I make a soft sound in the back of my throat. “Right here? Live?”
“If it’s okay.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Maybe you could sing this old town off to sweet dreams, Peace Rabe. Send them off real lovely. Send me off.”
“O-oh.”
Oh, wow.
I’m glad we’re not face-to-face right now.
Because if he’d said those things to me with those dusk-blue eyes cutting through me, I’d never be able to make a single sound again. I’d be too lost in him.
“I’ll try,” I whisper, but I can’t quite get a sound out just yet. My throat’s too tight with emotion, too tight to draw the breath needed to actually produce a clear note.
But after a few calming breaths, I hold the phone closer, as if I’m kissing it, and let loose.
I sing.
No guitar this time. No Ember on her violin. No audience I can see.
Just me and Blake Silverton.
Two souls wrapped up in one sunny voice and the shadow of an ear.
My voice starts shaky, and yet I’ve got it, this song so much a part of me that I could sing it even if I’d lost my words forever.
I used to sing it in Dad’s memory.
Now I sing it for Blake and Heart’s Edge by proxy.
I’m asking if he’ll soar with me.
He doesn’t make a sound until it’s over, and I’m trailing off with my breath and heart both going just a little too fast. The silence that follows makes me nearly hurt with the awareness of the wild riot of noise and feeling inside me.
He finally breaks the stillness with a low, appreciative mm-hmmm.
“Don’t think I’m ever going to forget that,” he says. “The way you sound when you’re putting all your heart into notes like raindrops.” He pauses, then adds, “Guess I’d better get on those Fuchsia stories and this caller who Mario says swears he played tag with Sasquatch…but maybe you’ll sing for me again some time?”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “Goodnight, Blake. Thanks for taking my call.”
“Goodnight, darlin’,” he rumbles against my ear.
The line goes dead, and I’m alone.
Except for the millions of butterflies taking flight in my belly.
* * *
I barely get any sleep that night.
It’s hard to pass out when I’m all twisted up, thinking about Blake.
About the way he teased me.
About the soft words of apology.
About the intimacy in his voice, the warmth, the gentleness, the tease.
All the little things that tell me this push and pull means something.
Something more.
And maybe I’m not just insane for losing myself in his magnetism.
I finally drift off, though, long after midnight.
In the morning I oversleep a little, but I wake up zinging—and I don’t even need coffee to make my morning appointment with the rich folks who tip amazingly well, and then an older woman vacationing here at the inn. She says she used to be a silver medal skier, but time and age and repetitive stress injuries knocked her off her feet.
She’s sweet. Teases that she likes places like Heart’s Edge because they don’t even tempt her to ski, with the trees walling off all the good slopes. And I’m full of laughter as I work around her joints and calves to loosen things up so she can walk and enjoy the cold beauty in peace.
I’m feeling good by the time I pack up.
I always feel good after a positive session, when I can leave people just a little happier, a little more free of their pain.
But who does that for you?
Oh—no, nope.
I’m not letting that thought in.
I know I had my little existential crisis a little while ago, but I’m not letting it come back today to chase my buzz away.
If I putter around the cabin, I’ll either start brooding or thinking about Blake too much. As forward as I’ve been, I’m a little too embarrassed to give in to the urge to run and find him and hope that warmth he shows over the mic will be there in his face when he sees me.
God, what am I? A giddy teenager with a crush?
I need to get out.
So I bundle myself up, strap on a good pair of boots, and go.
I’ve got a little pocket brochure, courtesy of Haley and Ms. Wilma. They keep them for the tourists, showing all the best places for a scenic view. Haley mapped them herself with her hubby, looking for the best places to paint. I trust her judgment.
So I pick a spot on the map.
It’s exhilarating to set out under a bright sun and yet still feel so cold, like all the wonderful things that energize me are bundled up in one: the crisp snow, the brightness of the day, and the beautiful blue sky.
Everything smells like frost, dry leaves, and something starker like ozone.
I love it.
And I love the little hidden trail in the woods I find by meticulously following little markers in the brochure—a broken signpost, a cairn of rocks, a poplar tree that looks like a praying woman.