'd feel so betrayed if I hadn't carried around that book of his - if I didn't feel like I knew him as a person. But of course I would, I remind myself. He's everything our group stands against.

". . . do you? Jenna?"

"Huh?" I blink awake as we pull into the driveway.

"Do you want ca.s.serole, or my three-cheese mac 'n' cheese?" Susie asks, looking back at me.

"Either!" I decide brightly, trying to put Jeremiah B. Coombes out of my mind. As I climb out of the car, I catch a glimpse of someone on the porch. "Hey, Fi, did Grady say they were coming over, or -"

"JENNA!" A familiar pet.i.te figure waves at me in excitement. I watch, stunned, as Olivia drops an overstuffed duffel bag and races across the yard. She hurls herself at me in a hug. "OmiG.o.d, how ARE you?"

I stare at her, confused. For a moment, I think I'm hallucinating the whole thing from a chocolate overdose, but the arms gripping around my waist feel real enough to me.

"What? I mean . . . What are you doing here?" I finally manage to detangle myself. Olivia is grinning like it's no big deal to show up, a whole continent away from home with no warning at all. I can't believe this.

"Yes," Susie agrees, folding her arms and glancing back and forth between us both. Her lips are pressed thinly together. "Why don't you tell us what's going on?"

I hear a sn.i.g.g.e.r behind me from Fiona. "This better be good."

Releasing me, Olivia turns to Susie. "Susie, it's so great to see you again!" She hugs her too, and attempts to embrace Fiona as well, but Fiona backs away swiftly. Undeterred, Olivia launches into her big explanation. "So the Chicago protest was shut down, which was totally infringing our First Amendment rights, and my parents freaked, of course, but they're on their super-polluting cruise . . ."

As she talks, I study her, trying to take in all the changes. And there have been a ton. Her dark hair is now in full-on dreadlocks, matted in thick clumps around her scalp. Her face is slightly sunburned and peeling, her eyebrows are roaming wild, and she's wearing a bright red shirt daubed with MEAT IS MURDER! and hefty Doc Martens. This is so not the same Olivia who reminded me to pack three different brands of cleanser to keep my pores healthy.

"So I thought I'd drop by! I caught a ride to Seattle and used their emergency credit card to book a flight out here," she finishes, overflowing with enthusiasm despite the fact she just made a six-hour journey, at least. "I looked up the bus and hitchhiked into town. Jenna, it's so good to see you!"

I don't know what to say.

Susie is looking at me with a hint of disapproval, Fiona is blatantly amused, but I just feel . . . invaded. It's been weeks since I spoke to her, and longer since we've had a real conversation, but suddenly here she is in Stillwater.

"I haven't heard from you in ages," I tell her at last. My voice is quiet, but there's an edge there. I know I'm supposed to be happy, but I didn't invite her, and I sure didn't think she would just show up. I mean, this is Canada - you don't just "drop by," hundreds of miles out in the wilderness!

Olivia blinks. "I know, and I'm sorry! It's been so crazy. That's why I came all this way in person. So we could catch up face-to-face!" Again, she beams at me like nothing's wrong.

I stand there, dumb.

"Well, we'll just have to work this out." Susie whisks into gear. She locks up the car and reaches for Olivia. "Come on, we'd better go call your parents. They'll be worried sick!" She ushers her back into the house, already talking about futon beds and return flights. I watch them go, still thrown.

"That's the famous Olivia, huh?" Fiona twists a lock of hair around her finger, watching me.

"I guess. . . ."