Seventh Wonder (2 page)

From the railing she turned to find a set of steps leading down to a trail. She trudged up the path toward an overlook, her diaphanous dress adopting a fairylike beauty as it flickered among the shadows and flashed in the silver moonlight. At the top of the trail was a stand of spruce trees and a small clearing iced in clean, white light. Meg’s heart jerked rapidly in her chest as she inched closer to the edge, her skirt flapping around her legs in the mild breeze. Here in the darkness, with the hulking mesas cloaked in darkness, the canyon took on the appearance of a great cathedral with turrets and friezes, belvederes and plinths. Looking up, she half expected to see an elaborate, buttressed ceiling rather than winking stars and wisps of cloud. (Of course, she could not be disappointed when in fact it was the stars, so thick and close that she felt she could reach up and part them with the tips of her fingers.)

It wasn’t until she backed away, regaining stable footing, that the man made his presence known.

“You should be careful.” His voice was soft and rich, full of concern rather than censure.

Meg whirled around just as he stepped from the shadows of the spruce trees - a tall man, older (perhaps by a decade) with a face that looked as if it was made to be fleshed out in marble. He was beautiful, Meg thought.

“You scared me,” she said a little breathlessly. “How long have you been there?”

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention,” he said, his words woven with light traces of a chuckle. “I’ve been here the whole time but thought it best not to startle you when you were so close to the edge.” His full mouth tilted in a lopsided smile.

Meg shuddered just thinking of the fate that could have befallen her. “Thank you,” she said in a frightened whisper.

His gaze remained on her as he cautiously closed the space between them. He was dressed in a loose button-up shirt with the rumpled sleeves pushed carelessly up to his elbows, and his hands were stuffed in the pockets of his dark pants. He withdrew one to extend it toward her.

For a moment, Meg simply gaped at the hand he offered her. So large, with square nails and hair growing on the back of it. A man’s hand. She felt silly when, after a moment, she realized he meant for her to shake it.

“I’m John Stovall,” he said as she pressed her palm into his. His hand completely engulfed hers when his fingers closed around it.

“Margaret Lowry,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

“You as well.” His grin changed from amiable to amused. “Is that the sort of thing you typically wear on a hike?”

She glanced down and felt her cheeks stain the same color as her dress. “Not usually. I’ve just come from dinner.”

His smile brightened, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening from ruts to fissures as his mouth spread, revealing more of his white teeth. He let go of her hand but didn’t look away. She wished she could return his gaze as confidently; instead, she watched the way he let his hand drape at his side, rather than tucking it back in his pocket.

“What do you think of the canyon?” he asked.

“It’s...” She was on the verge of saying “beautiful,” but she stopped herself, hating to describe something so brilliant with the sort of banal platitude others used to describe decorative cakes and precious metal jewelry.

“Well it’s certainly majestic, isn’t it?” she said at last, still unsure if this was an appropriate choice of words. “And a little terrifying.”

“It is,” he agreed. “Very majestic. And
very
terrifying.”

Quiet filtered in around them. Meg wondered whether she should excuse herself, return to the lodge, although truthfully she didn’t want to. She was afraid of this man, not because he posed a threat to her safety, but because she worried she would say the wrong thing - too much, or perhaps not enough.

“Are you here for business or pleasure, Mr. Stovall?” What a daft question, she thought directly after asking it. What sort of person visits the Grand Canyon on business?

“I suppose you could say some of both,” he replied, taking her by surprise for the second (but not the last) time that evening. “What about you? Are you here on vacation?”

“Vacation, yes,” she said absently, still attempting to work out what he could mean about “some of both.”

“With your family?” His eyes were kind as he spoke, never moving from her face, even as they strayed from her eyes to her mouth and back again. She wondered how old he thought she was. How preposterous that she felt some compulsion to tell him.

“N-no. With friends.” Then, “With my boyfriend, actually.” Meg questioned the truth of her words even as she spoke them. She didn’t know what had possessed her to divulge this bit of information - perhaps some sense of propriety, although she doubted it. The thought that she owed it to Rick to disclose his existence to this stranger seemed almost laughable now, considering the likely whereabouts of her “boyfriend” currently.

Possibly she wondered what Mr. Stovall’s response would be, though he’d hardly given her reason to expect any reaction other than polite interest. Indeed, his eyes remained creased in a smile, even while the corners of his mouth fell by a fraction.

“You’re cold,” he said after a moment. She looked down, amazed to find goose bumps covering her arms. The chill in the air had affected her body without registering in her mind. She even shivered a little.

The handsome stranger held out his hands in a helpless gesture, as if to signify his lack of a jacket to offer her. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll walk you back up to the lodge. Keep you from falling.” A teasing glint in his eye.

Should she graciously decline? But then: “Thank you.” She spoke the words softly, her insides twisting.

They sauntered down the path at a pace much slower than necessary. Mr. Stovall kept his hands in his pockets, but he walked close to Meg - so close his arm would occasionally brush against hers and leave a tingling burn in its wake. She felt her throat constricting as she dreamt of him weaving his arm around her shoulders, clutching her against him for warmth. Then she forced a breath, inwardly admonishing herself. What an imagination she had!

Too soon, they reached the steps leading back up to the lodge’s veranda. “Thank you for walking me,” she said, only just mustering the pluck to meet his eyes. “I surely would’ve fallen if you hadn’t.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief; the corner of his mouth inched upward in another of his asymmetrical grins. “My pleasure.” He reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips in an unexpected gesture of farewell. She watched with lungs full and breath held as he pressed a kiss against the back of it. “Miss Lowry.” He touched his forehead as if doffing a hat.

“Mr. Stovall.” That she found the ability to speak at all was nothing short of a miracle.

“Please,” he said, as he turned to walk away, “call me John.”

She watched as he receded into the shadows, as he vanished into the blackness. Long after she’d lost sight of him, she turned to look at the massive stone structure behind her. Inside, the lights blazed, and the orchestra played on. She climbed from the first step up to the second before changing her mind. Instead of returning to the lodge, she walked alone to her cabin.

Chapter 2

“Are you sure you’re feeling OK?”

Meg glanced up from her bowl of oatmeal to find Rick looking at her from across the table. His knitted eyebrows bespoke his unease.

“I’m fine,” she replied. “I woke up feeling much better.” She’d blamed her early departure from last night’s festivities on a pungent headache. It seemed more diplomatic than explaining she’d simply felt an irrepressible urge to be alone after her meeting with John. Now she wondered whether she might have simply imagined him.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Rick asked, nodding at her barely touched breakfast.

Honestly, no. But she hated giving him cause for concern. In response she dumped another spoonful of brown sugar and the rest of a small pitcher of cream into her bowl and stirred before taking a bite.

They finished their meal in silence. As a waiter came to whisk their dishes away, the maître d’ approached the table with a message for Rick.

“It’s my father,” he said, his expression inscrutable as his eyes flicked over the card he’d been given. Glancing up at Meg he said, “Will you walk with me?”

“Now?”

“I need to return his call first. Meet me outside in ten minutes?”

Meg nodded. Why did her heart trip nervously as she thought of spending more time alone with him?

Rick excused himself to use the telephone while Meg lingered, staring out at the hazy landscape. She’d overheard an employee telling one of the guests yesterday the canyon has its own weather system. At an elevation of over 8,000 feet, the north rim was the higher, cooler, wetter and more eroded side of the canyon, and from what she had witnessed thus far, its climate shifted nearly constantly.

She passed Alan on her way out of the dining room. He was solitarily nursing a cup of coffee, very slowly coming awake despite the fact that it was well past ten in the morning. He looked stoned, but this was nothing unusual for him.

“G’morning,” he said, lifting his hand in greeting.

Meg paused next to his table. “How are you this morning?” she asked out of courtesy.

He shrugged. “Been better, been worse. Hey, if you see any of the others, will you tell ‘em I’m not up for a hike just yet? I’m gonna hang back - catch up with you guys later.”

She nodded, not letting on that this was the first she’d heard of a hike. It gave her an odd feeling to think she may have been intentionally excluded from the group’s plans. They must’ve forgotten to mention it to me, she thought, refusing to believe there had been some vicious ulterior motive at play.

“See you later, Alan,” she said.

“Later.”

Seeing that Rick had yet to step out from his phone call, she meandered into an anteroom that tripled as an art gallery, museum and gift shop. She looked at the coffee mugs and picture books and selected a couple of postcards from the spinning rack on the front counter. It wasn’t until she was leaving, paper sack in hand, that her eyes caught on a beautiful charcoal drawing in a gilded frame. For reasons unclear, Meg felt compelled to inspect it closer, from the variable shading of the rock formations to the scribbled signature in the bottom left corner of the drawing. Her breath caught in a quiet gasp when she read the plaque mounted beneath it:

Vista Encantada

By John Stovall, Artist-in-Residence

Here was her proof that she hadn’t been dreaming. He was real. And he was an artist.

* * *

“Sorry about that,” said Rick, taking her elbow to lead her away from the loitering tourists gathered on the lodge’s front porch.

“Everything OK?”

“Sure, sure. Just a business call mostly.” Rick had majored in civil engineering and was in position to join his father’s firm at the end of the month.

Meg followed a half step behind Rick as he started up the lodge’s circular drive and turned onto a flat, shaded path that wove among the guest cabins. She was distracted, unable to focus on anything at all, save for her own imperfect memory of the few moments she’d shared with John.

They walked until they came upon a rough-hewn picnic table. Rick stepped up onto the bench and sat on top of the table. He patted the space beside him, and Meg wordlessly joined him.

After a minute had passed, and then two, and Rick still had yet to speak, Meg began to realize their walk may have implications beyond simply enjoying the sunlight. Typically he was a small talk aficionado.

“You’re a great girl, Meg. You know that, right?” Finally he breathed the words that spelled the beginning of their end.

She nodded stiffly, knowing what came next the way one knows that “DEF” follows “ABC.”

Rick cleared his throat. He rubbed a hand over his face, and for a fleeting instant, Meg actually felt a little sorry for him.

“Look. A lot of things change when you go away to college, and they change again when you move on from there and enter the ‘real world.’ Jesus, I mean, I never thought I’d wind up working for my old man, and now here I am, about to do just that. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we expect them to.”

He was rambling, but Meg didn’t really mind. Let him work up to it, she thought. Let him say what he needs to say.

“I learned a lot about myself while I was at Berkeley - I’m sure you did, too - and I don’t think I’m the same person I was four years ago, or even six months ago...”

His voice trailed off as he stared straight ahead, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Six months ago,” said Meg, lending him a hand, “like when you met me?”

Rick blew out a sigh. He met her eyes, if only for a split second. “I just don’t think we’re right for each other, you know?”

And there it was. Now that the words were out, Meg felt relieved - relieved for him, and relieved for herself. What had they been playing at, anyway? They weren’t in college any longer. Soon Rick would go home to San Francisco, and she would be back in Santa Monica - at least until she was able to find a job of her own. They’d never shared a connection strong enough to weather the test of time, let alone distance. At least now they were finally addressing that fact openly.

She realized he was waiting on her response. “I do know,” she said quietly, putting him out of his misery. She couldn’t hate him for speaking the truth.

“So you’re not upset?” He seemed almost incredulous, as if he couldn’t fathom a reality where someone like Meg wouldn’t despair at the thought of losing someone like him. She rarely felt irritated with anyone, but an emotion resembling annoyance flared inside of her as she considered the extent of his egocentrism. How she wished he wouldn’t pity her.

“I’m not upset,” she assured him.

Moments passed, and it seemed increasingly as if there were nothing more to say. But then, if only to fill the silence, Meg asked, “Is there someone else?”

She didn’t know what made her ask, since part of her already knew, and the other part was loath to hear his answer.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Rick said uneasily.