The Point of Vanishing Maryka Biaggio (hardest books to read TXT) 📖

Nick stood before her, hugging himself. “I let myself get distracted. Forgot about the rapids. We could’ve gotten hurt.”

“But we made it,” Barbara said, heady with relief. “And so did Old Bones.”

They took out their gear, spread it over rocks and tree limbs to dry, and flipped the canoe on its side.

“Kind of scraped up here,” Nick said, pointing to the hull bottom.

Barbara inspected the interior. “Another cracked rib. But looks like the hull’s intact.”

Nick knelt on the shady, open side of the canoe. “No light’s piercing it anywhere. It’ll live to see another day.”

Barbara eyed the shoreline. “Know what I want to do?”

“What?”

“Find a sunny spot just to sit and dry off. Come on,” she said, leading the way.

They wandered up the shore until they came upon a boulder tall as a teepee. They sat down, leaning against its sun-soaked warmth and facing the water. The river rolled along, gurgling and rippling as if declaring itself innocent of any menacing intent.

Gazing out on the river, Nick asked, “Were you scared?”

“Sure. Weren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Nick braced his arms over his knees. “You didn’t show it. You’ve got more spunk than ordinary girls.”

Barbara laughed. “Don’t believe I’ve ever been or ever will be an ordinary girl.”

“That’s just fine by me.”

Barbara took off her boots and socks, and Nick did, too.

She dug her cold toes into the warm pebbles and turned to Nick. “We’ve done it, haven’t we? As Kipling put it—we’ve melted into the landscape.”

He twisted around to face her, his eyes moist. “And each other.”

She lifted her face to his. When he kissed her, she thought, yes, this is right. I don’t care about the world out there, about other people. This is what I want—a daring man. And a fiercely wild place all to ourselves.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN

New York City, October 1932

October 11, 1932

Dear Alice,

I’ve been blessedly secluded in the wilds, unbound by time. You must excuse my long silence. But I’m in New York now and can finally pour out news and philosophy and plans.

Over the past three months, I’ve discovered a new way of living, an altogether free existence. Just when I ceased to believe such a life was possible, I happened upon it—the very thing I’ve craved—and now I can’t turn away from it. I’ve jumped the whole structure of my old life and chucked the business of sitting in an office, trudging through life beside my woebegone mother, and kneeling at the altar of New York publishers. It’s all pretty experimental, but my heart tells me to follow this cosmic adventure to its end, wherever it may lead.

With the bare essentials of shelter and sustenance strapped to our backs, we trail-blazed and canoed from Maine to Massachusetts. You’d approve of the person I’ve spent these months with. Nick is wholesome and gallant, as much an adventurer as I could ever hope to find. He has surprising depths, which he reveals at odd moments: while calculating the distance to a mountaintop (“Four hours on foot for a view worth years”) or descending a rapid (“It’s trials like these that toughen one’s faculties”). He’s tall and tanned, rugged and resourceful, smart and practical—in short, altogether appealing.

It was bound to happen. We’ve been living semi-platonically, without any worry or prediction about what that means. And the ecstasy of throwing off civilization’s shackles is beyond intoxicating.

Only I had to tell Ethan, for he’d planned to visit this winter, and that forced me to tidy up the situation. I wrote to him and explained I’d met somebody, and the visit is off. He must have written the hour he received my letter, for I had a response in short order, a sad letter full of pleading: “Choose me over Dartmouth” (that’s where Nick graduated) and “don’t turn your back on our dream.” In truth, he’s a mere shadow in my life, and it’s been that way a long time. It was ridiculous, supposing I could build a life with a man who spends half his time at sea, a place he cannot take me. Now I realize he never offered any kind of definite future. His dream for us to settle in Alaska and fish its waters in a bobbin of a boat is not my idea of romance.

See how completely and enduringly my life has changed! I’m happier than I’ve been in years. Nick and I lived in the wild like innocents, swimming in only our skin, sleeping under the stars, never fretting about what others might think. It was just the two of us in a world of our own.

Instead of finishing the Appalachian Trail, we’ve decided to spend 1933 exploring Europe. We’ll scrape together our meager dollars, including a gift from his father and the last of my royalties. After the crash, Father told me to withdraw those funds. He claimed the bank was bound to go bankrupt. Once again, he was wrong, and now I can use the money for this intrepid journey. We’re hopping a ship for Spain in a month or two, and we’ll hike wherever we like, avoiding the expensive cities and enjoying the people and countryside until next summer or fall. Or maybe forever.

Helen doesn’t understand and hopes I won’t regret my “blundering ways.” Fortunately, Grandma Ding is visiting now. She sees how happy I am, and that curbs Helen’s protests. I’ve invited Helen to join us for part of our journey, for I know if she were to tramp alongside Nick and me, she’d see how perfect we are for each other. Of course, she’ll likely say that’s impossible and plead “far too many responsibilities.”

Don’t you ever give up hope that life will surprise you with happiness, my dear. I’m proof of it! This beastly money slump the country is in can’t last forever, and when it lets up, Bert will surely bring you and the girls East or find work in Los Angeles again. You can count on it.

Promising you sunnier days,

Barbara

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

BARBARA AT EIGHTEEN

Mallorca, Spain,