Unearthly

“I don’t have any cash. Do you want to come in?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

I motion for him to follow me inside. “Wait here.” I set the shoe box on the kitchen counter and sprint upstairs to put on jeans and a yellow-andblue flannel shirt. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and it stops me cold. My orange hair is a rat’s nest.

I duck into the bathroom and try to comb the snarls out, then braid it in one long plait down my back. I dust on a little blush. A coat of lip gloss and I’m presentable again.

When I come back down the stairs, I find Tucker in the living room sitting on the couch, his booted feet on the coffee table. He’s looking out the window where the wind stirs the big aspen outside, the tree a flurry of motion, each leaf trembling with life. I love that tree. Seeing him there, admiring it, unnerves me. I want to put Tucker in a safe little box where I can predict what he wants, but he refuses to stay in it.

“Nice tree,” he says.

The boy has unexpected depth.

“Open it,” he says, without turning to look at me or the shoe box on the counter. I pick up the box and lift the lid. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, is a pair of Vasque hiking boots. They’re noticeably used, with some wear on the edges and soles, although clean and well cared for. These are expensive boots. I wonder if Wendy and I have the same size feet, even though I’m so much taller than she is. I wonder how she could have afforded such great boots, and why on earth she would give them up now.

“There’s a note,” says Tucker.

Inside one of the boots is a three-by-five card with Wendy’s slanted scrawl on the front and back. I start reading.

Dear Clara,

I am so sorry I can’t be with you on your birthday. While you’re reading this I’m probably shoveling horse puckey or worse, so don’t feel too sorry for yourself! The boots are not your birthday present. They are a loaner, so take care of them. Tucker is your birthday present. Now before you get that mad face, hear me out. Last time we talked, you sounded lonely and like you weren’t getting out much. I refuse to allow you to mope around your house when you’re surrounded by the most beautiful land ever. No one on earth knows this part of the country better than Tucker. He is the finest tour guide to the area that you are ever likely to meet. So suck it up, Clara, put on the boots, and let him show you around for a few days. That is really the best possible present I can give you. Big hug!

Love,

Wendy.

I look up. Tucker’s still looking at the tree. I don’t know what to say.

“She wanted me to sing you a little jingle, too, like I’m a singing delivery guy.” He glances at me over his shoulder, a corner of his mouth lifting. “I told her where she could stick it.”

“She says. ”

“I know.”

He lets out a sigh like he’s facing a particularly unpleasant chore, and gets up. He looks at me from top to bottom, as if he’s unsure that I’m up to whatever he has planned.

“What?” I say hotly.

“That’s pretty good. But you’ll have to go back upstairs and put on a suit.”

“A suit?” Somehow that doesn’t seem plausible.

“A swimming suit,” he clarifies.

“We’re going swimming?” I ask, instantly unsure about this whole Tucker thing, no matter what Wendy’s intentions were. I glance over at him. A lot of girls would be thrilled to receive Tucker Avery as a present, I know, what with the stormy blue eyes and the golden tawny skin and hair, the dimple carved into his left cheek. I have a mortifying flash of Tucker standing in front of me wearing a big red bow and nothing else.

Happy Birthday, Clara.

My cheeks are suddenly unpleasantly warm.

Tucker doesn’t answer my swimming question. I guess the surprise is supposed to be part of the experience. He gestures back to the stairs. I smile and run upstairs to agonize over which of my California beach bikinis would be the least humiliating in this situation. I settle on a deep sapphire-colored two-piece, only because it covers the most skin. Then I hurriedly throw on my jeans and the flannel shirt, grab a towel from the linen closet, and go down to meet Tucker. He tells me to put on the boots.

After I’m outfitted to Tucker’s liking he walks me to his truck, and opens the door for me before crossing around to climb in himself. We bump along the dirt road away from my house in silence. I’m hot in my flannel shirt. It’s a full-blown summer day, the sky a perfect cloudless blue, and while it isn’t as hot as California, it’s shorts weather. I wonder if we’re going to have a long hike.

“Does this thing have air-conditioning?” My shirt is already starting to stick to my back.

Tucker shifts to a higher gear. Then he reaches across me and rolls down the window.

“I could have done that,” I say, sure he did that just so he could jostle me. He smiles, an easy, relaxed smile that somehow puts me at ease.

“That window can be tricky” is all he says.

I put my arm out the window and let the cool mountain air pass through my fingers.

Tucker starts to whistle softly, a song I eventually recognize as

“Danny Boy,” which Wendy sang at the Spring Choir Concert. His whistle has a nice, full quality to it, perfectly in tune.