The mouth-watering smell of garlic hit me when I entered our front door. My stomach grumbled in response. Now I was hungry. Pax unlaced his boots and shoved them and his jacket into the hall closet where we left our gear to defrost. These had been Mama’s rules since we were little—no boards in the house or boots beyond the entryway.
I hung up my snow pants before I followed Pax into the kitchen. The table was already set. My mom stood in front of the stove. Nothing beat her cooking after a full day on the slopes.
Pax reached for the refrigerator door at the same time Mom said, “Don’t even think about it. Dinner is almost done.” Pax sighed and moped into the living room. I would never understand how Mom could catch us with her back turned.
“Where’s Dad?” I eyed a salad on the counter next to my mom. I reached over, picked up a tomato, and popped it into my mouth.
“In the den.” Mom swatted my hand away. “But not too much snowboard talk. Dinner will be ready in ten,” she added as she pointed a wooden spoon at me.
I raised my hands in defense and gave Mom a sly smile. When it came to snowboarding, ten minutes was never enough.
Through the den doorway, the muffled sound of a sports channel greeted me. My dad stood in front of the large window, which overlooked a picturesque view of Crooked Peak Snow Resort.
From the doorway, I watched Dad trace the line of the mountain on the window. He didn’t acknowledge me. Instead he started at the summit again and drew a new line like he could change the shape of the mountain with his fingertip.
“A storm is coming,” he finally said without turning around.
The dusky sky was as clear as it had been that morning. Not a cloud in sight. Dad was always saying things about the snow conditions like he was a weather man—I was used to it. Not that I paid attention to whether he turned out to be right. Crooked Peak’s snow-capped summits stood tall like jagged fingers ready to pierce the sky. I followed the line of the slopes with my eyes. I knew every inch of those courses by heart, maybe even with my eyes closed.
I joined him at the window and planted a kiss on his cheek. “What are you up to, Dad?”
“Fall lines.” Dad traced the mountain again. He’d taught me about these routes, natural descents from the top of the mountain to the bottom, long before I rode my first one. He called them the paths of least resistance.
I stepped behind him and peered over his shoulder to get his perspective. His finger drifted over the cool glass beyond the resort’s groomed slopes—down the center of the peak to the far left, around a large boulder, an edge that looked like a cliff. He drew a few more lines, harder routes with more difficult turns, before I broke the silence.
“You know Mom will go on a cleaning rampage when she sees all these fingerprints.” I tsked just like my mom did when we made a mess.
“I know.” Dad chuckled. “You see that part of the mountain? Where it juts out?” he asked and tapped the glass with this finger.
I nodded. It was barely visible in the fading light, but I knew the one. My dad had told me this story so many times I knew it word for word. It was my favorite.
“That’s where I proposed to your mother.”
“I can’t believe you got her out there in the first place.” I smiled. Mom was content to enjoy life fireside with hot cocoa in hand. The slopes she left up to the rest of the Castillo family.
Dad chuckled. “The only thing that worked was promising her a trip that didn’t involve snow.” Every vacation picture I had seen of my parents’ life together revolved around my dad’s competition schedule. Ski resort after ski resort.
I laughed alongside Dad. My mother was a stubborn woman—supposedly a quality every woman in our family inherited.