The Unsinkable Greta James(48)

She shakes her head, but she already knows where this is going. And she can see by the way Conrad half-turns to glance at her that he does too.

“Huh,” says the guide. “Well, I’m Bear. It’s just a nickname. I’m really Preston, but that doesn’t sound as impressive when you’re living out in the bush all summer.”

Greta nods as they start moving down a steep slope. “Nice to meet you, Bear.”

For a second, he lingers, still eyeing her with a curious intensity, clearly hoping she’ll introduce herself too, and that it might be enough to jog his memory. But she doesn’t give him the satisfaction. Her father probably thinks she’s reluctant because of the dull orange life jacket and the rubber boots and the paddle she’s using like a walking stick as she half-slides down the hill. But it’s not so much that she doesn’t look like Greta James at the moment; it’s more that she doesn’t feel like her. Not right now. Not for a while.

At last they catch a glimpse of a brownish-green river at the bottom of the trail and crunch their way down to it over the pebbly beach. When they’re clear of the trees, the glacier comes into view on the other side of the water, flat and white between gray mountains. In the stillness of the river, three orange canoes sit waiting for them.

As Tank explains this next part of the journey, Bear sidles up to her again.

“You’re not from Texas, are you?” he asks.

“No,” Greta says as, beside her, Conrad folds his arms over his chest, staring straight ahead. She can almost feel the irritation radiating off him.

Once, when her parents were visiting New York, they went out for dinner at an old-fashioned steak house in Brooklyn and the waitress went wide-eyed when she spotted Greta. It was still early days for that sort of thing; her first album hadn’t even come out yet, so the only people who recognized her were hard-core fans who’d listened to her EP or seen her play with other bands over the years.

“Holy shit,” the girl said, nearly dropping a water glass. She was in her early twenties, with a nose ring and at least a dozen tattoos. Not someone who seemed like she’d be easily flustered. “You’re Greta James.”

Helen let out a surprised laugh as she looked over at Greta, but Conrad—who had been eyeing the rib eye at the next table—began to examine his menu.

“I saw you play that indie showcase at the Knitting Factory last summer,” the girl said. “You’re a total badass on the guitar.”

Greta smiled. “Thanks. You play?”

“A little,” she said. “Mostly I sing.”

“That’s awesome.”

It being New York—where people are either far too cool to fawn or else want to seem like they are—that was the extent of it. But Greta had glowed through the rest of dinner, privately elated by the interaction.

As they left the restaurant, her mother had hooked an arm through hers. “My star,” she said, beaming.

“Mom,” Greta groaned. But they were both grinning like crazy.

“Wasn’t that something, Con?” Helen asked, and for a second, Conrad’s face went soft. That was the thing about him: every so often, the pride would shine through.

“It’s always nice to be recognized for your work,” he admitted stiffly. But he couldn’t help adding, with a note of disapproval, “Though applause shouldn’t be the point.”

“Well, in my line of work,” Greta said, “it quite literally is.”

This made Helen laugh that unexpectedly big laugh of hers. “She’s got you there,” she said to Conrad, untangling her arm from Greta’s to walk over to him. “If you ever need a standing ovation, honey,” she said, giving him a kiss, “you let us know.”

Now, as Tank finishes up his demonstration on how to get into the canoe, Bear is still frowning at her from beneath the brim of his hat. “Are you an actress?”

“No.”

He looks disappointed. “A model?”

Greta laughs. “Definitely not.”

“Come on. I know I know you from somewhere.”

She gives a noncommittal shake of her head as Tank claps his enormous hands. “Okay, you six come with me,” he says, pointing to a family standing off to the side, “you six with McKee, and you six with Bear.”

Bear grins at Greta, now part of his designated group. Conrad grunts as he moves toward the first of the large canoes. When they’ve all clambered in—the narrow vessel tipping from side to side—Bear shows them how to hold their paddles, and then Tank shoves them off, the bottom scraping over the rocks. They’re the first to float out into the calm waters, spinning in a leisurely circle before Bear gives the command and they all start to row.

Greta is the smallest, so Bear placed her up at the bow. Behind her, Conrad sits on the next bench, followed by two couples: a pair of athletic gay men in their fifties and an older-looking husband and wife with a ridiculous amount of fancy outdoor gear, including a compass the size of a golf ball that the woman is wearing like a necklace.

The day is perfect, all blue sky and crisp air, and as they get farther from shore, the other voices fade; there’s only the slap and dip of the paddles and the ripple of the water as they push through it, moving toward the giant glacier a few yards at a time. Above, a bird makes a slow loop, and Greta tips her head back, letting the calm wash over her, allowing the peace to—