She watched the fishermen cast and reel in, then there was a catch. A good-sized brown trout.
“During a good season, fish is the main staple on the menu at the bar,” he said.
“Most of it you catch yourself?” she asked.
“Me and Preacher and Ricky. The best way to make work into play. Mel,” he said, his voice soft. “Look downstream. There…”
She squinted and then sat back with a gasp. Poking their heads out of the brush at the side of the river on the other side was a mother bear and her cub.
“You were asking about the bear. Black bear. The cub looks young. They’re just giving birth and coming out of hibernation. Have you ever seen anything like that?”
“Only on the Discovery Channel. The fishermen don’t see her?” she asked.
“I’m sure they see her. She won’t bother them and they won’t bother her. But they carry bear repellent just in case. And they’ll have a rifle in the truck—but if she gets too close they’ll just reel in their lines and sit in their trucks until she leaves.” He chuckled. “Watch while she eats their fish.”
She watched in fascination for a moment, then said, “Why’d you bring me here?”
“Sometimes, if something’s eating me up—I can come out here, or drive into the redwoods, or go up on the knoll where the sheep are grazing, or maybe out to a pasture where the cows roam, and just sit awhile. Just connect with the earth. Sometimes that’s all I have to do.”
One elbow sticking out of the window, wrist of the other hand balanced on the top of the steering wheel, Jack just watched the fishing—the men and the bear. The men were so intent on their sport that they had never even turned around at the sound of the truck pulling into the clearing.
They were quiet. Jack had no idea what she might be thinking, but he thought, don’t turn and run just because you got kissed. Things could be worse.
After about twenty minutes, he started the truck. “I have something to show you. You’re in no hurry, are you?”
“Doc’s in town,” she said. “I guess not.”
Jack eventually pulled into the clearing where Hope McCrea’s cabin sat. It was perfectly obvious he’d like her to reconsider leaving. But she never expected him to do what he had done. As they pulled up to the cabin and parked, she looked at him in surprise.
“My God,” she said. “How did you do this?”
“Soap,” he said. “Wood. Paint. Nails.”
“You shouldn’t have, Jack. Because—”
“I know—because you’re not staying. I’ve heard that at least a hundred times over the past couple of weeks. That’s fine. You’ll do what you have to do. But this is what you were promised and I thought you ought to have the option.”
Straight ahead of her was the little A-frame cabin with a new, strong, wide porch, painted red. Two white Adirondack chairs sat on the deck and four white pots holding red geraniums sat on the porch rails in the corners. It was beautiful. She was afraid to go inside. Did this mean that if it were lovely, she’d be forced to stay? Because she knew it was going to be lovely.
Wordlessly, Mel got out of the truck. She slowly walked up the steps to the house, aware that Jack had not gotten out of the truck behind her. He was letting her go alone. She pushed open the door, which no longer stuck. Inside, the wood floors gleamed, the countertops sparkled. The windows, previously so grimy you couldn’t see out, were so clean it seemed possible there was no glass. The window that had been boarded up was replaced. The appliances were spotless, the furniture had been so vigorously vacuumed or shampooed that the colors were now bright because there was no dust. There was a new area rug on the floor.
She wandered into the bedroom. A new comforter replaced the old and she could tell without even checking under the covers that a fat, firm mattress had been purchased and that the nasty soiled one was gone. The brightness of the sheets indicated these were not Hope’s hand-me-downs, but newly purchased linen. On the floor beside the bed, a wide, thick rug. In the bathroom, new towels and accessories. The shower glass had been completely replaced and the tiles had been scrubbed to such a high sheen that even the grout was immaculate. There was the faintest smell of bleach; not a spot or stain remained. She loved the bright towels, alternating red and white. The rugs were white; the trash can, glass and tissue dispenser were red.
There were two bedrooms downstairs and a small, open loft upstairs at the peak of the A-frame—only large enough for a bed and maybe a small dresser. Both of them had been scoured clean, but they were empty of furniture. Back in the living room, she saw the fire had been laid and a fresh pile of wood sat at the side of the hearth. The books in the bookcases were dust free, the trunk that could be used as a coffee table had been polished with lemon oil. The cupboards shone with oil, as well. She opened one of them and saw there were new ceramic dishes to replace the dingy Melmac that had been there before. Graying old plastic was replaced with glass. A wine rack on the counter held four bottles.
Inside the refrigerator, which also gleamed, there were a few staples. A bottle of white wine was chilling, a six-pack of good beer. There was milk, orange juice, butter, bread, lettuce and other salad items. Bacon and eggs. Sandwich items—lunch meat, cheese, mayo, mustard. On the kitchen table, which wore a pretty new tablecloth, sat a festive ceramic bowl holding fresh fruit. In the corner of the counter, a set of four thick, round white candles. She lowered her face and sniffed. Vanilla.
She left the house, pulling the door closed behind her and went back to the truck. It made her melancholy, all that he’d done. This was not what she’d expected, either. Mel had come to terms with the fact that she’d made a mistake. Now that she’d accepted that, she was ready to move on. As soon as they could spare her.
“Why did you do this?”
“It was promised to you,” he said. “You’re under no obligation.”
“But what did you hope?” she asked.
“The town needs you. Doc needs help, you can see that. I hoped you’d give it a chance. A few more weeks, maybe. Just to see if it worked for you. I think the Virgin River folks have already made it clear—it works for them.”
“Did you do this hoping it would force me to the terms of Hope’s one-year contract?” she asked him. “Because as the place was, we were at an impasse. She couldn’t hold me to it—she hadn’t met the terms.”
“She will not force that contract,” he said flatly.
“But yes, she will.”
“No. She will not hold you to that contract. Guaranteed. I’ll see to it. This is just for you—not leverage for Hope.”
She shook her head sadly. “You can see I don’t belong here,” she said softly.
“Aw. I don’t know, Mel. People belong wherever they feel good. It can be a lot of different places. For a lot of different reasons.”
“No, Jack, look. Look at me. I’m not a camper—I’m a shopper. I’m really not one of those homespun country midwives. I’m so citified, it’s scary. I feel so out of place here. It’s as if I’m not like anyone. They don’t make me feel that way, but I can’t help it. I shouldn’t be here, I should be at Nordstrom’s.”