He had to live here for six months. He didn’t know if he could bear it.
The Pages’ ranch house was well-appointed, if you liked country-chic crossed with rancher-tough, and dashed liberally with a world traveler’s beloved trinkets. But it made Matty want to cry and start ripping quilts from the walls, or slash the patchwork patterned sofa, and take a sledge hammer to the faux-brick tiles in the kitchen.
The only items Matty didn’t want to get rid of or destroy in the Pages’ house-from-interior-decorator-hell were the bear skin rugs in front of each fireplace, the deer skins that hung on the den’s walls, and the mink throw pillows on Matty’s guest room bed. Everything else had to go.
Even the view from the house wasn’t all that spectacular. Given how breathless he’d been at every turn on the drive in, he found it unfair and disappointing. Situated at the base of a mountain, the house’s back porch looked onto ascending pines, thus the mountain itself was blocked from view by virtue of being much too close.
The view from the front porch wasn’t terrible. It was all lovely hills that rolled out to flat strips of land dotted with the neighbor’s cattle and smaller animals that looked like goats.
All in all, Matty felt like he was an alien plopped down in the middle of a beautiful, but utterly foreign landscape. He’d never felt so isolated from everything and everyone that shaped Matty Marcus into the rare creature he knew himself to be—not even Japan had seemed so insurmountably strange to him.
The Pages settled Matty into the house, showing him around the ranch, explaining his duties several times over, and introducing him to the horses, Daisy and Maple Syrup.
“Maple Syrup is the sweetie. He’s my darling,” Margaret said, feeding the horse in question a sugar cube. “Daisy? She’s more of a diva, I guess you might say. She likes to have her own way. Headstrong is a better word for it, I suppose. I wouldn’t try to ride her, if you take the notion.”
Matty had mixed feelings about whether or not he should ride the horses. George made it clear that he could, but he’d rather that Matty didn’t. The horses would get plenty of exercise in the fields and along the trails up into the base of the mountains.
“They’ll wander back home at dinner time and you can put them in their stalls if the weather is too bad,” George added. “They’re accustomed to that.”
“Yes,” Margaret agreed. “Now that we’re old, they aren’t ridden much anymore. We should probably look for a new home for them. But our grandsons still ride when they visit in the summer, and it’s not like the horses are unhappy here. They do have each other.”
Given that Matty’s injury was still freshly healed, a fall from a horse could be a disaster. He didn’t think he’d risk it.
He was told if there was a big snow, the horses needed to be kept in the smaller fields closer to the barn or in the barn itself until the worst of the weather had passed.
“If they do get caught up in a snowstorm later in the winter, let Rob Lovely know and either he or one of his ranch hands will go out and fetch ’em.” George then very pointedly put Rob Lovely’s phone number on the refrigerator door under a rooster magnet.
“But don’t worry,” Margaret said. “The first big snow shouldn’t come until November at the very earliest.”
As Matty’s luck would have it, the weather had been unseasonably cold for October, with lows in the mid-twenties at night, and not getting much above forty during the day. In fact, an intense cold front was due this weekend and temperatures might drop into the teens or below.
To make it worse, they were calling for freezing rain. George warned that the pine trees shading the long drive made it icy and dangerous, especially near the house where it curved around a few trees and sloped uphill. Matty had to be sure to salt the drive and get snow tires put on the car the second week of October, or as soon as he heard a snowstorm being forecast, whichever came sooner.
If the ice did come as predicted, Matty figured he could count out making it in to the skating rink until next week. He’d have to salt the drive and, given how long it was, that’d take all day and would probably aggravate his back injury. The thought pissed him off. He had to get back into some kind of reasonable shape if he was going to be able to return to competitive skating and start with a new coach in April after the end of the current skating season. There was no time to lose.
Matty still couldn’t believe that Denise, his former coach, had really retired after his injury. She was only fifty-six, but she’d had enough of the politics, if not the sport. Matty blamed himself for her decision. If he’d been easier to work with, if he’d followed Denise’s instructions instead of fighting her every step of the way, maybe she would have found her job more rewarding. But after it was clear he was out last season, she’d given up her other students and moved to California with her girlfriend. Donna got the occasional postcard or email from her, and from all reports, they seemed quite happy.
Matty vacuumed and cleaned the entire house immediately after dropping the Pages at the airport, and was disturbed to find that all of the little trinkets strewn about were fuzzy with a film of dust, as though Margaret hadn’t really cleaned them in months—if ever.
Matty set about thoroughly and methodically washing each item in warm water, scrubbing with a toothbrush until every last one was clean, all the while marveling at what would make a woman buy a shot glass from every city she’d ever been to, and collect ceramic figurines of children in lamb outfits.
Still, when he was done, it was sparkling and fresh in the living room. He thought Margaret would be pleased—if she weren’t on her way to Australia, at that very moment, probably getting all geared up to pick out a shot glass in Sydney.
The house was big, but the rooms available to Matty were few. Upstairs was locked off, since really everything he needed was downstairs. They’d given him their best guest room, Margaret had said, and she’d hoped he’d be comfortable in it. He lied and said he would be.
On the phone with Elliot as he scrubbed down the kitchen and analyzed the cookware, he said, “It’s horrible. The scenery is amazing, but completely not my kind of place. I don’t hike, or fish, or ski, and the town is the size of my shoe. Elliot, everything in this house is so ugly I can feel it killing my soul. And I’m already lonely.”
“I could fly out next week to keep you company for a while,” Elliot offered, kind of reluctantly.
“Alas, Mr. Page told me my best girlfriend was absolutely not invited.”
“Would you love me more if I pretended to feel at all sorry about that?”
Matty couldn’t blame Elliot. They both liked a faster pace of life. His dream was to move to Manhattan and merge into that world. He adored the people rushing to work, hailing taxis, walking their dogs, and never looking his way twice. It inspired him and filled him with passion for life.
From what he could tell, Whitefish was not going to provide him with any kind of inspiration. In fact, based on his trip to the Safeway in Whitefish it was clear no one in the town knew what to do with a man wearing a touch of lip gloss or carrying a handbag. He heard some unflattering remarks from fellow shoppers as he walked the paltry aisles.
It wasn’t a big deal, really—nothing he hadn’t heard before—but he was already upset by the discovery that they had very little that was organic or fresh, so it was insult to injury. He wanted to cry as he paid the cashier eighty dollars for inferior food, but instead he smiled prettily and said thank you. Then he took the bags to the car himself, declining help from the obviously confused and pimply teenage boy who called him “ma’am.”
Oh, Whitefish. What additional horrors did the town have in store for him?
***
A week later, Matty opened the six boxes of his belongings his mother had mailed, trying to find where she’d packed the fur coats, his make-up, and his underwear. It was as though she’d run from one corner of his room to another, randomly adding things to the boxes, with little rhyme or reason. They’d all been marked Matty’s room as though that described the contents in any helpful way.
He found his make-up in a small cardboard box beneath his gym socks and a gold, sequined vest he’d worn for a competition when he was fifteen. He had no idea why his mother had included it, but he put it on, because, aside from Flathead Lake and the glint of the sun on the mountains, it was the sparkliest thing he’d seen since arriving in Montana. It lifted his spirits in an unexpected and very necessary way.
Matty sighed as he took his make-up into the bathroom and began organizing it on the vanity. Looking through the products, he opened one of the small jars of blue, glittery eye shadow, and applied a little to his eyelids absentmindedly. He thought about how he was going to survive the next six months, and wondered if he’d be able to train himself enough to lure in a renowned coach.
His heart was set on Valentina Chapayeva from the Ukraine, and he swallowed hard and sent up a small prayer that by April he’d have what it took to gain her interest and join her rink in New York. Even though he was a national champion, he was afraid he’d been out of sight so long that he’d be out of mind in the skating world.
He sorted through the body glitter, lipsticks, and rouge, finding a few things that he’d nearly forgotten about. He looked in the mirror, puckered his lips, and ran his hands through his hair.
Music. Yes, he needed some music—something fast to get his body moving. He fiddled with the stereo in the living room and figured out how to dock his iPod.
Eight songs later, he had glitter body paint smeared on his chest, his eyes done up in brilliant blues and greens, and bright, cotton-candy pink lipstick on his lips. Wearing only his track pants and the gold sequined vest, he was far from fierce, but still shiny, and that made him feel almost as good. He danced across the room, easily keeping the rhythm with no one’s judging gaze to throw him off. He gave his body over to it, and spun around madly, jumping, kicking, and leaping.
He paused in the middle of the room, feeling a little flushed, but not winded. He was glad his workouts back home had increased his stamina. His current plan was to get up every day, have a small breakfast, get the horses settled and then work out, either in a gym, on the ice, or both.
Matty recognized how bratty it was to complain about the ranch house. After all, it had amazing amenities. Margaret’s exercise room beside his bedroom had a treadmill and Bowflex. He supposed on days he couldn’t get into Kalispell for a proper workout in the Athletic Club (something else arranged for him by Margaret) it would do to help keep him strong. He also had a plan for skating when he couldn’t get into Whitefish’s rink.
He’d discovered his plan B when George had walked him around the ranch, pointing out various areas that the horses sometimes lingered. As they’d walked, Matty had noticed two men on horses, riding among the cattle on the hill below.
“Rob’s ranch hands,” George explained. “He’s got four employees over there now. Rob’s expanding his operation. He’s finally making a bit of a profit, I reckon. First time since his old man died, I think.”
Matty nodded absently, his eyes fixed on something else entirely. To the left of where George pointed, there was a very large, seemingly shallow, mostly circular pond. It was situated in the shadow of the mountain on one side and sheltered on the other by a large, fat pine. Though the temperature had climbed to almost forty that morning, Matty could see the glitter of ice over the shaded top of the pond.
He’d studied it carefully as George talked on and on about horses and the neighbor’s cattle, and ranch hands and profits, finally interrupting him to ask, “Does that ever freeze over?”
“Sure. It’s halfway to frozen over now. Give it two more days of temperatures like this and it’ll be frozen half through.”
“How deep is it?”
“Not that deep.” George had smirked like he was amused by something private. “That’s Margaret’s little personal Flathead Pond. Built it for her when I bought the place from Rob. She wasn’t too happy because she wanted land on the lake. I couldn’t pass up the good deal Rob offered me, so I told her I’d build her a damn lake.” George chuckled, a sound Matty hadn’t heard him make before. “Oh yes, she was fit to be tied over this here pond. First she was mad and then she laughed until she cried.” He grinned. “Yep, Rob’s ranch manager, Bing Lozar, dug this out for her and had it lined.”
“Has anyone ever skated on it?” Matty had asked.
“The boys do it all the time. Used to pretend to be Wayne Gretzky and Mark Messier out there.”
Matty had smiled, thinking that George might not have liked it if his grandsons had pretended to be Matty Marcus out there. “Mind if I skate on it, sir?”
“Fine by me. Just don’t bust your head.” George had pointed his finger at him. “If you do, don’t even think about suing me.”
With that in mind, Matty had gone out to the pond already that morning and found it was definitely frozen several inches down. It wasn’t the best surface, but in an emergency it would do.
Another song came on, and Matty ran a hand through his hair. He twirled a bit more, the room flashing by, and he allowed himself to sink into the spin, the dizzy familiar feeling of the world going into a precarious balance.
A loud crash brought him front and center.
He stood panting, listening for something more. A rolling crunch rattled through the room. Clutching his chest, he jumped. The noise seemed to come from the front porch.
Matty grabbed a coat from the box next to him—his mink from his last trip to Russia—and slipped it on. His heart raced as he tiptoed toward the living room window.
Was it a bear? Did bears live in Montana? And why had he never thought to investigate that possibility before now? What if it was an elk? Were they dangerous? Maybe it was a coyote, or a wolf, or just a really big, scary person.
He peered out the front window. He squinted into the sun and saw nothing but pine trees and cows like always. The knock on the door, a heavy, hard thudding, made his heart race like he was sitting in the Kiss and Cry waiting for scores to come in.
Matty glanced in the mirror by the front door, smoothed his hair, wiped a stray bit of eyeliner away, and threw his chest out and his chin up. Matty Marcus was rocking the glittery glory on a ranch in Montana. Never let it be said that rural locales took any shine away from this bitch. He opened the door.
The man on the front porch, with his hand raised to knock again, was blond, and he might as well have been Montana personified—tall, strong, and heart-stoppingly handsome. He was also probably not a day over thirty.
“Uh…” The man cleared his throat and flung his thumb over his shoulder toward the hill. “Hi. I’m the neighbor. Thought I’d bring some… ah…”
He didn’t seem to know where to look. His eyes slid down to Matty’s bare chest peeking out from the fur coat and gold sequined vest, and then down over Matty’s track pants to his bare feet. The man swallowed and looked away. He kept talking, though.
“I brought some firewood up from the barn. Thought you might need it…or want it. It’s supposed to get pretty cold tonight. I figured you didn’t have any close to the house yet. George doesn’t bring it up unless he needs it. So I brought some. Up. For you.”
Matty felt his practiced “now we’re talking to the media” smile settle on his face. He stuck out his hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you. I appreciate you thinking of me.”
The man shook firmly. “Rob Lovely,” he said. “I live over the hill and a few acres over.”
The name was definitely fitting, Matty thought.
He supposed since he was dressed up in glitter and blue eye shadow, he should be glad the guy wasn’t running away to alert any local homophobic hicks with baseball bats that the Pages had a flamer living in their house for the winter.
Matty pulled his coat around himself a little tighter when Rob released his hand. “Matty Marcus. Nice to meet you.”
“So, are you from Missoula?” Rob asked. His face revealed how much he doubted that.
“What makes you think I’m not from Polebridge?” Matty asked a little coyly, bringing up a town Margaret had mentioned was located almost due north of Whitefish and had less than 30 residents.
He waited for the guy to stammer through an answer that could be summed up as Matty failing the good ol’, pussy-loving, ranch-raised country boy looks test.
“Margaret said she was bringing in a friend’s kid from the city,” Rob said, rubbing his hands together, and keeping his eyes focused out toward the pastures.
“Oh,” Matty said, amazed at how sweetly the guy had side-stepped an awkward moment. He even felt a little guilty for trying to set him up to begin with. “Well, I think by ‘the city’, she actually meant The City, as in New York. She seems to think I’ve lived there, even though I haven’t. I’d like to, though. I will one day.” His nipples ached from the cold, so he pulled the fur completely around his torso.
“I’ve never been, but I’m sure it’s exciting,” Rob said, his eyes moving to where Matty had covered up his exposed skin. “Is that a mink?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Matty said, running a hand down its softness.
“My ex-wife’s mother had one of a similar style, but it didn’t look nearly so…” Rob flushed. “I mean…uh, it looks better on you. Well, um, I mean…”
“Thank you,” Matty said, putting him out of his misery.
“You’re welcome.” Rob said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat. “It’s been a strangely cold October. Probably not the best of weather. Have you been able to get out and explore at all?”
“I’m still settling in,” Matty said.
“Right.” There was a silence as Rob swallowed hard and rubbed a hand over his forehead like he had a sudden headache. “Well, I piled the logs over there.” He nodded toward the side of the porch. “I, uh, should let you get back to…” He smiled and used his head to indicate Matty’s state of dress and state of being. “That. Or whatever.”
“Thank you. I’d invite you in, but I’m sort of in the middle of this, so…” Matty paused and Rob flushed again, looked away and cleared his throat.
Matty retreated into the house, closing the door partway as he spoke. “Thanks again for the firewood. It was very thoughtful of you.”
“Anytime,” Rob said, backing away a few steps. “Just give me a call if you need anything. Help with the horses. Or whatever you need help with.” He looked embarrassed for a moment, but then he offered Matty a fantastic smile. His teeth were white and straight and his eyes glowed. Matty noticed that they were green and very kind.
“I might take you up on that,” Matty said, putting one bare foot on top of the other.
The movement seemed to catch Rob’s eye. He looked at Matty’s feet before clearing his throat again. “Please do. I’m the neighborly sort and I’m happy to help.”
Rob lifted his eyes again and a small wave of attraction washed over Matty. God, he needed to get laid if he was getting turned on by stammering Montana ranchers.
Rob nodded and lifted his hand and let it drop. Then he turned and trudged back through the front yard. Matty watched him walk, noting the sure, easy swing of his step as he crossed the lawn and then mounted the foot of the hill.
When Rob was a dark smudge against the sky, Matty shut the door and leaned against it. He glanced at himself again in the mirror and imagined being Rob Lovely from Montana. What had it been like to find this fabulous creature on the other side of a neighbor’s door? It must have been like stumbling across The Man Who Fell to Montana. He laughed softly at the thought, threw off his coat, and sashayed to the kitchen for a mid-morning cup of piping hot water with bitters to trick his still-hungry stomach.
***
Maple Syrup made pleased nickering sounds as Matty patted his nose after putting him in his stall. Daisy was indeed a diva, but seemed to understand that she’d found a kindred spirit in him. She was incredibly obedient and listened carefully when Matty spent some extra time brushing her down and talking to her softly in Russian.
He hoped to be fluent enough by April to converse with Valentina Chapayeva, in her own language, should she agree to take him on. Besides, Russian was great, full of history and passion, and learning it felt amazing. Matty always strove to be amazing.
After taking a shower later that evening, Matty called his mother. He told her about Rob Lovely stopping by to bring wood up to the porch, and how he’d answered the door dressed like, well, himself.
“Honey, just remember Montana isn’t New York City, and it isn’t even New Jersey. People there might not be as…accepting.”
“You’ve told me all of my life to speak my mind and be my own person,” Matty said absently, studying his fingernails. He’d have to find a place in town to get a manicure because his nails looked like trailer trash.
“I’m just saying be careful.”
“Careful is as careful does, Mama,” Matty said, refusing to let the fear reach him. He’d spent his life with it, and he hadn’t been careful yet. He wasn’t going to start now. “And what careful does is boring. Can I talk to Dad?”
“Matty,” his mother chided, but Matty knew she’d let it go. She had to—he was how she’d raised him to be. “Okay, hold on. Randy! Matty’s on the phone and wants to talk to you.”
His father’s gruff hello filled Matty with a warm, safe feeling, and he clutched the phone a little tighter to his ear.
“Dad, how do you build a fire?”
Matty smiled at his father’s confused, inarticulate snort, and he clarified, “I’m sitting here next to a fireplace, and thanks to the handsome neighbor, I’ve got firewood. Now how do I make them work together without burning down the Pages’ house, singeing the bear rug, or setting myself aflame?”
He almost wished his father would have taken that bait and made a joke about how Matty was already flaming, like his brother Joey would have, but it also touched Matty’s heart that it would never in a million years occur to his father to say that.
Soon he had a dinner of hot water with bitters, a plate of cut-up fruit and vegetables, and a small piece of lean meat eaten before a blazing fire. He flipped through several books on the Cyrillic alphabet his mother had packed in with his shoes before slamming the books shut. Bored, he went to wash the dishes.
As it turned out, the television only got the four main networks, and the computer only had dial-up. It would do for checking his email, but not much else. He typed like a chicken pecking for seed, but had thought that if he got really bored, he might take the time to learn more about Flathead County, do a vanity search or two, and definitely look at porn.
Thank god for the Pages’ landline, since the reception on Matty’s cell was spotty at best. At least they had 4G service in Kalispell and Whitefish itself, but it didn’t reach into the hinterland. Matty supposed it was for the best. Cold turkey was the only way to break his addiction to Instagram and Tumblr, not to mention Facebook. And Twitter, and Snapchat, and—yes. This was a good thing.
Matty supposed he shouldn’t be surprised about the dearth of technology since he’d moved into the home of people old enough to be his grandparents. Still, it was clear that he’d need to make a trip to town for some books, because he couldn’t keep Elliot on the phone with him twenty-four seven.
Sighing, Matty gazed at the lattice of frost working its way up the den’s windows and the strange, wild darkness beyond it. It had been over a week now since he’d even been on the ice. Too long. He wondered if he’d be able to get to Whitefish tomorrow, or if he’d have to spend the day salting the driveway and getting snow tires put on.
He missed the ice. The feel of it, the sound of it, the way he felt when he moved on it. It was a passion, but also his escape, a place where his emotions turned into movement. Where he was able to show the world his journey and express himself, and not in some cliché, New Age way.
At this time two years ago, he’d been training and competing, preparing for Nationals, and then the Olympics, and Worlds. He’d been unfocused and undisciplined, refusing to let Denise train him the way he needed. He’d been distracted, and maybe a little lovesick. He hadn’t handled the thing with Cody and Vance very well.
It had been terrible and humiliating being dumped like that and replaced so quickly. Everyone around them knew, even if no one said anything publicly, and it had sucked in every way. Competing against Vance and seeing Cody in the stands cheering for his opponent blew his cool. He’d succumbed to those emotions, yes, but more importantly when it came to his skating performance, he’d just been an entitled brat.
He’d never admit it to anyone, but the truth was he was lazy. He’d been given a gift but he’d never developed proper discipline. Skating had been so easy for him in so many ways, or at least easier than it was for other people, and he’d been a slacker when it came to really putting in the time.
To make it worse, Denise couldn’t rein him in. She was too nice and couldn’t command his respect and fear. Matty knew if he was going to buckle down and work, and really achieve his potential as a skater, he needed a coach who could whip him into submission.
Fuck, if he was being honest, he wouldn’t mind that in a boyfriend either.
He’d taken his talent and success for granted, and he’d paid the price. The injury had been the icing on top of the shit cake. He still had the terrible taste in his mouth from it. Nothing like being bedridden for months on end to make you appreciate the things you do have in your life.
Matty sat on the sofa, watching the glimmer of the now-dying coals. He wondered if it was possible to skate the way he had when he was starting out. Fresh. Pure. Like a bird soaring. Or was he too mucked up now to fly? Bogged down with too much shit to lift into the air? There was only one way to know.
Under an ocean of stars, beneath a Montana sky, he tested his wings.
George had been right about the pond. After a week of odd October coldness, it was frozen over now. The ice was rough, and Matty felt the jitter of it under his feet as he stepped out. At first he just allowed himself to move slowly, to feel the rush of the winter wind in his face and ruffling his hair, and his breath coming in cold, white puffs.
And then in his mind, the sky opened to him.
The footwork and the twirls came like a current of air pouring over him, and he took a jump with a smile on his face, landing it easily, arms out, hands perfect, and so he moved into the next one, his eyes closed, trusting his feet to find the ice without him.
The slam of the ice against his ass was perfect, and he laughed, slapping his gloved hands together, hearing it echo over the hills. He stood up, his arms at his sides, and he began again as joy spun out from him for the first time in too long.
He was a bird and he flew.