The Color of Ice: a Novel by Barbara Linn Probst

Author:Barbara Linn Probst
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press

With so many hours at her disposal, Cathryn decided that it was a good opportunity to venture beyond Akureyri. She pulled the iPad out of the suitcase to look for a must-see Icelandic sight that she had missed to be with him. Not a picturesque little fishing village. Something different, and big.

She spotted it right away. Goðafoss, the hundred-foot wide waterfall known as the Waterfall of the Gods. It was only fifty kilometers from Akureyri, a forty-minute drive at most, and one of the sights the Saga Tour had intended her to see.

Before she left, she logged onto her email, just to check. Nothing from Elliott Fischer or Nora Lang. There were three messages from Renata Singer, though, who wanted her to see the final promotion with the photos she had taken at Jökulsárlón. Mack was there in profile, silhouetted against the sky. “It’s perfect,” Renata had written. “Can’t you just feel him getting inspired by those amazing blue icebergs?”

Really, Cathryn thought; Renata was too much. Mack had already spent four days at Jökulsárlón when she took the photo. He’d been flirting with her, not getting inspired.

Well, she’d been flirting with him, even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“They look fantastic,” she typed back. And they did. The spread really was the jewel in her portfolio she’d been hoping for.

Then, because she knew she was supposed to, she added, “It’s been a pleasure working with you. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

She deleted Renata’s emails and scrolled through the others. Nothing that mattered. Then she checked her text messages and saw one from Judah. He had sent a few selfies, one of him waving from the driver’s window of her car, another of him vacuuming the living room with a goofy grin on his face.

Cathryn couldn’t help softening. He was trying, and wanted her to know. She texted back, “Great job, buddy, and thanks!” Then she collected her jacket, headband, and daypack. On a whim, she threw her camera, her real one, into the daypack and headed for the Kia, and Goðafoss.

The drive was easy, a flat plane of greenish earth on either side of the road, snow-flecked mountains in the distance, a Delft blue sky. Goðafoss was a popular tourist stop. In a country full of dramatic waterfalls, it was one of the most spectacular. Not the tallest, like Glymur with its six hundred and fifty-foot drop, or the most powerful, like the mighty Dettifoss, but a massive horseshoe-shaped curve that rose in the center, separating the waterfall in two. With its easy access from the main road, Cathryn knew the site would be packed with tour groups but hoped she could leave most of them behind if she ventured from the parking lot onto the trails.

She pulled into the nearest parking space, shut off the engine, and climbed out of the car. The roar of the water was the first thing that struck her, obliterating all other sound. The second thing was the force of the spray.

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