Beautiful Mine (Beautiful Rivers #1) (2 page)

What was I saying? What am I looking for? My body’s being all
female
on me again,
and it’s kind of irritating. My heart’s
thump, thumping
and I can still see his hands and his eyes and that strong, scruffy jawline.

I’m gripping my backpack and digging past rolled up clothes, my headlamp, my guidebook, but I’m distracted. How long has he been there? What did he hear us saying?

I shake the mental image of him sitting there looking at me and decide it’s my shower stuff I need.

“Wonder if what?” Maggie asks, going to her own pack.

“Huh?”

“You said, ‘I wonder if...’ You wonder if what?”

Oh, right. “I just... wondered if we should warn her about those guys, but...” I feel weird continuing the conversation, knowing he’s listening. Anyway, those guys were obnoxious, but I don’t really know if they’re dangerous. “She’s probably okay in a group like that, right?”

“I dunna,” Maggie says. “I hope.”

I glance over my shoulder to see if Navy Shirt is still watching me. Not only is he not watching me, he’s not even there. I straighten and turn, looking around for him. His backpack and stick are gone, too. Maybe he’s gone to dinner, or out to chat with his asshole buddies or something.

I feel a confusing mixture of relief and disappointment. Sometimes it’s really
not
fair how our bodies work against our minds. I swear.

After taking my shower, I change into clean clothes and wash my other set of clothes. One set to wash and one to wear is the standard on the Camino. Some hostels have machines, but many don’t, including this one. I wash my black shorts and green shirt by hand (I’m wearing the tan and red now) and pin them on the outside line to dry. The line’s pretty crowded and it was tough finding a spot, but I manage it. I’m just glad the line’s along the side of the building instead of the rear courtyard where those guys are.

I go back to the main room wondering if Navy Shirt is back from wherever he went. His bed is, in fact, occupied, but not by him. The woman I’d seen in the courtyard earlier is stretched out on the blanket, fully dressed, looking at a Camino guidebook. Frowning, I go to my bed to pack up my shoes and toiletries.

Maggie sees I’ve returned and hops up off her bed. She grabs the stack of stuff she’d put at the foot of her bed and says, “My turn.” We’d agreed to take turns showering and washing our clothes so we could watch each other’s packs. She gives me a smile and heads off.

My eyes go back to the woman on Navy Shirt’s bed. Still reading, she absently tucks her short hair behind her ear.

I go to the window and look out. There’s seven pilgrims out there now. The three obnoxious guys are in their own circle, talking. Among the other scattered pilgrims, I find Navy Shirt. He’s sitting on a bed roll, one knee up and one arm resting casually on top. He’s talking with one of the old men I saw earlier. As the man talks, Navy Shirt smiles easily.

God, what a smile.

Again, I see no trace of anything negative about him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was an easy-going, friendly guy to look at him now. Not that you can always tell by looking.

Was
he with those guys? His pack is nowhere near theirs. I think back to the conversation I’d overheard earlier and try to determine if he’d actually been participating. I don’t know for sure. Maybe he’d just been passing them by?

I glance at the girl on the bunk. Her guidebook is worn, with several pages turned down at the corners. “Excuse me,” I call to her.

She looks over and raises her eyebrows as if to say,
Yes?
Her book’s still perched on her stomach.

“What happened to the guy who was using that bed?”

She smiles instantly. “He gave it to me.” She has an accent, but I can’t place it. Swedish?

“He did?”

She nods. “I was going to have to sleep in the courtyard, but he said he likes sleeping outside and would I like his bed since he wasn’t going to be using it?” She smiles again. “I think he was just trying to make it easy for me to accept, but he shouldn’t have worried. I wouldn’t have turned him down!”

She laughs and returns to her book and I go back to looking out the window. It’s an old window with slightly peeling paint on the wooden frame and a crank at the bottom. I turn the crank a few times and the window angles open slightly, letting in some fresh air and the sounds of the group outside.

Whatever Navy Shirt and the old man are talking about has amused them both, because they’re both laughing. The sound of it flows through the open window. It’s not the raucous laughter I’d heard from the group of guys before, but the kind of warm, welcoming laughter that makes me want to go outside and see what I’m missing.

I’m not the only one either. The two pilgrims nearest them look over, smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths. Before I know it, they’ve been drawn into Navy Shirt’s circle, and an easy comradery forms.

I watch them until Maggie returns from her shower. Later, I go to bed wondering if I’d been mistaken about him. I don’t have a chance to find out though.

The next morning, Navy Shirt is gone.

Connor

I didn’t mean to walk the Camino del Santiago. It sort of happened on accident. But this isn’t the first accidental adventure I’ve gone on, so it’s not like I’m surprised or anything. And is it really accidental when you’ve purposely arranged your life to allow for such things?

I’d spent a few weeks leisurely boating down the Bay of Biscay and hit San Sebastian, Spain on a Sunday afternoon. It’s a great Basque city with gorgeous beaches and a fun Old Town. The docking fees were reasonable so I decided to drop anchor for a while and see if I could discover what the city was
really
like. You know, underneath that top crust where the tourists dwell. “Tourist traps” some would say, usually with derision, but I’ve found some things trap tourists for good reasons.

Who
doesn’t
want to see the Roman Colosseum or the Strait of Gibraltar or the Pyramids? I’d be a pompous ass if I tried to pretend not to be awed by the Eiffel Tower, I don’t care how many photo-happy, cheesy-souvenir-buying tourists are there enjoying it with me. Anyway, I’m not ignorant to the fact that not everyone has the luxury to drop anchor—or pick up and go—at will. So I try not to take it for granted.

Aside from being lured by the tourist trap thing, some places call me to stay for a while. I love to sink deeper into a city, get to know the locals, settle into their rhythm and pace of life. It’s different everywhere, and yet, the same. Despite any cultural differences, underneath we all want the same things: love, safety, a sense of purpose. To be understood.

Not to wax poetic on you or anything.

I’d been in San Sebastian for something like thirty minutes when I came across my first Camino pilgrim. The Northern Route to Santiago goes right through, and a lot of pilgrims actually start in that city. After a few days, in spite of my original plan to stay for a few months, the pull of the Way won out. I decided, what the hell. Why not?

I refreshed the supplies in my hiking pack, dug out my trusty walking stick Gandolf—yes he has a name, don’t judge me—decided on my end destination (Muxia, on the western coast of Spain), and hired a delivery crew to sail my boat to Muxia’s marina so it’ll be there waiting for me whenever I get there.

There are several routes to Santiago. The “French Way” is the most common, so named because it starts in far western France. Pilgrims spend their first day hiking up one side of the Pyrenees mountains and down the other, before landing in Spain. The rest of the French Way cuts through northern Spain before landing in Santiago.

The Northern Way is even further north, right along the coast. It’s more rugged, which is why fewer pilgrims take it, but man, it was gorgeous. By day four, it made the list of my top five favorite hikes ever. I was originally going to take it all the way to Santiago, but about two-thirds of the way along, there’s a fork in the road.

I
love
forks in the road.

I fucking live for them.

I could either continue on the coast as planned, or cut south on the even less-traveled segment of the Camino called the Primitive Way. It joins with the French Way just a couple days from Santiago.

Of course, you know which way I went.

My favorite part about the Primitive Way was its rugged beauty. That, and this seventy-year-old woman from Poland who left her home town for the first time in her entire
life
just to walk the Way. She’d taken the Northern route to the Primitive Way just like I did, actually, but we didn’t meet up until La Mesa. I’d been on the Way several weeks by then, but I’d stopped in several towns for a few days to hang with the locals and explore a bit. So even though she started the path long after I did, our paths still crossed eventually.

Though this is unusual for Camino pilgrims, we walked two entire days together, sharing meals and staying at the same
alburgues
before finally saying goodbye. Some people just touch you, and there’s no point wondering why. Countless people come in and out of my life, like sunrises and sunsets, but there are those few who grab me in a different way. Those are the people I stay in touch with from time to time, and she’ll be one of them. It’s like we were meant to know each other.

It’s funny how fate works, isn’t it?

The Primitive Way joined up with the French Way in Melide, and I spent about a day walking it before staying the night at a hostel in Arca. Well, if you consider sleeping in the courtyard staying there. And if you call tossing and turning since two in the morning sleeping.

It wasn’t because I was outside. I actually love sleeping outside. I just get this terrible insomnia from time to time, I don’t know why. Sometimes I’m able to get back to sleep, and other times I flat give up. That’s when I’m up before the sun, on the move. It turns out it was a good thing I wasn’t inside anyway, where I just would’ve been keeping people awake.

I think back to what led me to give up my bed in the first place. I’d barely sat down when I overheard those two women talking about the poor girl stuck outside. I didn’t know the red-headed woman (Irish, no doubt), but I recognized the other one from earlier in the day.

Hers is not the kind of face you forget. Smooth skin even without makeup, full lips, and intelligent, soft brown eyes. Even when she’d given the stink eye to those guys from Utah, she’d been strikingly beautiful. I couldn’t help but smile at her spunk.

But her conversation with the Irish woman concerned me. Even though I didn’t think those guys would do anything—they’re just a bunch of puffed up blowhards, from what I could tell—no way was I going to let a woman sleep outside alone like that when I had a bed to offer. So that’s what I did.

I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t approach the woman with the beautiful scowl, if I found her so alluring. Which I did. As I’ve walked the first few miles of my daily Camino in the dark, watching the sunrise over the hills, I’ve wondered the same thing.

I guess it was because she was
too
interesting.
Too
alluring. If she’d been the kind of girl who’s up for a fling, maybe that’d be one thing. But she’s the kind of girl you want to get to know better. The kind of girl who isn’t the
fling
type. I could see that right away.

I’m not good for girls like that. I’ve learned that by now. And I’m not up for leading anyone along.

That’s why I let her blend into the sea of people who go out of my life as quickly as they come into it. It’s probably better for everyone that way.

Whitney

As I approach yet another little Spanish village, the dirt path crunching under my hiking boots, I can’t believe that sometime this afternoon, I’ll be at the Santiago de Compostela cathedral. I’ve been walking toward this goal for 192 miles. I only have six more miles to Santiago!

Six miles!

I’m excited to get there at last, nervous about what it will really be like, curious about whether or not it will live up to all my expectations, and sad that my journey is almost at an end.

It helps that it’s not really the end anymore.

I didn’t know how many miles I’d really be able to walk each day, so I went with the low end of the average range I’d read about on the blogs. Turns out, I’m more in the middle. A few days ago I realized I was going to arrive in Santiago earlier than anticipated, which has allowed me to add into my trip something I originally thought I didn’t have time to do.

Most pilgrims end their walk in Santiago. The cathedral is, after all, our ultimate destination and the place where all paths meet. However, a smaller number of people continue on to the town of Finisterre. It’s another three days’ walk from Santiago, is right on the coast, and is what medieval Europeans thought was the end of the earth. Finisterre means
end of the land.

And I really want to see it.

A few days ago, I decided I’ll walk to Finisterre, then take a cab back to Santiago so I can catch my flight home. 

The dirt path morphs into smooth cobblestone once I’m in town, and I soon spot a group of pilgrims having lunch on the outdoor patio of a cafe. It’s just simple tables and plastic chairs, but there’s shade from an awning and food and the welcoming presence of other pilgrims. Maggie is among them. She spots me and waves me over. We walked together for about forty minutes or so this morning before saying goodbye. As I pull out the empty chair opposite her, I notice her plate is nothing but bread crumbs now and her wine glass is almost empty. She’s clearly been here awhile.

There are three other people around the table, plus someone who must have stepped away for a moment, because in front of the empty chair next to me is a plate with half a bowl of soup and a full sandwich.

“Everyone, this is Whitney,” Maggie says, by way of introduction. I gratefully unload my pack on the ground next to me, but don’t sit down yet, so I can shake hands with people as we’re introduced.

“This is Nicolas,” Maggie says, gesturing to the middle-aged man next to her. We give each other a smile and a nod and I shake his hand. “Enzo and his girlfriend Josephine,” Maggie says pointing, and I shake hands with each. “And Connor,” she says, gesturing next to me. In my peripheral vision, I see someone is coming up next to me, presumably to reclaim his chair and his lunch.

I reach out my hand automatically, at the same time turning to see who it is. Blue eyes. Scruffy jaw.

Holy crap, it’s Navy Shirt. Except he’s in a green shirt now and tan shorts.

His eyebrows raise just slightly at the sight of me, but then he offers a friendly smile and takes my hand. My heart stops for half a second. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been taken by surprise or if it’s because my hand is inside his, and those blue eyes are only maybe a foot away from me, and he’s tall, and the green shirt he has on now hugs those broad-shoulders just right, and—

Whoa, girl. Keep your head on.

I try to take my hand away, but he holds on. A slight breeze pushes through, making my pony tail brush the back of my neck.

“And you are?” he asks, still with that smile. His hand is so warm.

“Whitney,” I say.

Still smiling, he gives my hand a little squeeze before saying, “Whitney,” and finally letting me go.

As we take our seats, I give myself a firm talking to. He’s beyond gorgeous and I’m reacting to it, no question. But that’s just biology and I need to use my head. I don’t know him and, if he
was
participating in the conversation I heard on the road yesterday, I have a reason not to want to.

Not that it matters. It’s not like we’re on a date or something. I don’t have to know him or like him. He’s just one more person I’ll meet here, then never again. Course... this is the
third
time I’ve seen him in two days.

Our orbits get nearer and nearer to one another each time, too. We’re sitting so close, we’re practically rubbing shoulders.

The man next to Maggie—I already forget his name, but he has a sunburnt bald head—asks me where I’m from. “California,” I answer, grateful for a distraction from sexy hands and shoulders.

“Ah, another American,” he says gesturing to Connor, but I dare not look at him again so soon. I’m still recovering from the last time. “He’s from California, too.”

I can’t help but turn to Connor in surprise. He could live hundreds of miles away in the southern corner of the state, for all I know, but being this far from home, anywhere in California is practically my own backyard. “Really?”

“Used to be,” he says. “I’m not from anywhere anymore, but my family still lives in central California. What part are you in?”

“San Francisco.” I’m about to ask what he means by not being from anywhere anymore, but the waitress comes outside to take my order. I get the typical pilgrim’s meal—a Bocadillo and wine—and by the time I’m done ordering, the conversation around the table has gone on, as usually happens in these situations.

Everything I’d read about the fluid social aspect of the Camino was pretty accurate. As you run into people, you might have a light-hearted chat for a few minutes, or end up in a surprisingly deep conversation with someone you’ll likely never see again. 

Unless you’ve seen him three times already. I glance at Connor, who’s chewing a bite of sandwich, and he glances at me too. Man, those blue eyes.

I look away and to Maggie. She’s leaning back in her chair, listening to the conversation at the table. Everyone’s currently comparing notes about where they started on the Camino, one of the favorite topics among pilgrims. (Others are places of origin, why we’re walking the Way, and how many blisters we have.) The couple at the table tell us they started at the beginning of the French Way in St. Jean Pied de Port. Turns out, they actually live there and after years of seeing pilgrims come into their city, they finally decided to do the Camino themselves.

As they share their story (the man has a thick French accent, but the woman speaks English almost like a native), I’m suddenly self-conscious of the fact that I have no makeup on. I don’t wear much makeup to start with, and am usually comfortable enough without it that I’ll just throw on lip gloss some days and be done with it, but right now I’m wishing I looked a little more put together. Not to mention the fact that we pilgrims tend to smell like we’ve just come from the gym. Course, it smells good on him. Not that I’m paying attention to that.

The woman finishes her story and asks Maggie where she started the Camino.

“Burgos,” Maggie says. “If I didn’t have to split my time off with my family’s vacation, I could’ve walked the whole thing.” I’ve heard this story once before, so I know how frustrated she was about the situation. Even if I didn’t already know, her tone says it all. “My family spends a week in Cork every summer and there’s no gettin out’a that one.”

“Not even for this one year?” the French woman asks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Connor take a sip of his wine. I’m more aware of his movements than I want to be.

“Ach, noooo,” Maggie says in her Irish brogue. “It’s
tradition
, you see. Way back when I was a wee lass my parents decided we’d do it every year and, by golly, that’s the way it’ll be.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Connor says, putting down his glass. “How other people think they get to make decisions that affect the rest of our lives?”

I turn to him, intrigued in spite of myself. “There’s a story behind
that
comment.”

He smiles, and nods down at his plate. “Yeah, I guess there is.” He takes a bite, but we’re all watching him in anticipation.

He swallows and glances around at us. His eyes land on me for a few seconds longer than anyone else.

“Well?” the bald man says. “Let’s hear it.”

Connor gives a soft laugh that I feel in my chest. “It’s not that exciting,” he says. “My parents run a hotel and my older brother and sister both work there. I did too, of course. It was just kind of assumed I’d make that my career, but...”

He lets the word trail away.

Maggie leans in. “You’re a wee rebel child, aren’t ya?”

He laughs. “Sort of. I had different plans for my own life and one day, I finally got up the courage to tell them.”

“How’d that go over?” I ask.

“Like a rock, at first,” he says simply, but when his eyes rest on me again, it feels like there’s something else going on under the surface. It’s that same feeling I get at the beginning of a first date, when by all appearances the two of you are just having a casual conversation, but the eyes are trying to go deeper. He’s wondering about you, and you’re wondering about him.

That’s what it feels like right now, here on this patio cafe with all these other pilgrims around and him talking about his family’s reaction to the news that he didn’t want to be in their business. He’s not just looking at me. He’s taking notice. I’m taking notice too, and I don’t know what I think about that.

“Everyone’s okay with it now, though,” he continues. “It’s been almost four years.”

“And your family’s business isn’t suffering?” the French woman asks.

“Oh no. They didn’t need me for free labor, or anything. It wasn’t about that.”

I want to ask what it
was
about. Instead I ask, “So what are you doing instead?”

“Feeding my wanderlust,” he says with a grin and a wink, and that wink gives me a little flutter, like he physically poked my heart with it. “I go where the wind takes me, and more or less live wherever my boat’s docked.”

I raise my eyebrows. So that explains his earlier comment about not being from anywhere.

“Those were the plans you had for your life?” the French woman asks.

Connor shrugs good-naturedly. “I find the world to be a fascinating place, and I want to see as much of it as I can. I can’t think of anything better. I mean, soon I’ll be heading down that road,” he says with a nod of his head in that direction, “and I’ll be seeing something I’ve never seen before. I’m sitting here talking to people I never would’ve met otherwise.”

He picks up his glass, swoops it in a little circle indicating all of us, and smiles a little broader when he gets to me. He raises his glass in a toast. When he takes a drink, the sunlight winks off the rim.

The waitress comes out and deposits my food and wine in front of me. I ignore it at first. I have so many questions. He just... wanders the world? Doesn’t he need to work? Is he independently wealthy? But that doesn’t seem right, if the family business is a little hotel.

I don’t want to just shoot off all my questions rapid-fire style, but I want to know these things. Turns out, everyone else seems as intrigued as I am. They spend the next several minutes battering him with questions and we all listen to him tell us about bath houses in South Korea, cockroaches the size of turtles in Ecuador, and dancing in Carnival in Rio. Pretty much anywhere he goes, he’ll find someplace to kayak, parasail, surf, or hike. He’s climbed the fucking K2 in Pakistan. It’s mesmerizing.

He doesn’t just talk about what he’s done and where he’s been, though. After a while I notice that whenever he mentions a place, he talks most about the people he’s met there.

Eventually, the French man casts aside good etiquette and rather pointedly asks Connor what he does for a living. We learn he “dabbles in investments” and has occasionally worked a handful of odd jobs—as a salmon fisher in Alaska, a river guide in Brazil, a surfing instructor in Australia. Even when talking about work, he makes it sound like it was all about the
experience,
and not at all about the money. From the sounds of it, he simply does these things until he decides he’s ready to try something else.

I think about travelling the world like he does, and part of me is crazy jealous. God, I’d love to travel more. It’s been so amazing this entire trip. How cool would it be to be able to see the world to my heart’s content? But on the other hand, the idea of just going from place to place and never having anywhere to go home to afterward? I don’t know. I think it’d be unsettling after a while too.

“Not too many people have the guts to live that kind of life,” the bald man says.

“I can’t even imagine it,” I say.

“Why’s that?” Connor asks, turning slightly so he’s facing me better. He’s been right next to me this entire time, but that little movement makes him feel that much closer. It’s almost intimate.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I think it’d be fun, but I also think it’d be hard not to have a home.”

“For some it would be,” he says nodding. “That’s true.”

“But not for you?”

His eyes light up and he leans in closer, making my heart sprint. “The world
is
my home.”