There were rumors, you know. There were always rumors. Rumors of who owned the lear jets parked at Friedman Memorial Airport. Speculation as to who purchased the three million dollar listing on Dollar Mountain Road. Talk swirling in the local eateries about how snow packs on Baldy would affect next year’s U.S. Alpine Championships and whether or not Bill and Melinda Gates would vacation at the resort again this year.
Since the late thirties, the area known as Sun Valley, which included the neighboring communities of Ketchum and Elkhorn, and extended as far south as Hailey and Bellevue, enjoyed a reputation as a world-class ski resort and summertime outdoor mecca.
The quaint community also served as host to a myriad of festivals and fundraisers—most of which were run, at least in part, by an outspoken member of the local tourism council, Leigh Ann Blackburn, an impeccably dressed woman wielding a clipboard loaded with checked-off lists. Evidence she had a cachet for organizing such events, even if on a volunteer basis.
“Make sure we have proper wattage to the speakers. I want everyone to be able to hear the cellist. And don’t forget to test the microphones.” Leigh Ann turned from the electrician to the men crossing the lawn toting large baskets of miniature pink azaleas and white dendrobium orchids. “Thanks guys. Let’s place those so that they line the stage at the front of the tent.”
Her cell phone broke through the noisy preparations. “Leigh Ann here.”
“Hey, Leigh Ann. Ben over at Atkinson’s Market. Our wholesaler mixed up the order. We may not have enough of the cheese you ordered. They sent Camembert instead.”
She scowled and slapped the clipboard on a bar table. “Camembert? We can’t substitute. I selected the Taleggio because it perfectly compliments the Sauvignon Blanc I’ll be serving.”
“Okay, let me see what I can do. No promises, but I might be able to call over to the lodge and see if they have any in their inventory we can use and then replace next week.”
She waved at a girl carrying a rack of stemware and pointed her to the other side of the tent. The girl pivoted and headed that way. “Thanks, Ben. You’re the best.”
Satisfied, she pocketed her phone and reached for her clipboard.
The inaugural Macadam Memorial needed to be perfect. The funds raised would benefit a new adaptive sports program and provide ski lessons for people with disabilities. A noble cause, certainly. And one worthy of her brother-in-law’s memory.
Hearing her name, she looked up. Her father crossed the sprawling lawn making his way toward where she stood under the massive white tent awning.
She waved. “Hi, Dad.” She pointed to the pie in his hands. “What do you have there?”
“Hey there, Sis. Can you use a rhubarb?”
She leaned and kissed his sun-weathered cheek before taking the pie from his hands. “Sure. Who this time?”
A grin spread across his face. “Bernice Grant.”
Leigh Ann laughed. “She does know she’s one of many?”
Her father had a number of female suitors—older women who hoped to snag the affections of a widowed sheep rancher of financial means. In a private joke, she and her sisters had collectively dubbed them the Bo Peeps.
“Well, don’t worry. We’ll find use for it.” She clasped her father’s elbow and guided him past linen draped tables to an area in the back where the caterers were setting up. “Here we go.” She handed off the pie to one of the volunteers passing by. “Could you find room on the dessert table please?”
She looped her arm in her father’s. “So, what do you think?”
He looked all around. “Nice. Quite the production. A lot of work, I imagine.”
That was an understatement. “You don’t even know the half of it. Luckily, we have a lot of people who volunteered to help out on this one.”
Her father nodded. “I’m not surprised. Dean was much loved in this town.”
“So . . . have you seen her yet?”
“Karyn?”
She gave him a pointed look. “Uh-huh. You think she’ll be okay today? This whole memorial fundraiser thing isn’t exactly going to be easy for her. I mean, seems she’s been making real progress towards being happy again and—well, I was thinking that maybe after the ceremony, we could—”
Her dad placed his arm around her shoulders. “Look, sweetheart. I want to make everything better for her too. But, some things just aren’t for us to fix.”
“I know, but—”
He cupped her cheek with his calloused hand. “Your sister is going to have to move through this journey at her own pace. In time, she’ll make it out the other side. You’ll see.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the look on her father’s face stopped her. “Well, what about Joie? I hope you reminded her she needed to show up no later than two?”
“I did.” Her father jammed his hands in his front pockets and grinned. “But we both know with that one there are no guarantees.”
The King Air engine roared outside the open airplane cabin. Joie shifted her goggles and looked out over the flawless vista, then tucked her head and dove.
She thrust her arms back, and bulleted in the direction of the other skydivers already heading into formation. As she neared, she flung her arms wide sending her body into a full spread, her jumpsuit flapping against rushing air.
Her eyes darted left, then right. She eased her body forward and positioned into place, then grabbed the grip on the leg of Mike’s jumpsuit. A pull at her own left ankle and she knew Phil had glided into his spot.
Across the horizon, the sun streaked against the azure sky. Joie counted off the seconds, and waited until she felt the expected tug at the leg of her suit. She reciprocated by tugging at Mike’s leg, signaling the need to break in sync with the others.
Tipping slightly to the right, she spiraled making a perfect one eighty. On the count of two, she tipped the opposite direction and circled back, this time stopping in place and grabbing hands with Dennis.
She smiled. Big.
The wind whipped her cheeks and within seconds she knew they’d done it. Pulled off a successful sixteen-man. With ease, she might add.
No doubt next spring the scraggly team would hold their own when joining in the fifty-man in Perris, California. After that, who knew? Maybe they’d go and join in for the all time record in Australia next year. If she could get away without inciting a national incident, that is. She loved her family, but her sisters tended to be drama queens. Leigh Ann especially.
Another tug and Joie released her grip, preparing for the runaway. On the break, she shifted her arms and waved off her fellow divers. Her altimeter read nine thousand feet and just over one hundred miles per hour.
She glanced at the patchwork landscape below, knowing she’d milk every ounce of flying fun from this party. She pulled into a perfect barrel roll, then tucked her head and maneuvered into a forward flip, reveling in the open freedom of air.
Five thousand feet.
Feeling adventurous, she thrust her knees forward, head back and went into a reverse loop, a rare move she’d mastered last summer that left her heart pounding with adrenalin.
Top that, boys.
Despite her petite frame, no one could fly like Joie Abbott. Her no-fear attitude whipped even the most seasoned divers out here. Even Mike, and he had thousands of jumps logged.
Before she could repeat the maneuver, her altimeter beeped loud enough that even in the rushing wind, the sound caught her attention. She fought the urge to go for one more trick, but gave in to safety and pulled her body into a stable position. After checking for clearance, her hand grabbed the hackey and she deployed.
Instantly, a lifting jolt left her tummy several feet below. Her canopy unfurled and snapped open, and in less than three seconds, her descent slowed from nearly a hundred miles per hour to just over fourteen. Buildings and roads came into view beneath her dangling feet.
Glancing up at the familiar orange underbelly of her canopy, she drew a deep breath and pulled at her right toggle, guiding her flight pattern directly toward the drop zone located at the north end of the River Run parking area at the base of Bald Mountain. The wind whistled, even through her helmet, as she made her descent.
The ground rushed up, the treetops grew bigger. She placed her parachute into a full stall and tapped her feet down on black pavement only feet from the packing house door. As her canopy drifted to the ground, her co-jumpers walked in from an adjacent grassy area.
“Hey Chill, you’re crazy. You know that?” Her middle-aged friend with a t-shirt that read Only Skydivers Know Why Birds Sing shook his head.
Joie grinned. Dick Cloudt had never called her by her real name. Not after a particularly wild night where he’d drunk too much and sloppily tried to get her to go home with him. Feigning hurt feelings when she’d turned him down—twice—he’d teased she was an ice queen and nicknamed her Chill. The name stuck. Now everybody at the drop zone used his term of endearment.
Frankly, to Joie, the name was a badge of honor. She wasn’t like some of those wanna-be females who hung out at the DZ in tight t-shirts hoping for a little guy action to spice up their lives.
Joie didn’t require a man to make her feel complete. She’d already proven that.
Convinced a celebration was in order, the group straggled into Crusty’s, a local bar located in a historic red brick building on Main Street now named for the owner with a no sunshine attitude, but a heart made of pure gold.
“Beers all around,” Joie called out, slapping her credit card on the well-worn counter. “Except for me. I’m going with a club soda and lime.”
“You got it. But’s what with you and the club soda?” The balding proprietor with shoulder length gray hair pulled three pitchers from a shelf behind where he stood.
She shrugged. “I don’t need to go down that bumpy road again today.”
Crusty smiled back at her. “Yeah, I hear you.” He positioned the glass containers beneath a tap, tilting each until a perfect inch of foam covered the amber liquid, then slid the pitchers down the counter with precision to his waiting patrons. Next, he pulled frosted mugs from a small refrigerator next to the cash register and clunked them down. “So, you’re looking a bit bright today. No high like the sky, huh?”
She moved onto a stool. “Nothing like it.”
Crusty pushed Joie’s credit card back at her. “Your money’s no good today.”
She shook her head. “How are you going to stay in business, Crusty, if you keep giving all the beer away?”
Grinning, he loaded a tall glass with ice, filled it with club soda and squeezed a lime wedge over top. He plopped the glass down in front of her. “I only charge the ugly ones.” He winked. “And there’s plenty of ‘em around here.”
Joie nodded. “Gotcha.” She lifted the glass in a toast. “Go high, or go home.” She smiled before tossing her head back and draining the cold carbonated drink. Finished, she planted the glass back on the counter.
“C’mon, Crusty. Hit her with a tequila chaser,” hollered Phil from at the end of the bar.
She held up her hand. “No way.”
Crusty’s face broke into a crooked-toothed smile. Ignoring her, he grabbed a bottle from behind the counter and held it up to her with a hopeful look.
She shook her head. “Nope. Like I said, none of that for me. I’m on the wagon.”
Mike bellowed from across the noisy bar. “Oh c’mon, Chill. It’s not every day someone pulls off an FS-16 and a reverse loop in the same jump.”
Terrance Cameron, a retired professor who used to teach African American Studies at Berkeley, slid into the barstool beside her. “Twenty bucks says you’ll change your mind before the day’s out.”
Joie shook her head. “No . . . huh-uh. Not a repeat of last weekend. Besides, it’s barely noon.”
With wavering determination, she leaned over the counter and grabbed the soda gun and refilled her glass, then dug deep in her front jeans pocket and fished out a quarter. “Who’s up for a game of pool?”
Mike downed his beer and headed for the table. “I’m in.” He grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall and chalked the tip. “Loser buys the winner lunch.”
“You’re on.” Joie racked the balls. “But I have to warn you, I’m pretty hungry.”
After winning the coin toss, Mike leaned over, drew the cue back and shoved it forward. A loud crack followed and balls scattered across the table.
They took turns sinking balls. She was stripes. Mike solids.
At the end of the fourth round, Joie was up by two. She called the eight ball in the right side pocket, then walked around the table, assessing how best to approach the key shot.
After deciding a bank shot might be the best course of action, she looked up, noticing for the first time a guy leaning casually against the jukebox across the room. She couldn’t help but stare. His simple white t-shirt accented bulging tanned biceps. He wore jeans. Wranglers. And boots.
He caught her looking and smiled. A casual grin that pushed through his neatly stubbled chin.
Her face flushed and she quickly glanced away, then positioned herself at the table and leaned over.
A green bill slapped down on the edge of the far side of the pool table. “A hundred says you don’t make this shot.”
Joie looked across at the guy’s forearm, tattooed with bear claws winding themselves across his tan skin. She slowly raised her head. Her eyebrows lifted and she stared into the challenge dancing in the stranger’s eyes.
Sauntering slowly in his direction, she responded with confidence. “You’re on.”
She repositioned and swallowed against her dry throat, aware his eyes followed her every move. She drew her cue back, paused and then hit the eight ball right on the sweet spot, sending it into the side pocket. Just like she’d called.
Relishing her shot, she straightened. A satisfied smile of victory spread across her face.
Her friend, Mike, groaned. “Did I just lose a lot of man points?”
Joie moved toward the stranger’s side of the table. “You sure did,” she teased. She picked up the stranger’s hundred dollar bill and slowly slid it into her back pocket.
“Did I tell you I own a Harley?” Mike countered.
Joie shook her head, laughing. “See, that’s like 40,000 man points right there.”
The guy in the white t-shirt thrust his chiseled hand in Joie’s direction. “Name’s Clint. Can I buy you a drink?”
She slowly looked him over, noticing the gleam of his perfectly straight teeth, the way his dark brown hair hung careless around his ears. She patted her back pocket.
“I believe you just did.”
Laughing, she moved for the bar. “Crusty, hit us all up again. Include the new guy. My treat.” She placed the bill on the counter.
The bar owner grinned. “Hey, isn’t today that big shindig in memory of your sister’s husband?”
Joie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh crap! I nearly forgot!” She slipped Mike’s mug out of his hand and chugged the remainder of the beer, then slammed it back down on the counter. “Look, I gotta go.”
She scrambled off the barstool.
Wrapping a stray curl around her finger, she inclined her head toward the new guy and hesitated.
Then, shrugging off disappointment, she raced for the door.