Free The Mountain Story by Lori Lansens Page B

know about being an adult? You think you’re grown up because you’re running around Tin Town?”
    Tin Town?
    “Not now , Bridget,” Nola said.
    “Because you’ve been hanging out with some biker in Tin Town.”
    “What biker? Who said anything about Tin Town?” Vonn said, turning to Nola for translation.
    “I heard you talking about him on the phone,” Bridget said.
    “You’re insane,” Vonn said.
    Vonn didn’t look like a Tin Town type to me. But then she didn’t look like a Santa Sophia type, either. I wasn’t so sure about Bridget.
    “You were coming to the desert to help Mim,” Bridget said. “Remember? You came to keep her company.”
    “I am here to help Mim.”
    “Vonn’s been good company,” Nola protested.
    “Running around Tin Town?”
    “Who’s running around Tin Town?” Vonn asked. “What is she talking about?”
    “I know bikers are trouble,” Bridget said.
    “What are you all talking about?” Vonn was genuinely bewildered. “Whatever you think you heard—you’re wrong.”
    “Not every person that rides a motorcycle is a criminal, Bridget,” Nola said.
    Some of my favourite people rode motorcycles. Byrd’s uncle Harley, ironically, had a Honda, and his cool uncle Dantay had a Harley, an entire collection of Harleys, actually. His cousin Juan Carlos had a dirt bike. My cousin Yago rode a Shovelhead Classic, but then again he was a criminal.
    “You came together,” I said. “It didn’t seem like that.”
    “We’re the Devines !” Nola said it as if I should have known. “Vonn is my granddaughter. Bridget is her mother.”
    It hit me then that Vonn hadn’t been staring at me earlier on the tram. She’d been watching Bridget with her big blond clip-on ponytail, probably wondering what her mother was telling the tragic boy-man in the Detroit Tigers cap.
    “Bridget has a home in Golden Hills. Do you know it?” Nola asked.
    “No.”
    “Oh, it’s lovely.”
    “Near the coast,” Bridget said.
    “Really just as close to the valley as the ocean,” Vonn said.
    “Sure.”
    “Vonn’s been staying with me at my condo in Rancho Mirage,” Nola said.
    “Are you a local?” Bridget asked.
    “I’m from Michigan,” I said.
    “Michigan? But how are you a mountain guide here?” Bridget asked.
    I realized I was digging a deep hole with my sins of omission.“I have a friend here. That I visit. I come here a lot. Hiking.”
    “That’s a long way away.”
    “It is.”
    After that came a long stretch of silence, which Nola broke by whispering, “I keep reaching for him. Isn’t it funny that I’d still be doing that?”
    Bridget and Vonn sighed in sympathy.
    “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. I said it because it was the thing people say but I meant it too. I could feel the vibration from their collective grief.
    “It gets cold in Michigan,” Nola said. “Ohio, too. I grew up in Ohio.”
    “Even Malibu’s too cold for me,” Bridget said.
    “Once, when I was a kid, it went to twenty below in Macomb County,” I said. “Six people died of exposure in one night.”
    “Why are you telling us that?” Vonn asked.
    “I’m saying it won’t get that cold here,” I said, covering. “I’ve spent dozens of nights on the mountain. Nights way colder than this. We’ll be fine. Just stay close together.”
    The women seemed relieved, which had been the purpose of my lie. The truth is I’d spent only one night on the mountain. One disastrous night.
    Byrd popped into my head. He was never really far from my thoughts—especially on the mountain.

    The Gremlin’s tank was still more than three-quarters full when we passed the Welcome to Santa Sophia sign in the dark morning hours.
    Frankie was humming softly along with the Beatles while I stared out the window, the mountain looming somewhere in the night. Instead of driving straight to his sister Kriket’s house after eight days on the road Frankie found the Santa Sophia Gas station/convenience