Thirty Below. Harry Groome

smoothed their straps closed. “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of me, because you haven’t,” he said. “I’ll get even if it’s the last thing I do.”

      Carrie shook her head. “If you ever bother me again and don’t give me back my key, so help me God, I’ll tell the cops it was you.”

      Jake told her to go fuck herself and took the key from his pants pocket and threw it at her and slipped through the door, slamming it behind him.

      Carrie collapsed on the couch, wrapped herself tightly with a throw she pulled from the back of it and screamed, “Jesus, it’s cold in here!” The cat jumped into her lap and began to purr. She smoothed a trembling hand over the cat’s black and white-striped back. “He knows where I live, Alcatraz. Where I work. He knows everything about me.” She held the cat close to her and rubbed her cheek against the soft fur of his neck. “But maybe he’s in more trouble than I am. Maybe he’s worried about me squealing to the cops. Who knows?” She sighed. “All I know is, I want out of here and all I want to know is why is it I can’t get anything right?”

      2

      LATER THAT SAME DAY, Hannah returned to their apartment a second time. Her first visit had been to comfort Carrie but now as she dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, her tone was impatient and resigned as she called, “Time for a little talk.”

      She looked Carrie up and down as she wandered into the kitchen wrapped in a large white towel, her tanned skin still moist from a shower. Hannah shook her head. “Cripes, Carrie, hair and nails done just like every other …” She gestured to her to come close and wrapped her arms around her broad, warm back and held her tight. “Are you all right?” she asked.

      Carrie nodded, her cheek moving against Hannah’s. “I think so,” she whispered. “I’m trying to put it out of my mind. To forget Jake. Forget this place. To move on.”

      Hannah held Carrie for a moment longer and then eased away from her. “Okay,” she said, “what did you tell the cops?”

      Carrie looked at the floor. “Nothing.”

      “Nothing?” Hannah said.

      Carrie pulled her hands free and told her that she hadn’t called the police, that it was more complicated than Hannah had made it out to be. “It wasn’t that big a deal,” she said. “A close call, but that’s all. And part of it was my fault; I’ve let him get away with stuff like that in the past.” Carrie began to cry. “And I didn’t want to complicate my life any more than it is already. Calling the cops would have led to lawyers and court appearances and I’d have been a prisoner here forever and that’s the last thing I want. It was just something between Jake and me, kind of the final act of a rough relationship. Besides, he thinks I called the cops and wouldn’t dare try anything more.”

      Hannah sighed. “Let’s hope you’re right. It’s your call, Carrie. Your call and your ass but listen to me: Tell your Alaskan adventurer you’ll meet him some other time and stay home tonight and get your emotional shit together.”

      Carrie looked down at the floor and rubbed one bare foot on top of the other. “But, Hannah, I’ve waited so long to meet this guy. Something about the things he writes feel so right. I’m really looking forward to—”

      “Meeting the man of your dreams? The trouble is you always think you’ve just met the man of your dreams. It wasn’t just Jake you got wrong. It was that surfer from Hawaii with the hair down to his ass and the guy from Microsoft with the purple Jag ragtop and the piano player from New York and—”

      “Are you through?” Carrie said.

      Hannah moved her hands as though she wasn’t sure and then nodded.

      “Then help me,” Carrie pleaded, “and tell me why I can’t get it right because it seems it’s just out of my reach; that if I tried just a little harder, I could do it.”

      “Sorry to be such a hard-ass,” Hannah said and reached for one of Carrie’s hands. “No matter what, nothing gives a guy the right to sneak into our apartment and force himself on you, so for God’s sake be careful with this new guy. Really careful. It’s one thing to e-mail back and forth with some smooth-talking stranger; it’s a whole ‘nother thing to actually meet him.”

      “I’m trying to sort it all out,” Carrie said. “Honest to God I am, so let me try to do this on my own. Okay? Things aren’t going to change if I sit around and wait for something to happen. I’ve got to make it happen myself.”

      Hannah shook her head in disapproval, then rubbed her hands up and down Carrie’s arms. “Okay, but promise you’ll be careful? Really careful. Promise me that?”

      Through her tears, Carrie promised she’d be careful.

      AT 8:30 THAT NIGHT, worrying that she was ignoring Hannah’s advice, something that always made her uneasy because Hannah was always right, Carrie left her apartment wearing her favorite maroon mini-skirt and cream-colored silk blouse cinched tight above her hips by a thick black patent leather belt that matched her flat pumps, and headed for her favorite singles bar, the bar that Hannah disapproved of so, but the place where Carrie had dated many of the men and made friends with many of the women, all of whom were searching for the same thing as she.

      She arrived before the crowd began to gather and sat alone at a small round table. She ordered an Absolut and tonic and stared out the big street-front window when a tall, graceful stranger, made taller by shiny black cowboy boots, pressed his forehead to the window and cupped his hands beside his eyes to cut the glare. She noticed his hands first, coarse and powerful but somehow—she couldn’t explain how—comforting. When he looked directly at her, she felt her face flush and looked away. When she dared look back, he mouthed, “Carrie?”

      She nodded quickly and whispered, “Bart McFee?” Her heart began to race. The stranger pulled away from the window, the heels of his palms leaving crescents of moisture on the glass. He smoothed his dark ponytail, then placed his hands together in prayer and a boyish smile crossed his face. She couldn’t help but smile, too, then thought, no, you silly goose that’s not being careful; that’s not the new Carrie Ritter. And for an instant she wondered if it was too late to change her mind but, as the stranger pushed open the door and walked toward her, she thought she would explain it all to Hannah by telling her that the closer he got the more drop-dead gorgeous he became, even though she knew Hannah would simply add, “Haven’t they all?”

      But it wasn’t just his looks that made Carrie think maybe he was the one. It was the gentle way he put out his strong-looking hand and said, “It’s not too late to change your mind.” She was surprised he knew what she’d been thinking and that made her relax a bit but also scared her because she wondered who would want to be around someone who knew what you’re thinking—even feeling—maybe even before you did? But she took his hand and said, “No, please,” and wondered what sort of a greeting that was.

      Bart smiled at her and placed his hands on the back of the stool. “Good, but from all our e-mails I thought I knew almost all there was to know about you, but—”

      “But what?” Carrie said. “Is something wrong?”

      Bart laughed. “Just the opposite. From the way you described yourself, I kind of expected a…well…a…a big, strong Iowa farm girl. But you’re beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

      Again Carrie felt her face flush. Something told her that this stranger meant what he said. She smiled. “But there are lots of things you don’t know about me either, so please don’t think I’ve told you everything.”

      “Nor me,” Bart said, “but that’s part of the adventure; part of the mystery.”

      Carrie thought an adventure sounded romantic and was titillated by the idea of a mystery; that they were exactly what her dull, predictable life needed when Bart asked if she’d like to try an Alaskan drink, a Love Me Tender.

      Carrie said she’d try one. She was