Seventh Wonder (4 page)

“Goodnight, Meg.”

Chapter 3

Sleep was elusive. Meg tossed about, first too warm, then too stiff. As the minutes bled into hours, the likelihood of finding comfort lessened. She worried as the mattress moaned beneath her, fearful of waking Faye.

She was lying on her side, facing the window, when just before three a figure appeared outside the glass. Meg froze, unable to move or react as she watched the silhouetted figure lever open the window. It slid open quietly, admitting the frigid night air and the pattering sound of rain. She watched, paralyzed, as the figure - a man - swung first one leg and then the other through the window and into the room. His feet landed with a hushed thump on the hardwood floor.

It wasn’t until he turned to lower the pane that his face caught in the serous moonlight.
Don
. The air in Meg’s lungs left her in an audible rush.

Don lifted the sheet in which Faye was twisted and slithered in beside her. She stirred with a muffled sigh, then awoke. As she turned to face her visitor, Meg rolled onto her back. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying very hard to think of anything else besides the sounds of whispering and kisses. Minutes later, she heard the soft rustle of cloth dropping to the floor and the shrill complaint of the mattress as Don and Faye shifted positions. Soon the squeaking grew persistent, and the vestiges of her hope for rest were washed away with the rain.

* * *

The cabin’s screen door scritched as Meg pulled it open. She used the back of her hand to mop her damp forehead, a byproduct of her day spent outside in the oppressive heat.

As she walked toward the room where she slept (or at least tried to), she could hear Alice and Mary Ann in the bathroom, subjecting themselves to another round of beauty treatments in preparation for dinner. She hadn’t yet arrived at an excuse for not attending. Simply telling the truth seemed a rather unsavory option, perhaps because she preferred to avoid answering the questions it might raise. Besides, there was something quite appealing about keeping John to herself a while longer.

Meg dropped her satchel on the bed and turned to her suitcase, from which she extracted a pair of duck cloth shorts and a sleeveless button up shirt. She undressed quickly, donned the shorts and blouse, then stuffed her feet in the pair of size five men’s hiking boots she’d purchased at Woolworth’s the month before. She plaited her hair in a loose braid that swung down the center of her back and checked her reflection in the bureau’s small rectangle of mirror before exiting the room.

“Is that what you’re wearing to dinner?”

Meg glanced over her shoulder to find Alice silhouetted in the bathroom doorway, makeup brush in hand. Her slender frame was draped in a chic lavender shift dress, and her honey blond hair was twisted into a stylish chignon at the back of her neck. She looked every inch the quintessential California girl.

Meg glanced down, as if she’d forgotten how her own outfit compared. “I’m not going to dinner,” she replied. “I...heard someone mention a place down the road that’s a good spot for catching the sunset.”

Alice lifted a carefully shaped eyebrow. She only just managed to keep from appearing overtly pleased. “You’ll have to let us know how it is. Maybe we can all go tomorrow.”

Meg dipped her head in assent. “Enjoy your evening.” Then she left, escaping once more into the sun’s paltry heat.

She was several minutes early arriving at the lodge, punctual to a fault. The gabled roof of John’s cottage was just visible through the spruce and silver-skinned aspen. Meg indulged in a brief moment of self-preparation before stepping off the lodge’s front porch and slicing diagonally through the gathering dinner crowd.

The cottage, though small, was quite inviting in a rustic sort of way. Despite its proximity to the lodge, it also felt rather secluded. It was built of hewn cedar logs and boasted a stone chimney and casement windows. A roofless, steel-bodied Jeep sat half a dozen feet from the small, shaded front porch. Meg rapped her knuckles against the green front door.

She listened to the scraping of chair legs and creaking of footsteps. In the instant before the door swung open, she pulled in a deep, cathartic breath.

John smiled in that easy way of a child whose happiness can’t be helped. He stepped back, allowing her space to enter, as he fastened a plaid shirt over his bare chest. Meg glanced away from him, quelling desire to inspect the movements of his fingers over the buttons.

“I’m sorry I’m early,” she murmured as she scanned the cottage’s single-room interior. The furnishings were spare, but it was filled with plenty of natural light. A large picture window offered a view of the forest, and beyond it the canyon, while across from the window gaped an ash blackened fireplace. A four-poster bed in the rear corner was covered in a red blanket which, courtesy of the sun, now appeared more of a dusky rose color. There were no curtains, no rugs - only this ascetic array of utilitarian fixtures.

“Don’t be sorry,” said John. He stood still, watching her study the room. Then, after a moment: “I had the kitchen pack us some dinner. I hope you like pork.”

“I like it just fine.” Her reply was vague as she bent beside the square kitchen table to read the spines of a stack of books.
White Fang. Steep Trails. Hondo.
An autobiography of Theodore Roosevelt. It appeared his taste in literature ranged from pulp to erudite - a peculiarity they shared.

“The sun is sinking fast,” he said behind her. “I’d like to keep watching you explore, but we’d better go if we want to catch it.”

Meg straightened. “Can I help you carry anything?” she asked as he lifted a canvas rucksack off the scuffed pine floor.

“That thermos,” he said, nodding to a hefty torpedo of a bottle on the counter. Meg snatched the thermos and followed him out the front door.

“The road is a bit rough in places,” said John as he swung the ruck into the Jeep’s narrow backseat. “This Jeep’s a loaner from the park service. I doubt a lesser vehicle could make it, but in this we won’t have any trouble.” He offered Meg a reassuring grin as he popped the latch on the passenger door, then extended his hand toward her, palm side up.

Meg placed her hand in his. Her heart trilled as he squeezed her palm and helped her into her seat. “I trust your judgment,” she replied blithely.

She watched him through the mud-spattered windshield as he walked around to the driver’s side, reflecting on the utter truth of her statement. She
trusted
him. And why? She didn’t know him at all - his name and occupation were the only bits of information he’d shared with her. And yet she had every faith in his integrity. Was it because he was older? Or perhaps her own naiveté?

But no, she couldn’t believe it was either of those things. It was more in the way he looked at her, as if she was someone worth guarding. The way he took pains to soothe her fears, even before they found a voice. The way he silently urged her to fall in step beside him, like a strong hand at her back.

He hopped nimbly into his seat and pushed a hand through his dark hair before sliding on a pair of aviator sunglasses. “Ready?” he asked. She pinned her bottom lip with her teeth but still managed to smile as she jerked her head in a nod.

The engine broke into a long roar when he turned the key. Meg was jostled in her seat as the tires bucked and reared over the rutted road. Once they were clear of the trees and pointed northward on Highway 67, John pulled down on the gearshift and opened up the throttle. As the lodge shrank and receded in the rearview mirror, a strange exhilaration built inside the hollow of her chest. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing - although she doubted very much that John would disapprove of such an outburst.

The whipping of the wind and thunderous din of the engine effectively barred any form of conversation, so Meg lounged in her seat, letting her head fall backward, and draped her arm over the side of the door. She delighted in the feel of the air as it filtered through her fingers and pressed against her open palm.

When she finally lifted her head, John was glancing her way. Rather than act embarrassed at having been caught, however, he simply grinned more broadly. Meg cast her gaze downward from his eyes to the stubble on his chin, and the place where his dark hair curled against the collar of his shirt. She followed the line of his shoulder down his arm, thickly corded with veins, to his hand, which rested atop the stick shift. She admired the way his forearm flexed when he tugged on the lever.

The condition of the road deteriorated as they turned to wind south. John was forced to slow down considerably, and Meg was obliged to clutch the sides of her seat to resist being thrown from it. She could imagine feeling quite anxious, were she with Rick (or really anyone else) right now instead of John. Instead what she felt was a hot current of adrenaline surging and twisting in her bloodstream, causing a weightlessness in her belly and a not-unpleasant flutter behind her sternum.

“All right?” asked John. His face was angled toward her, but he kept his eyes firmly on the road, which she appreciated.

“Doing great,” she replied, raising her voice over the cantankerous engine.

“Good. We’re almost there.”

The road smoothed back out in the eighth of a mile before it ended. “We’re in luck,” said John as he dismounted from the Jeep’s sideboard. “Nobody else here.”

Meg wondered why that was a good thing. Was it foolish of her to think his statement might mean he was looking forward to spending time with her alone?

John shouldered his rucksack while Meg carried the thermos. She followed him toward an unmarked trailhead. “Ladies first,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the path.

The trail was edged with purple lupine and webbed with roots. Meg stepped carefully, watching her feet to keep from falling.

“Turn there,” called John from behind her. She turned back to see him pointing toward an overlook. In the middle distance, beyond the rows of spruce and twisted piñon pine, was a natural bridge with a large triangular piece missing from its undercarriage.

“Angels Window?” asked Meg, recalling John’s description of it.

“That’s right,” he replied as he came up beside her. “Can you see the river?”

Meg craned her neck, as if being just an inch or two closer would significantly augment her chances of seeing through the rock opening. Sure enough, she was able to make out the pale blue ribbon that was the Colorado River churning thousands of feet below.

“Have you ever been down there?” she asked without looking at him. “To the bottom of the canyon?”

“A few times,” he said. “It’s a day’s hike at least. You can walk it or go by mule.”

They gazed a while longer at the ceaseless expanse of gutted rock before turning back to the trail. The sun was low enough now to graze the horizon, which bent its rays to laminate the canyon in bands of colored light. At the trail’s end, a primitive wooden sign declared their arrival at Cape Royal Point.

“You were right,” Meg said, stepping as close as she dared to the canyon’s sharp edge. “It is like an ancient city.” Her voice was almost a whisper, marked with reverence and awe for the jagged landscape that was flung out before her.

When she turned around a moment later, John was removing a sketchbook and roll of canvas from his ruck. His gaze, however, was fixed on her: Smiling. Gray eyes twinkling. Her cheeks suffused with warmth. “What is it?” she asked.

“You. The way you light up when you see something new. I’ve been here half a dozen times, but I feel like I’m experiencing it for the first time all over again, just watching you.”

She grinned down at her feet, kicked a loose stone. Giddy with pleasure.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Basic, physiologic needs like food and water were the furthest thing from her mind, but she nodded anyway. John patted the ground, and she went to sit cross-legged beside him.

They ate French bread and carved ham with bruised apples and a handful of raisins. Between bites, John stood to shoot photos of the canyon or scrawl faint lines in his sketch pad. When Meg was finished, she dusted off her hands and leaned back on her elbows, content to watch him as he worked. Even so, there was so much she wanted to know, so many questions she yearned to ask. Later, she told herself. Ask him later. Let him work.

When she finally spoke, the sun had fallen considerably, splashing thin, dark shadows over the hard ground. “Do you know what I wonder?” The sound of her voice seemed startling even to her own ears after such a long stretch of silence.

“Tell me,” John said, glancing up from his sketchbook to regard her with genuine interest.

Meg nodded toward the canyon, where it extended from the tips of her toes toward infinity. “How it got here. How it was created.”

She was surprised when he laid aside his book and pencil, granting her his undivided attention. “There are a few theories,” he said.

“Do you know what they are?”

He nodded slowly. “No one knows for sure how it happened or how it continues to happen, but there are some facts everyone seems to agree on.” He rose to his feet, then reached down to offer her his hand. “Come here,” he said softly.

She grasped his wrist, and he pulled her up beside him. He let go of her and slid his hand around her waist to rest at the small of her back, urging her a few feet closer to the rim. “There, at the bottom,” he said, pointing toward the canyon’s unlit basement. “That’s granite. About two billion years ago, sediment and lava were deposited in these shallow, coastal plains and formed rocks - layer after layer.” He held up her hands, palms open and fingers splayed, and sandwiched them between his own: showing her. “Sandstone. Shale. Limestone. At some point, magma rose up into the rocks and morphed the sediment. The magma cooled and crystallized and compressed the layers into granite, which sort of welded all of that rock to the North American continent.” He pressed his hands together, flattening hers between them.

“Then, a little over a billion years ago, pieces of the Earth’s crust shifted, lifting the layers up and tilting them.” Here he lifted the stack of their hands several feet into the air. “It formed this extensive plateau, thousands and thousands of feet above sea level - much higher than it is today. That’s when the river came through.” He dropped their hands and pointed farther south, in the direction of the Colorado. “Snowmelt from the Rockies fed the river and made it pretty violent. It carved a deep groove down through the rock. That happened pretty quickly - only took about four million years. As the river was downcutting, the land continued to rise up around it. At the same time, the canyon was also widening because of wind and water erosion.”