CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
ELIZABETH
THERE ARE THREE LIMOS IN the parking lot. It’s weird to see them because, amid all of the construction, the lot hasn’t changed. At the edges, instead of concrete blocks, my father put bolted-together logs that look like hitching posts. The ground is dirt pocked with protruding rocks. The limos are jet black, their tires and lower halves dusty. It looks like a Beverly Hillbillies situation in reverse.
“What are these cars?”
“Vehicles that transport humans,” Mateo tells me.
I hit him with my elbow. I still don’t know why I’m not more pissed or defensive, but I’m not. I feel good, and I have for the ten minutes it took to reach this lot from the gate. I think just being around him again is comfortable, like slipping on a favorite slipper.
I think of what my father said: You were good together. The fight feels forever ago. It’d be easy to slip back into our old pattern, very easy. I’m trying to hold my guard anyway — again, for all the reasons Dad and I discussed. But it’s hard. I’m on Mateo’s turf now, in his intoxicating presence. The beard suits him, rugged but not shaggy. And the shirt suits him best. He’s even leaner now. I’d guess stronger, too.
He almost breaks character and laughs at my assault, but holds firm. When I stare him down, he finally relents.
“Okay, fine. That’s Caspian’s limo. He’s not here, but Aurora is. That one is Evan Cohen’s.”
“The guy from LiveLyfe?”
“Yes. He shares many of Aurora’s interests.”
“Which are …?”
“Pfft. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m not telling you.”
“Dammit, Mateo …”
He points at the third limousine. “The last one belongs to Taylor Hastings, founder of Portal. He’s here for me, as moral support. And also because he wants to be seen at the forefront of this so that when it blows up, a certain group will remember who helped lead the charge.”
“All this for a climbing camp?”
He exhales as he exits the car. “Man. For a smart woman, you’re dense.”
I follow Mateo as he rounds the corner of a clutch of large trees that his people were kind enough to leave in place. I can see the side of a huge white building: the climbing lodge that’s visible from my father’s house, that we’ve been watching them build. There’s a lot of commotion, but I don’t see cranes or bulldozers or concrete mixers or piles of lumber. The people coming and going from the big white building seem to be “finish-grade” people carrying trim, fixtures, and the occasional piece of smallish furniture. This must be the final push: getting the place designed and ready for use. All these people milling around must be designers and decorators. Consultants, perhaps. And …
Son of a bitch.
I catch the arm of a short girl whisking by. She’s in denim shorts and a white tank top, with a man’s flannel shirt open atop it. Her hair is black, and striking around her enormous brown eyes.
“Blake?”
“Oh, hey, girlfriend,” she says.
“What the hell are you doing up here?”
“I was invited. What about you?”
I look at the tank top’s straps. They’re right where I noticed her tan lines. Blake isn’t exactly an outdoor person, so the fact that she was getting tan seemed strange. But now I get it: she’s been up here. Wearing tanks like this one.
“This is where you’ve been all those times I’ve tried to make plans, and you couldn’t make it?”
“Right,” she says.
I don’t even know where to start. She’s acting normal; this is anything but.
“Is there a reason you didn’t think to tell me you’ve been coming up to my mountain the entire time I’ve been complaining about—”
“I want my share of the credit. If you remember, this was my idea.”
“What was your idea?”
“She’s a consultant.”
I was so shocked to see Blake that I forgot Mateo was here.
“She’s no more a consultant than I’m a consultant!” I say.
“I couldn’t just guess at everything,” Mateo says. “And it’s not like I could ask you. At least not yet.”
“Ask me what?”
“See?” Blake says to Mateo. “I’m smarter than she is.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?”
But Blake just gives me her little fingers-only wave and walks off, smiling.
“What’s going on here, Mateo?” I ask.
He nods toward the building. “See for yourself.”
All I can see is a big building. It’s a bit like the White House without all the columns and flutes. It's is enormous, and only from here can I see just how enormous. What Dad and I thought was the building’s front was a sidelong view. It’s tucked back, and much larger than I figured.
On the front, across the top in stone, it says, RACHEL FRASIER HALL.
No warning. My eyes fill with tears.
I can only stare. Wait. Then feel them as they fall.
“What is this?” I ask.
Finally, tired of teasing, Mateo says, “It’s The Pike, Elizabeth.”