Chapter 14 Margot
14 MARGOT
Sitting in front of the clunky PC in the lodge, I take a sip of lukewarm coffee while rereading the email I’ve just written to my agent. In the week since the camping incident, I’ve been busy—if that’s even the right word. Consumed is more like it. I owe it partly to feeling inspired but mostly to how convenient work makes it to avoid interacting with certain people. Namely Ollie (who nudges me about “hanging out” at every opportunity but especially in front of Forrest) and Forrest (who’s been hovering like a storm cloud but especially when I’m with Ollie). Honestly, it might be funny if I didn’t feel like a slab of red meat between two circling wolves. Despite knowing that giving Ollie a chance would diffuse the tension and get me laid, I can’t bring myself to do it. Every night he asks, I tell him I need to work, and no , I’m not interested in examining why.
Suffice to say, I’m nearly halfway through my time in Alaska and have managed the not small feat of also reaching the halfway point of my manuscript. Which, in standing with tradition, means sending my agent initial pages for review. My teeth sink into the side of my cheek as I reread my email one last time and check that the satellite Internet I borrowed is still working on my laptop.
Hey Anjali,
It’s been a minute! Thanks for checking in, and I’m sorry for not responding sooner. Reception in Alaska has been spotty, but the lack of distraction has been great for writing.
I pause reading as a guilty flush creeps up my neck. My time in Alaska hasn’t been completely distraction-free, but there’s no need to mention that to Anjali.
Below you’ll find the first (very rough) half of my new manuscript, which I’m calling Iced Over . I’d love to know your first impressions and whether you think this could be our answer to HNA-Gate.
Thanks again for sticking with me on this tiny, slowly sinking life raft,
Margot
I hover my cursor over the send button, scrunch my eyes shut, and click it before I chicken out. I exhale along with the mail program’s little whooshing sound, registering that I haven’t been this nervous to send pages since the early days. Before I left for Alaska, Anjali approved my strategy to write in a totally new genre and has been busily building her contacts with murder-mystery editors. And while I still consider my new manuscript a murder mystery, in the almost week since I read Savannah’s last letter, my stringent anti-romance stance has gone a little soft around the edges. My characters are toeing the line of something less than professional, and I can’t help but feel that my manuscript is stronger for it.
“You look like you’re plotting something.”
I look up to see Trapper coming toward me in his chair, with Scout leading the way. He smiles, but it looks more like a wince. “See what I did there?”
I smile at his corny joke and pet Scout. “I’m always plotting something.”
“And how’s this one coming?” he says, rolling up to my desk.
“Well, I guess we’ll see. I just sent the first half off to my agent.”
“First half ?” he repeats, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t waste any time, do you?”
I shrug. “I’ve always been a fast drafter. Revising is what takes forever.”
He shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and I notice that his usual slight lean to the left is more pronounced. I ask, “How about you? You didn’t take Scout on his morning walk. Feeling okay?”
“Woke up, so I guess that’s something,” he grumbles. Scout makes a sound that I swear sounds worried.
It’s the first time Trapper has shown any frustration about his condition to me, and when I don’t respond right away, he glances up. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a cranky toad. It’s just my damn shoulder,” he says, grasping it with his good right hand. “Most of the time, the pain patch or nerve block Forrest gives me numbs it out, but some days…”
He sighs again and shifts to the left. I’m reminded of Savannah’s own untouchable discomfort, and my mind immediately goes into pain-management mode. Countless hours spent researching every avenue of relief outside of opioids have given me an arsenal of techniques to use on my sister. At home, I have special oils, natural tinctures, and even a playlist of low-frequency sounds designed to help with chronic pain. But my most effective tools are my hands, and as I watch Trapper try to mask the pain he’s in, an offer to help is out of my mouth before I can think twice.
“Would you mind if I tried something?” I ask. “My sister suffers from chronic pain, and I’ve learned a lot about acupressure over the years.”
“Acupressure?” Trapper asks doubtfully. “You’re not going to stick me with a bunch of needles, are you?”
I smile. “That’s acupuncture. Acupressure is just done with touch.”
He chuckles hoarsely. “I guess that beats being a pincushion. Where do you need me, dear?”
I direct him to where I have access to his left arm. Gently lifting it to lie on the desk, he winces as his shoulder moves. I begin with his hand, pressing and holding points that sometimes give Savannah relief.
“Can you feel this?” I ask after several minutes of working on different points.
Trapper’s eyes drift shut. “It’s funny,” he says slowly. “I can’t feel much of anything in this arm, but I… I almost sense something.”
I nod. I don’t consider myself a hippie, but after years of seeing Savannah’s pain improve with energy work, I’m a believer. I move farther up his arm to a point on the bicep. I watch as muscles in the left side of his neck visibly relax and his shoulder lowers slightly. He lets out a small exhalation of relief, and I continue working up his arm. I’m so focused that I don’t notice anyone approaching the desk until I hear Forrest clear his throat.
Startled, I let go, and Trapper opens his eyes to smile up at Forrest. “Sorry, son, but it looks like you’re out of a job. Turns out you’re not the only healer at North Star Lodge.”
“Did it help?” I ask hopefully, trying to focus on Trapper instead of Forrest’s looming presence.
“ Help? ” Trapper repeats, still smiling. “That was unbelievable. My pain was at an eight, and now it’s a six. You’ve got healer’s hands, Margot.”
I sit back in my chair and avoid Forrest’s gaze as pride glows in my chest. After feeling so useless on our wilderness excursions, having Forrest see that I’m good at something doesn’t suck.
“I’m glad I could help a little,” I say, glancing up to see Forrest still staring at me. I look away, my cheeks heating.
“Where did you study acupressure?” Forrest asks me, absent-mindedly rubbing Scout’s ears when he gets head-butted in the leg for attention.
I shrug. “Countless acupuncture appointments with Savannah. Books, YouTube. I’m not an expert, though.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, and there’s no denying the hop-skip-jump my heart does at his words. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“Of course,” I say, brushing a lock of hair away from my burning face before it catches fire. I glance at Trapper, who’s smiling at our exchange like a cat with a canary in his mouth.
“Come on, Dad. It’s time for your PT and meds. I’ll get you settled upstairs.”
I look at Scout, who can’t seem to decide which of us to beg for a walk. He keeps swinging his head to look at us in turn, tail wagging hopefully.
“I could take Scout outside,” I offer. “I need some fresh air, anyway.”
“You don’t have to,” Forrest says. “I’ll walk him after I finish with—”
“That would be great, Margot, thank you,” Trapper cuts him off. “Why don’t you come upstairs with us first, and I’ll get you his lead. I want to show you what Forrest’s done to my rooms.”
I look up at him, startled. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Trapper chuckles. “You don’t need to stick around for my torture session, don’t worry. Just a minute, and you and Scout can be on your way.”
“Dad, that’s really not necessary. Scout doesn’t even use a lead,” Forrest says.
“Please, Margot?” Trapper interrupts us. “Will you humor me? It won’t take five minutes.”
Forrest shakes his head at me, signaling that I don’t have to come up. The last thing we need is more time in each other’s company. Then I look at Trapper, and there’s nothing for it.
“Of course,” I say, forcing a smile. “Lead the way.”
When we’re all upstairs, I’m led to a wide door that opens into a sitting area and kitchenette featuring large windows and a door that leads out onto a deck. The view is spectacular, and I wonder, not for the first time, if people who live here ever get used to the beauty of this place. As I walk in, I notice that wooden handrails, much like ballet bars, line the room. Light switches are low enough for Trapper to reach comfortably, along with cabinets and bookshelves that are all at wheelchair height.
Trapper sees me looking around and nods approvingly while Scout proudly trots to his cozy flannel bed in the corner and retrieves a worse-for-the-wear stuffed animal that might have been a duck at some point.
“You’d never know this place was just a bunch of extra guest rooms before.” Trapper beams with pride as Scout drops the tattered duck at my feet. “Forrest remodeled everything himself.”
I’m scratching Scout behind the ear when I’m hit by the memory of Forrest in the sauna, dusted in wood shavings and holding a drill in the world’s most blatant display of competency porn. I guess it stands to reason that he’d be able to retrofit an entire living space. He’d probably raised a barn single-handedly by the time he was twelve.
“Bear helped,” Forrest rumbles, his hand rising to the back of his neck.
I walk toward a corner of the sitting area where physical therapy devices and medical equipment are organized. I take in the neatly organized row of syringes I assume are for Trapper’s nerve blocks and a stack of black notebooks that just feel like Forrest, and something spreads through my chest that’s so tender, it aches. I may not have handled any power tools when I adapted my home for Savannah, but I oversaw the contractors and did the research. I know how much time, effort, and love it requires to make a living space comfortable for someone with a disability.
“He did an amazing job, didn’t he?” Trapper says as he comes up next to me.
I look down at him and realize that my eyes, while not exactly teary, aren’t exactly dry either. Embarrassed, I try to blink the moisture away, but I’m not fooling anyone. As I stand there, surrounded by the evidence of Forrest’s love for Trapper, it’s impossible not to think of my own father, whom I haven’t spoken to in well over a decade.
Ever since I read Savannah’s letter, half-formed memories of his scattered, creative chaos, which I naively adored as a child, have fluttered through my mind like leaves on the wind. They drift away, just like he did when we needed him most, until all that remain are the ghosts of visitation rights never exercised and the unspoken message that we weren’t enough to anchor him. It’s unfathomable to imagine any sort of relationship with him now.
To see Forrest, so dedicated, so present for his father, is like looking into a world that could have been mine but never was. A lump forms in my throat.
“He really did,” I say softly.
My eyes rise to meet Forrest’s, and for once, I can’t look away from his dark-green gaze. I may not have a father like Trapper, but I have this kind of love with my sister, and Forrest sees it. An understanding I’ve never felt with anyone else expands between us. It reaches inside me, filling up the cracks left by so many people who didn’t understand the time and sacrifice it takes to truly care for Savannah. People like Adam. But my ex-fiancé’s name is like a gnat on my periphery right now. All I see is Forrest. I understood before why he left California, but standing in this lovingly constructed room, I also understand that if he hasn’t already turned down the grant offer, he will soon.
What I don’t understand is why the thought leaves me feeling so gutted.
“Thanks so much for showing me,” I say quietly, placing my hand on Trapper’s shoulder. “I should get Scout outside. Come on, boy.” I pat my leg to get the dog’s attention. Scout comes immediately, and without waiting for a reply, I turn and leave father and son alone together, just as I’ll do again in three short weeks.