Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 811 & 812, March/April 2009

The next morning I headed into town for breakfast. I can’t bring myself to cook with the kind and volume of grease necessary for proper-tasting hash browns, but I do love to eat them. The cafe I’d seen on the way into the park yesterday lived up to its clean, friendly appearance, and the young red-haired waitress brought me potatoes that sizzled and crunched and I silently thanked the pig that had died to make it possible. I also promised myself to hike far and fast, hopefully keeping my blood moving quickly enough to prevent the lard from settling in my arteries. I had opened Morris’s book on desert wildflowers to refresh my memory — mostly I knew the flowers in the Santa Cruz Mountains — when the waitress came back with more coffee and a message.

“Gentleman at the counter would like to join you, if you don’t mind. He asked me to ask you.”

I looked over in the direction she’d tilted her head and saw a man about my age (early fifties), more gaunt than thin, but with strong shoulders, a good head of mostly brown hair, and gray eyes that half disappeared in laugh lines as he smiled at me and held up a book. Same as mine. I glanced at the waitress and raised my eyebrows in inquiry.

“He’s been around for a few days, comes in for breakfast, tips good. You’re the first one I’ve seen him hit on,” she said.

I grimaced at the phrasing, but took a deep breath and considered. Distraction in attractive male form could be pleasant. He knew, or was interested in knowing, wildflowers, so there was nonpersonal conversation immediately available. I could celebrate later. I moved my books and maps to my side of the table, smiled, and extended an open hand to the seat opposite.

He came over, slid onto the bench seat, and rose again halfway to extend his hand. “Frank Ross,” he said, and his touch was dry and slightly cool.

“Jane Galen,” I said. “Tell me what you’ve seen so far,” and gestured to the books.

We spent the next half-hour, and two refills of coffee apiece, going over the clumps and swaths and solitaries that he’d seen. He was knowledgeable, but not fanatic.

He was also funny, and he smelled good, and when he asked if I’d like to join him for a hike (he offered to provide, and carry, the sandwiches and water), I listened to the rumble of his voice, noted the beginnings of attraction, thought why not, didn’t listen to the answer the smart side of my brain was muttering, and said yes.

We met, as agreed, at the Charlie Pete trailhead and set off, west, away from the sun, on a path that wound across the flat valley floor. The day was still comfortable, though that would change in the afternoon, but not to the life-threatening temperatures that would come in later months. I’m not one of those people who count species, but we must have seen a few dozen, and as far as sheer numbers? Well, there were more flowers than people, but not by a nearly big enough margin. It felt, at times, like Disneyland. After I’d snarled at three families who thought picking handfuls of ephemeral beauty was a good idea, Frank asked mildly if I’d like to head into the hills for lunch. “With pleasure,” I snapped, and took off almost at a run for the trail that branched off to the right. He kept up with me easily, and I wasn’t surprised when he said he was a runner, and averaged more than twice my ten miles per week.

The cheese sandwiches he’d brought were delicious, and the water cold. Chewing prevented me from continuing to rant, and I was grateful I wasn’t in mid swallow so I could laugh when Frank said, “Think of them as locusts, bipedal locusts, in pink capris and orange-plaid Bermudas.” His long fingers fluttered through the air, making two-legged winged shapes. We were sitting on an outcropping of shale that overlooked the valley, and Frank’s hands blocked my view of the humans in question, who were continuing their depredations below. His long legs were also an enjoyable visual alternative, tanned, with clearly delineated muscles, hairs lightened almost to blond. He saw me noticing, and we looked at each other thoughtfully. The sexual attraction became damn near visible in the air between us, curling like smoke, tendrils growing and twisting in the wind that wasn’t there.

I stood up abruptly, “No, this isn’t going to happen.”

“Why not?”

I’d expected at least some attempt at persuasion, not this straightforward inquiry as he continued to sit calmly, packing away the remains of our lunch.

“Unfinished business,” I said, and turned away.

He stood up with a slight grunt of effort and followed me down the trail, and his hand on my shoulder a minute later was gentle, tracing the edges of bone. “How long?”

Good question. I shrugged into his palm, felt his fingers tighten reflexively, then loosen fast.

“Your call,” he said, and immediately turned the conversation back to flowers. We both got out our cameras when he pointed to a downy blue arashia that we’d missed on the way up.