Page 26 of Falling for the Recluse

“I found a candle and set the experiment up on the kitchen counter.” Tension ripples through him. “It worked. Proved Newton’s third law of motion. Equal and opposite reactions, combustion, equilibrium. I watched it for a while, then I wanted a snack. Cheese and crackers. Cookies. I put them on a plate and went into the family room to watch TV while I ate. Totally forgot about the candle. After the program was over, I went to bed. Woke up maybe an hour later to the house on fire.”

I don’t know what to say. But there is nothing to say. The horror is unspeakable.

“D-Did the investigators know about the candle?” I stammer.

“Yeah.” He lets out his breath. “The napkin holder was near it on the counter, and the flame caught. But the investigators agreed it was an accident.”

“Itwas.You didn’t do it on purpose.”

“I still did it. The fire never would have happened if I hadn’t struck a match and lit the candle.”

“Oh, Gavin.” My heart is a tight ball of pain for him.

He slides his fingers through my hair. “It’s okay. I mean, it was a long time ago. I’ve dealt with it.”

Has he? Does escaping to the ice, the most frozen place on the planet, really mean he’s “dealt with it”?

Antarctica can extinguish a flame in less than a second. Fire can’t get anywhere near a glacier. Where Dr. Gavin Stark goes, ice is the sovereign ruler.

He can’t get burned.

* * *

I’m almost afraid Gavin’s confession about his past will cool the warmth between us and maybe even bring up his shields again. Instead, it does the opposite. We have nothing left to hide from each other, and our openness brings us even closer.

For the next few days, we alternate between going to the penguin colony and staying at the field house to work. He makes breakfast, I make lunch, and we trek out to the food storage shed together to gather supplies for dinner.

I write daily reports about my penguin observations and email them to the PRG board when I can—though the internet connection is awful. Gavin helps me tag several penguins and sets up a monitor for the remote cameras so I can record and edit the activities at the colony.

He already has plans to collect ice samples from the Castille glacier with a team from Hamilton station, so he arranges for me to accompany them.

Half a dozen men meet us on the shore with equipment—crampons, harnesses, axes, and ropes. Though I went through training before even making travel plans to Antarctica, actually walking on a monumental glacier is awe-inspiring, scary, and humbling all at the same time.

If Antarctica is another world, then the glacier is another planet entirely. Gavin stays close to me, pointing out rivers, waterfalls, caves, ice fields, and meltwater lakes.

I’d considered the idea that his life’s work was born from his trauma—and on some level, it probably is—but especially out on the glacier, his deep love for ice, the environment, the Antarctic, and science radiates from him like the rays of the sun.

He may have been drawn to glaciology as a reaction to the devastating fire, but there’s no question it’s both his passion and his calling.

And though I also know his Ice Prick reputation is patently wrong, it’s an unexpected joy to watch him with his fellow scientists. They all bring him supplies from Hamilton that he doesn’t often get on the island—fresh eggs, chicken, vegetables, milk, and several pints of ice cream, which I determine is a bad inside joke.

They ask for his opinion on their findings, request that he read their papers and reports—his answer is always yes—and want his advice on everything from the ice-drilling equipment to their efforts to publish a collection of ice-related poems.

Gavin is gracious, attentive, and comfortable with the other men. Although he’s not easygoing and chummy like they are, he’s a natural leader and clearly the most respected team member. He delegates, listens, gives both suggestions and orders, and ensures everyone knows their duties and has whatever they need. There are moments of levity and laughter, shared pride over their successful fieldwork, and a mind-bending amount of glaciological discussion and collaboration.

When Gavin and I return to Needle Island—cold, windblown, sunburned, and exhilarated—we shower and change, then make a dinner of chicken soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches. We sit down to eat by the potbelly stove in the workroom.

The evening sun hovers on the horizon, turning the ice pink and gold. The hot, hearty soup warms me to my bones, and the sandwich is toasty, buttery, and gooey with cheese. It’s quite possibly the best meal I’ve ever eaten.

“How often do you do fieldwork with those guys?” I ask, putting my feet closer to the stove.

“Few times a year.” He tilts the bowl to his mouth to drain the last bit of hot soup. “They’re only here for a couple of months in the summer. Different teams come and go.”

“Have you ever joined them somewhere else, like Greenland?”

He shakes his head, rising to pick up our empty plates. “I’m a lone wolf, baby.”

With a snort, I follow him back to the kitchen. “News flash, Dr. Stark. Even lone wolves form packs. And I love you the way you are, scary reputation and all, because it means I don’t have to share you as much with the rest of the world.”

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