Snow Falls

chapter Four



Ryan stood at the windows, staring out at the endless white landscape, the thick snow clouds ushering in dusk earlier than normal. It could be worse, she thought. She could have rescued a brash, obnoxious twenty-year-old male. Or a grandmother. So, yeah, it could be worse. Nevertheless, it did put a kink in her plans. She glanced at her desk, her eyes landing on her laptop. She supposed she could still get some writing done. Maybe Jennifer Kincaid would not be nosy and ask a lot of questions. She had her own laptop. Maybe she could stay entertained on her own. She turned when she heard the bathroom door open.

“Thank you.”

She simply nodded and returned to her view. She felt Jen come up beside her.

“This is incredible. Did you build it?”

Ryan nodded. “Took two summers. It’s not huge, but the workers could only work about five months each summer.” She stepped back, deciding to give a quick litany of the cabin and get it over with.

“I have solar panels on the roof and a battery array to run the appliances and lights. I have propane to run the hot water heater, clothes dryer and stove.” She motioned to the windows. “All of these oversized windows face south and west to optimize the natural light. As a rule, I don’t turn on any lights until dusk. I have a couple of small wind turbines farther up the mountain. Nothing fancy but they help recharge the batteries. And I have a generator for those prolonged snowy days when the solar panels are useless.” She went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet and quickly turned it off. “Running water. I have a well with a solar-powered pump. And I have a satellite dish for both TV and Internet.” She shrugged. “All the comforts of home.”

Jen smiled. “Some hermit you are,” she said teasingly. “So that means we have e-mail?”

“Yes, but not at the moment. After a snowstorm, the dish is covered. It takes a day or two for the snow on it to melt,” she explained. “Same with the solar panels. I have steps built to the roof so I can get up there and sweep them off. The dish, though, is on a tower, so I can’t get to it.”

Jen nodded. “I just need to let someone know I’m okay. I assume—when I don’t show up at the lodge—that they’ll call my agent or someone.”

“Your agent?”

“Yes. It was a writer’s workshop.”

Ryan stared at her. She’s a writer? Yeah, it just got worse.


***



“So, a writer, huh? Published?”

Jen nodded and took the cup of coffee Ryan offered. “Thanks. And yes, published. I write self-help books,” she said. “Well, three so far. I know I’m not a literary genius, but I really want to write a novel.” She smiled shyly. “Who doesn’t, right? I have an idea for one, I just don’t quite know how to go about it. That’s why I signed up for the workshop. One month of intense hands-on instruction.”

“At the Pattersons’ lodge?” Ryan asked doubtfully. She couldn’t imagine who would be up here teaching such a class. In February, no less.

“Yes. It’s sponsored by the Colorado Writers Group. They have quite a lineup of talented instructors.” Jen sipped from her coffee, her glance meeting Ryan’s above the cup. “One month. Fiction only. They teach various formats, structures and techniques. Character development and dialogue.” She wrinkled up her nose. “I suck with dialogue.”

“So you’ve tried to write before?”

“Yes. Tried being the key word there. Like I said, I’ve only written self-help books.”

Ryan’s instinct told her to steer the conversation elsewhere, but she was curious. Jennifer Kincaid was nearly bubbling with enthusiasm. Something she herself once had.

“So how does one write a self-help book?”

“Research, research, research. Especially if you don’t have initials after your name.”

“Like PhD or MD?”

“Exactly.” Jen reached for the sugar bowl and added a small amount to her coffee. “But really, I got the idea after reading one of Sara Michaels’ books.” She looked up. “Do you know who she is? She’s from Denver.”

Ryan shook her head. “No.”

“Do you remember several years ago, Senator Michaels was running for president? He went psycho and tried to have his daughter killed. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah. The lesbian daughter,” Ryan said. “She was hiking with a group of women over in the Collegiate Peaks area.”

“Yes, that’s the one. Her work evolved into a center in Denver where people—mostly women—go for classes on how to better themselves. She’s quite popular. Anyway, I read a couple of her books.” She shrugged. “Really, all self-help books are pretty much the same. So I thought, why can’t I write one?”

Ryan kept her smile hidden, surprised at how forthright Jen was being. “So you stole her ideas?”

Jen laughed. “Not exactly. My books tend to lean toward meditation and inner peace to help cope with life’s daily issues. You know—work, finances, spouse, kids. It targets women, obviously. My message is to take time for yourself,” she said. “And use meditation—and yoga—to tap into that magical energy we all have inside. I encourage people to take at least one hour each day that does not involve work or home or spouse or kids. One hour just for you.” Jen’s grin was infectious. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Ryan arched an eyebrow skeptically. “And you wrote a book about that?”

“Yes. Amazing, isn’t it?”

“And people bought it?”

“Yes. Self-help books are all the rage.”

“And so you’re an expert on meditation and stuff?”

Jen brushed the bangs off of her forehead and sighed. “Okay, while my intentions were good, I will concede that no, I’m not an expert. Who is? I mean, I’ve taken my share of yoga classes. I’ve read countless books on meditation and the benefits of tapping into your own resources, your own energy. I do know what I’m talking about,” she said almost defensively.

“So, just regurgitated information?”

“Isn’t everything? You’re just rewording it, calling it something different. I mean, look at all of the popular diets. Low carb this and low carb that. All the same, yet you can buy ten or twelve different books. All they’ve done is just tweak a few things. My books are no different.”

“So you’re saying that anyone could write a self-help book?”

“Exactly.”

“But if it doesn’t work, don’t you lose credibility?”

“That’s the secret. Whether it works or not is up to the reader. As the author, all I promise is that ‘if you follow the instructions completely’ then it’ll work.”

“I see. And as the author, you make it virtually impossible for anyone to follow it completely so you’re off the hook.” Jen smiled again, and Ryan found she was not immune to her enthusiasm...or her good looks. She was absolutely adorable.

“See? You too could write one. The readers who follow it almost to the T, they get results. How could they not? But if they don’t get what was promised, they put the blame on themselves. Because they didn’t follow it one hundred percent. And quite frankly, most will start out like gangbusters, only to let real life get in the way. So the failure, again, is their own.”

“Sounds simple.”

“It is. Like I said, anyone can write one. But not just anyone can write a real novel. Thus, the writer’s workshop.” They were quiet, both sipping their coffee. Then Jen pushed her cup away and folded her hands together. “What about this helicopter rescue you mentioned?”

Ryan shrugged. “Up this high, they’d have to wait for optimal wind conditions. But since it’s not a medical emergency, I’m not sure what kind of priority you’d have. It would be fairly expensive too.”

“I see. So, I’m really stuck then.”

“You’re really stuck.”

“But you are intentionally stuck. Right? I mean, you said your Jeep road was covered with snow until May.”

“Well, like I said, I’m—”

“A recluse. Right,” Jen said. “So what’s your story?”

Ryan froze, not able to meet her eyes. After spending nearly ten years hiding from the public, only now was she beginning to feel almost normal. Well, as normal as living a solitary life can be. She had no wish to relive the humiliation of the controversy that broke out after the Pulitzer. But instead of telling Jen to mind her own business, she feigned indifference.

“No story.”

“There has to be a story. You’re living up here, isolated. Intentionally, it seems. I mean, letting yourself get snowed in and all.”

Ryan tapped her fingers against her cup, trying to appear disinterested. “I told you, I don’t like people.”

Jen smiled. “You forget. I’ve researched all this crap to death. I just don’t like people is not a reason for all this,” she said, waving her hands at the cabin. “Hermits—or a recluse, as you prefer—want to remove themselves from society. They just want to disappear.”

“Yeah? And?”

“If that was truly the case, you wouldn’t have a satellite dish for TV. And you wouldn’t bother with Internet.”

“I don’t necessarily want to forget about the world, I just want it to forget about me.”

Jen shrugged. “You made mention that you go into town and you knew the lodge by name. That tells me that you’re not quite as reclusive as you pretend.”

Ryan stared at her, knowing she had no retort to her claim. She looked away, saying nothing. If this was going to be a prelude to the kinds of conversations they were going to have for the next few weeks, she might very well fling herself into the canyon. So she stood, her glance going to the dogs, both sleeping near the stove.

“I should start dinner,” she said abruptly.

“Oh, I didn’t even think about that,” Jen said. “I promise, I don’t eat much.”

“I have plenty. The pantries are stocked. Six weeks, even eight, isn’t all that long, you know.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jen said with a laugh.

“We should have Internet back in a day or so. Hopefully that will keep you occupied.”

“What about you? What do you do to keep occupied?”

Ryan couldn’t help to take a quick, longing peek at her laptop. She needed to write. She would go stark raving mad if she didn’t. She was just getting a good feel for the story and she had words bouncing around in her head, begging to get out. But that wasn’t something she could announce. “I have plenty of chores to keep me busy,” she said instead.

To her chagrin, Jen followed her into the kitchen, pulling out one of the two barstools. Ryan felt self-conscious as she stared into the pantry, trying to decide on dinner. Despite her words, eight weeks was going to be an eternity.

“I can help with some of your chores, you know. Like cooking,” Jen offered. “And I mean, don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

Ryan glanced at her, then back to the pantry, eyeing the soup cans.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

Ryan bit her lower lip. God, she had to have rescued a chatterbox, didn’t she? She sighed, grabbing a couple of cans of soup and holding them up for her guest to inspect. “Hermit and all, not used to talking,” she offered as way of an excuse.

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. I tend to talk a lot, especially when I’m nervous.”

Ryan pulled out a pot. “Are you nervous?”

“Well, yeah,” Jen said with a short laugh. “I mean, I’m apparently stuck here. You’re a stranger to me. I don’t know you, yet I’m at your mercy, basically. And who’s to say you don’t make a habit of abducting unsuspecting tourists and then hacking their bodies into little pieces and burying them in your snow-covered backyard?”

Jen had a smile on her face, but there was a wariness in her eyes that Ryan found surprising. Was she really afraid of her? And here Ryan thought she was being on her best behavior.

“You know, maybe you should be a novelist,” she said with a slight smile. “Your imagination is certainly active.”