Page 86 of The Ripple Effect

“No!” I blurt, before amending, “I mean, it’s up to Lyle.” One armed, I pull myself up to sitting so I can catch Lyle’s eyes through Evan’s hands. “But I liked it the way it was.”

Broken. Fixed. Still good.

Chapter Twenty-five

When I open the door of Lyle’s Grey Tusk condo the next morning, Sharon’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, already shaking her head. She’s dressed in all black, like she’s attending the Love Boat’s funeral.

“You’re idiots,” she pronounces. “I love you both, but I amthisclose to putting clauses in your contracts about your whippersnapper mistakes.”

She strides into Lyle’s compact condo, which is luxurious by ski-town standards, especially for someone who lives alone. The building dates back to the development boom of the eighties, its age apparent in the diagonal terra-cotta tiles and rustic stone fireplace. The tight galley kitchen flows into a living space crammed with a gigantic overstuffed couch. A shelf of textbooks covers the wall where you’d expect a TV.

Abnormal Psychology. Forensic Interviewing Techniques. Fundamentals of Family Therapy. A framed diploma from his master of arts in counseling psychology—nothing from his PhD, though. There’s a print of the family photo Lyle keeps in the Mystery Machine, as well as various shots of his formerly ginger, nowincreasingly snow-topped parents, Babe, and himself with his buddies from his former job as an expedition guide.

Coming back to Lyle’s bed with its chunky driftwood frame felt like coming home. This bed has a sense of history and permanence that felt just right when we curled up in it a few hours ago to get what sleep we could before today’s reckoning.

“I’m sorry about…” I was going to say “the fake engagement,” but that doesn’t seem like a good enough way to describe how screwed we are and how terrible I feel. “Everything,” I finish sadly.

“You meant well,” Sharon says, more gently. “But yes, you did fuck it up. We’ll see what we can do about that.” Sharon unpacks her briefcase onto the wall-mounted breakfast table, which folds away when the weather’s bad enough for Lyle to do yoga indoors. The dog, freshly released from the animal hospital at a cost that made me choke, perks up her ears and trots over to lean into my leg. Ever since we picked Babe up this morning, I’ve been her new best friend.

“Morning, Sharon. Coffee?” Lyle asks, padding barefoot out of the bedroom, hair still a little damp from the careful washing I gave it this morning, keeping the water away from his eyebrow. Afterward, he taped a kitchen garbage bag over my arm and helped me through a one-handed shower. It’s humbling to be cared for by him. I mean, he shaved my right armpit today, a service I’m pretty sure most people don’t request until after they’re married or own property together.

The sight of him clean and combed could stop my heart. Every curl, every freckle, every line of his body feels as intimatelyknownto me as the lines of my own, yet he’s a brand-new version of himself now that we’re not in camp. His beard is freshly trimmed into a neat square-chinned shape; his curls spill over the collar of his checked flannel overshirt. I’m surprisedevery time I see his jeans, new and unstained by sap and canoe repair compound. Maybe he thought wearing his black-framed glasses would draw attention away from the two neat stitches in his eyebrow, but it’s not working.

Under the neck of his plain white T-shirt, there’s no familiar silhouette. The necklace must still be coiled neatly on top of his dresser, where I put it last night. Good.

He drops a kiss on my cheekbone as he passes, letting the back of his hand slide down my new shirt in a way that tells me exactly how good he thinks I look in it, and how much better he thinks I’ll look out of it.

Sharon’s eyes widen. “Sothat’sthe way it is between you two. Well, it’s a blessing you’re banging, at least. The fake engagement brouhaha would be much worse if you hated the sight of each other. I’ll take that coffee—black.”

“Sharon,” I moan, hand covering my eyes.

“AuntSharon,” she corrects me. “Don’t argue. It’s been a long day, and it’s not even noon. You look good, Stellar. If you do any public appearances, wear that.”

I was ready to attend the emergency meeting wearing one of Lyle’s shirts as a dress, since half of yesterday’s clothes are in the garbage and the rest of my things are at base camp. But a little after eight this morning, a bike courier dropped off a dress bag from Grey Tusk’s most exclusive womens-wear boutique, courtesy of an after-hours call from Sloane’s very convincing publicist.

Inside, I found this stretchy white sleeveless top—bandage friendly, an excellent choice—a slim cream-colored wool skirt decorated with hammered bronze studs, and coordinating knee-high canvas lace-ups that remind me of overgrown Chuck Taylors. Canadians don’t wear shoes in the house, as a rule, but these are new and the thick soles make me two full inches taller, so I’m making an exception.

It’s a killer outfit, more Paris than Pendleton, but I miss how I looked on the river. Out there, I had helmet hair, sticky skin from layers of sunscreen, and clothes that were never quite clean. But when I looked in the wavy mirror over the wash station sink, I felt good on the inside. When I texted Sloane to thank her and ask how much she spent, she told me I was exhausting and refused to discuss it.

“Let’s get started,” Sharon says. Lyle sets a steaming mug in front of her—of course he keeps coffee in the house even though he doesn’t drink it. Babe pushes between our feet as we sit down, curling up under the table with a doggyharrumph.

“Isn’t Tobin coming?” I ask.

“No,” Sharon says. “He wants to see the meeting minutes, but he said he’s too removed from day-to-day operations to be helpful in making decisions. Now, good news or bad news first?”

“Good news,” Lyle says, right as I groan, “Bad news.”

“Majority vote wins. Good news first. Despite the deception—next time run that kind of thing by me first, please—you made the right impression on your clients.Beeswaxwill run a short piece by Brent Torquay tomorrow and a long-form piece in early fall. Willow Connors Torquay offered to donate the cover photo and promote it with her hundred and fifty thousand followers, so that’s a big get. Sloane will cross-promote as well.”

Willow is a well-known photographer with a giant following? And meanwhile I was arranging canoe paddles for cell phone photos? I look at Lyle, who shrugs.

“Laurie Mitchell wants to feature us in Vancouver International Bank’s internal newsletter, which lands in two hundred thousand employee inboxes. That won’t be until next month. And.” Sharon pauses for dramatic effect. “This morning the Mounties paid a call to Alan Fisher’s little canoe camp and detained a grad student of his—one William Trevor Butterworth—for questioning. My source inside the detachment says his entire camp witnessed the conversation, which included the words ‘assault with a weapon.’”

“That’s great,” I say cautiously, wanting to savor the thought of Renee watching the fracas at Fisher’s camp, but knowing Sharon has another shoe to drop. “And the bad news?”

“Yes. Well. The bad news is that good publicity doesn’t necessarily translate to strong sales. As of this morning, the bookings situation is still dire. The second session is operating at breakeven. Barely. The third session… it’d be cheaper to refund people’s deposits and cancel.”

I bite my lip. “What about the other sessions? The fourth and fifth ones?”

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