Page 31 of Friends are Forever (Teton Mountain #6)

Karyn Macadam slowed her car as the sign to the Hemingway Memorial came into view. She turned off Sun Valley Road into the parking area, not bothering to signal. There was no need, not at this early hour.

Cutting the engine, she sat quietly for a few moments, the radio blaring in the background.

And we expect another warm summer day here in the Wood River Valley as residents in this popular resort area prepare to commemorate one of its own, nearly a year and a half after the tragic accident that took the life of ? —

Karyn shut off the radio, her heart thudding painfully.

Squeezing the steering wheel, she refused to look at the seat next to her—at the small wooden box intricately carved with falling snowflakes over a set of crossed skis.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

Five more minutes she sat there, putting off what was ahead.

Finally, she scooped the box into her hands and climbed out of the car.

She’d made a promise. One she fully intended to keep, even if she’d made it a bit tongue-in-cheek at the time.

Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she traversed the walkway toward the memorial. Even in the faint morning light she could make out wild poppies and blue flax, delicate against the pungent skunk cabbage jutting from the pebbled ground lining the trail.

The sound of water bubbling across a rocky streambed pulled her toward the monument nested against a stand of aspen trees, their tiny dollar-shaped leaves barely moving in the still air.

It was understandable why the famous novelist had loved Idaho, why he’d spent his last days living here. Ernest Hemingway was only one of many celebrities who had traded big city tangled traffic for cool mountain mornings and alpine vistas and made Sun Valley their residence.

Olympic hopeful Dean Macadam was another.

Karyn stood at the water’s edge and looked past the pile of flat stones with its stately column rising from the middle, beyond the trees to the golf course in the distance. A deer standing in the middle of one of the greens lifted its head and stared back at her in mutual regard.

A voice in her head rang out as clear as if Dean were standing next to her.

“What is your fascination with Hemingway anyway?”

She closed her eyes, remembered gazing up from the pages of For Whom the Bell Tolls . “Are you crazy? He was only the best American novelist of all time,” she’d so flippantly reminded her husband.

Dean playfully tugged at the sheet tucked around her bare waist. “Is that so?”

She quickly snatched the covering from his hands and secured it more tightly.

“Yes, that’s so. In fact, Ernest Hemingway is known for his mastery of theme and imagery.

Take this story for example.” She held up the heavy volume borrowed from her dad, its cover worn from repeated readings.

“The entire narrative is punctuated with a preoccupation with death and dying, which is so poignant given his eventual suicide.”

Dean ran broad fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

“Yeah, you see—that’s what I don’t get. Why is so many people’s imagination captured with a guy who spent an inordinate amount of time writing about life instead of living it?

I mean, in my view, that’s likely what led to him offing himself in the end. ”

She raised her gaze in horror and slammed the book against her new husband’s chest. “Don’t say that.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay—look, I get it. Ernest Hemingway is your book boyfriend. I’m not jealous.

Really I’m not.” His eyes nearly sparkled when he’d said that.

“Tell you what. When I die, you just take my ashes and toss them in that little creek that runs in front of his memorial. That way, when I’m gone, you can visit both of us at the same time. ”

Before she could protest the macabre suggestion, he pulled the novel from her and tossed it to the floor, while at the same time lifting the sheet with his other hand.

She’d giggled as he buried his head against her skin. “Promise me. Even if my mother protests and wants otherwise,” he said, in a muffled voice. “Now. Promise. Or, I’ll—” His fingers dug into her sides and he tickled, sending her entire torso into a fit of squirming. “Promise,” he repeated.

“I promise. I promise,” she shouted, laughing uncontrollably.

He immediately stopped tickling. “Okay, that’s better.” Her new husband looked at her then, his eyes boring into her soul. “And promise you’ll always remember I love you.”

The sound of his voice still seemed so real, even after all these months. She sunk to the curved stone bench. Tears collected in her eyes and spilled over, making their way down her cheeks. She fingered the familiar lid on the box.

I’m sorry, Dean. I can’t do it.

No matter that she’d gotten out of her bed while it was still dark outside with the best intentions. She still wasn’t ready to let him go.

Not now—and maybe never.

***

Grayson Chandler wrangled his way past a bunch of willow branches, taking care not to break his fly rod, then headed south crossing into a clearing.

That’s when he saw her.

Early thirties. Coffee-colored long hair. Sitting quietly on the stone bench at the Hemingway Memorial.

Not really understanding why, he quieted his steps as he approached.

She held something in her hands, a little box. Her head was tucked. Was she?—?

Holding his breath, he moved closer.

Yes, she was crying.

He crouched behind a clump of thick brush and watched, knowing he was encroaching, but unable to help himself.

She was a pretty gal. Frankly, she reminded him a whole lot of that royal lady in England. What was her name? Not Princess Diana, but her son’s wife.

Unable to remember, he shook his head. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was that she was openly weeping now.

He wavered. Should he step forward? Offer her assistance? He shook his head. Naw—probably not. It wasn’t like he carried a handkerchief in his pocket like his dad used to. Likely she just needed some time to get whatever was bothering her out of her system. Women were like that.

Still, he couldn’t help but think whatever she was spilling about was not the least bit inconsequential. Clearly, she was torn up.

Ignoring the reprimanding voice inside that warned him he was being voyeuristic, he rested his fly pole on the ground and continued to watch.

Even crying, she was beautiful, what with her thick lashes sweeping across ivory cheeks that looked as soft as a rose petal. He knotted his hand and pressed it against his lips, imagining brushing his thumb across her skin.

He hadn’t thought about a woman in that way for a really long time. Not since—well, since Robin. A subject he didn’t care to think about.

The woman on the bench wiped her face with the back of her hand and looked up toward the sky. A few seconds later, she fingered the top of the little wooden box in her lap, chewing at her lip.

Finally, she stood and gazed into the trees, tears still rimming her lashes.

He battled a surge of protectiveness, yet remained still. Under different circumstances he might take a chance, go introduce himself. But he knew better this time.

She turned and saw him. Frowning, she pulled the little box close to her chest.

Face flushed, he reached for his pole and stood. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—what I meant is, I just didn’t want to interrupt—” He shook his head. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Judging from the way she fidgeted, she too was embarrassed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I—I thought I was alone.”

“I wasn’t really watching. I was doing a little fly fishing.” He pointed back at the creek. “I saw you and?—”

She rubbed at the place between her eyebrows, then dropped her hand. “Look, I really need to go.” She turned and starting walking toward the parking lot.

He wanted to say something more, maybe get her name, but thought better of it.

Upon reaching her car, she glanced back.

In an awkward attempt to apologize again for his intrusion on her private moments, he nodded and gave her a faint smile.

Inside, he wanted to kick himself.