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After a fabulous dinner of pot roast with red-skinned potatoes and fingerling carrots, Lyn sat with Jeff and April in the parlor. Pine infused the air from the fresh boughs decorating the fireplace mantle. On the sideboard, assorted flavored brandies and liqueurs replaced the hot cider from the afternoon. Vivaldi’s “Winter,” a perennial favorite, played softly in the background through wall-mounted speakers.
The kids—exhausted, well-fed and completely recovered from the afternoon’s excitement—had shuffled off to bed a few minutes ago.
Although Jeff and April included Lyn in their conversations, from anecdotes about the kids to wedding plans, she barely listened. Her mind remained fixed on the civilian from this afternoon, Mr. Sawyer.
When he’d risen the second time, after she’d pushed him, rage pulsated off him in waves hotter than the fire blazing in the hearth here. But then he’d paused and somehow pulled himself together. Good thing. Based on his size, if he’d given in to his first reaction, she’d probably be in the hospital right now. And she’d definitely deserve it.
Why had she pushed him anyway? To do so was not only counter-productive, but cruel, as well. Ski-Hab’s goal was to build its students up, not to knock them down. She should know. She wrote the mission statement when they’d incorporated the program.
A flush of shame warmed her cheeks. Since Ski-Hab’s inception, she’d reviewed the students from that particular peak on the Snow Wonder trail hundreds of times. And in all those years, she’d seen dozens of participants falter when they fell.
None had ever compelled her to any drastic action. Until Mr. Sawyer.
Poor Kerri-Sue, no doubt sensing something seriously wrong with Lyn’s mental capacities, had immediately jumped to her charge’s defense, which was absolutely the right reaction. And honestly, Mr. Sawyer had done nothing to deserve Lyn’s heartless interference.
No. The one villain in today’s event was Lyn herself. The idea stuck in her chest like an ice pick that stabbed her heart. Worse, a deep, knotting fear tied up her insides and nearly paralyzed her.
After Marc’s death, she’d kept her emotions wrapped in a numbing cocoon. Now all of a sudden, feelings she’d long ago suffocated had revived. She considered her envy of April’s happiness, the attraction she’d sensed blooming between Becky and Ace Riordan, and, of course, her overreaction to Mr. Sawyer.
The green monster had popped up when she saw how happy April was with Jeff and how obviously Jeff adored April. Of course, Lyn would feel a pang of jealousy—the sharp reminder of what she and Marc had shared all too briefly.
And the episode with Ace and Becky? Merely a protective aunt guarding her niece’s innocent heart from a possible tragedy, her saner self-proclaimed.
But, she had no easy explanation for what happened today on Snow Wonder. Maybe she should go back to that trail tomorrow, find Mr. Sawyer, and offer him an apology.
“You think Summer will go for it, Lyn?” April’s question broke through her musings.
She shook herself back into the conversation. “Huh?”
“Help me plan the wedding,” April replied with a blinding smile directed toward Jeff.
Had she missed something?
“You’re going to ask Summer to help you?”
When had the devil donned his ice skates? As long as she’d known them, for more than thirty years now, Summer and April had never gotten along.
“Well... yeah. You remember her wedding, don’t you?” Once again, April swerved to face Jeff. “Everything perfect. Perfect spring day with the perfect blue sky, perfect gown, perfect bridesmaids’ dresses. When she and Brad stepped out of the little stone church, a dozen white doves took flight in a perfect heart-shaped arc. At the same time, white rose petals floated down from the top of the church. All in perfect precision.”
Talk about a one-eighty. At the actual event, April had called this perfect precision, “Summer’s Splendiforous Spousal Spectacular.”
And not in a good way.
“So, wait,” Lyn said. “You want Summer to give you the same kind of thing? Rose petals and doves?”
“God, no.” April shivered as if in the throes of some bizarre seizure, eyes bugged out and tongue lolling. “Could you just see me swathed in a thousand yards of white tulle while a cadre of birds flew around my face? I’d look like Cinderella on a bad acid trip.”
Lyn’s delicate snickers were drowned out by Jeff’s more thunderous laughter. Her older sister’s self-deprecating humor apparently appealed to a wide audience.
“Let’s face it,” April added when the room quieted again. “Summer’s much more organized than I am. And since the whole world is gonna be watching, I need as close to perfection as I can get. Without Summer to run her usual drill sergeant interference, I’ll just make a muck of it.”
Jeff picked up his fiancée’s hand, clasped within his, and brushed a light kiss across her knuckles. “You can do this just fine on your own. I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks.”
Understanding lit fireworks inside Lyn’s brain. “Wait a minute. You’re looking for perfection on your wedding day, so you won’t disappoint the press?”
“Yes.” April rolled her eyes with all the subtle meaning of an angsty teenager. “Taking Sides plans to broadcast the wedding live, and I don’t want to be publicly humiliated because I picked the wrong dress or the wrong bouquet. I know. You think it’s stupid—”
“No,” Lyn interjected. “I understand. Honestly. I do. I’ve been there. Remember? From our first date in Oslo to the wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the reception at the Waldorf?”
And the honeymoon in St. Moritz, the years on the circuit as “the ski world’s love bunnies.” Followed a few short years later with the multiple trips to Sloan-Kettering’s oncology center, all while cameras watched and recorded every single, agonizing moment. Right up to the funeral home and that vile photo of Marc’s cancer-ravaged face lying on a white satin pillow in a gleaming cherry wood casket.
Pop! Inside the fireplace, a particularly dry piece of wood crackled and snapped beneath the roaring flames.
On a shiver, she pushed the ugly memories away.
Never again. Never again would she allow anyone to entertain the world with her pain. Or her joy. Or even her favorite color.
“Lyn?” Once again, April’s voice brought her back from her solemn thoughts. “Are you okay?”
She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
April immediately became contrite. “I’m sorry. We’re keeping you awake, aren’t we? I forgot how early you get up in the morning.”
“It’s all right,” she said on a sigh. “Listen, April, Jeff? Can I give you one piece of advice?”
The couple exchanged a wary glance, then April nodded. “Sure.”
“I know this may sound silly but indulge me anyway. Try to think of the media as a giant monster with an unlimited appetite. You keep feeding it with photo ops and interviews. And the monster keeps growing bigger and bigger. The bigger it grows, the hungrier it becomes. Until soon, you don’t have enough to feed the media monster. And that’s when it rips your heart out of your chest.”
By secretly crashing a wake to take photos of your dead husband lying in his casket, which wind up splashed on the front page of every rag in the country.
“Don’t do it, guys,” she murmured. “Don’t feed the monster. Please.”
♥
ACE WOULD HAVE PROBABLY been disappointed to know his departure came as a blessing to Doug. With the familiar adrenaline pumping through his blood, Doug called his editor in New York to talk about Ski-Hab, Brooklyn Raine, and his recent run-in with the former ski champ.
As expected, Jake audibly smacked his lips at the idea of a full-length feature article regarding the program and, more importantly, its heretofore unknown sponsor.
“You’re sure it’s her?” Jake’s rapid speech communicated his eagerness to believe what Doug told him. “Brooklyn Raine? The Brooklyn Raine?”
“The one and only,” Doug said. “Ace confirmed it for me a few minutes ago. I’m guessing that’s how he got to use the program for his community service. Apparently, he and Brooklyn know each other fairly well.”
“You think they’re an item?”
An image popped, unbidden, into Doug’s head. Ace scanning the girls in the lodge with his biggest yes-I’m-who-you-think-I-am grin lighting up his beach boy features. Then the Coyote, eyes glittering with feral challenge. Brooklyn Raine and Ace Riordan? An item?
“No.” No way the Coyote on the hill would come second to anyone in life. Not even Ace Riordan, snowboarding’s Aerial Snowball. “Not a chance,” he added for emphasis.
“Too bad.”
“Excuse me?”
Jake? Looking for gossip? Since when?
“Women love a good romance, Doug. Particularly between a younger man and older woman. Cougars. Cougars are great click bait. And by emphasizing the female point of view, we could double our readership with a story like that. Remember Brooklyn’s husband? Handsome guy struck down in his prime?”
“Marc Cheviot,” he rattled off automatically.
“That’s him. You remember when he died?”
“Vaguely.” He’d been an intern at a small newspaper in Iowa at the time, in charge of digging up the research on Cheviot’s accomplishments on the slopes for the obituary. Hadn’t really thought about Marc Cheviot since. Until now.
“Every reporter worth his ink had a piece of that press pie,” Jake was saying. “The world wept. It was beautiful. One of those perfect news stories that touched everyone. Men, women, kids, Americans, Canadians, Europeans, sports fans, romance fans, gossip fans. For a full week, the global spotlight shone on Cheviot and his widow. Then, after it was all over, the widow disappeared.” Jake paused to take a breath, but before Doug could say anything, he pressed on. “You’re sure it’s her? Ace confirmed it? How? When? Give me particulars, Sawyer.”
Doug offered a quick rundown, skipping over his many conversations with Ace regarding his adolescent crush.
“I’m surprised Ace never let on until now,” Jake replied. “That alone tells me there’s a story in this somewhere. Something sweet and juicy. My eye’s twitching like a jackhammer.”
Jake considered his facial tic akin to a personal Magic Eight Ball. The more his eyelid fluttered, the hotter the story promised to be. Like Doug, Jake sensed a bombshell in Ski-Hab. Unlike Doug, Jake wouldn’t be interested in the heartwarming aspect, but in the secrecy.
“You’ve got a former ski champion dumping money into a program to help disabled vets. And she isn’t looking for publicity? Why? What’s she got to hide?”
“Probably nothing—”
“Cow pods. All women have something to hide, Sawyer. Remember that. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache.”
“Right,” Doug replied, biting back most of the sarcasm that tingled on his tongue. “What was I thinking?”
According to legend, Jake’s chauvinistic attitude had first flared when women reporters were finally allowed in men’s locker rooms a few decades ago. His animosity had only increased in volatility with the appearance of the WNBA, Danica Patrick in the Indy, and Muhammad Ali’s daughter in the boxing ring.
Of course, his four marriages and consecutive divorces only added to his suspicions regarding ulterior motives in the fairer sex.
“What do you need from me?” Jake asked.
This time, Doug didn’t hesitate. “A laptop with voice-activated typing software and a steady source of internet service. Wi-Fi is spotty up in the mountains.”
“I’ll have it expressed to you first thing tomorrow. And Doug?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome back.”
For the first time in months, sheer joy warmed Doug from the inside out. “Thanks.”