I leaned my head back and looked up at him and just sighed.
“She’ll be okay, Mom. She will. They’re probably not serious. Just let it go.”
I didn’t say anything more. My sons were not going to help me on this. They didn’t even agree with me that there was a problem. I felt as if I were fighting some kind of unwritten sexist code, something genetic that came in the male chromosome. Except that I know Mike would have agreed with me.
Phillip was only half right. I was certain Spider wasn’t serious, but I was worried Molly was.
The whole family
went to Tahoe five days before Christmas, all staying together and boarding every day like we always had. But this was the first time without Mike.
Back when the company was beginning to see stronger and stronger profits, Mike made the decision to close the company, warehouses and factory from December twentieth until after the New Year, with full pay for all employees. It was his bonus to them and their families.
Our holiday routine was pretty much the same, and we planned to drive home on January second. But this year we had Trey, officially Michael the Third, the newest Cantrell. His Uncle Phil had taken to calling him Turkey, and at first Renee looked horrified, as if she were afraid the nickname would stick. Until Scott warned, “Payback is hell, little bro. You’re going to be father at some point. You’d better watch out.”
But when it came to teasing, nothing stopped Phil. I had a hunch poor Trey was going to be called Turkey for many, many years to come.
And Spider was seemingly inseparable from Molly. I kept wishing it were an Olympic year so he’d be gone commentating half a world away. Instead, he was included in everything we did, including Christmas Eve and morning. My sons continued to welcome him, perhaps even more than before, but I liked to think that was because his ski line and endorsements had sent our profits higher than anyone had predicted.
Scott admitted at the year-end board meeting that Mike had been smart to sign Spider to a longer term deal than Scott had originally wanted. They had argued over it at one point because of the huge amount of money. Now, compared to sales and orders, it looked like we’d stolen him for peanuts.
And Spider seemed determined to be accepted.
But there was still tension between my two older sons, though they both spoke of the company with pride and of its future with enthusiasm. I wondered if they could find a way to a true partnership, or if there would always be differences, just because they were so different.
Thanks to my grandkids and kids, Christmas worked. My family was raucous and challenging and fun when we were together. We laughed, played silly games or watched movies at night, and the days of celebration passed for me with only fleeting dark moments, late at night when I was alone in our bed. The rest of the time I was able to assuage the black hole of my loneliness by spending a lot of time on the mountain.
A light snow was beginning to fall when I came to the bottom of a run and booked it toward the lift, which was almost empty. I figured I had plenty of time for a few more runs. The conditions were close to perfect; there was no wind and it was snowing. I loved this kind of snow—big, lightly floating flakes that made me want to catch them with my mouth like pieces of popcorn.
It was New Year’s Eve and the crowds were leaving the mountain early. When the next chair came around, there was no one else but a guy in the singles line, so the two of us took one quad chair up toward the top trails.
We sat with just a few inches between us, surrounded by the utter quiet of snow falling on a mountain top. The snowflakes were drifting like feathers down through the air.
“It’s so quiet when it snows like this,” I said aloud. “Almost as if the snow makes everything it covers breathless.” The words just came into my head and out of my mouth; it was the kind of thing I would have said to Mike, but never to a stranger. I was instantly embarrassed and could feel my flush. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled and couldn’t look at him.
“I read somewhere that snow can absorb at least twenty five percent of sound,” he said to me in an amazing voice that made me have to look at him. “So you’re right, snow makes the land breathless.” His voice surprised me; it was slow and Southern, the kind of cowboy drawl you expected to call you “Sugar.”
I was thankful to him for not making me feel like more of a fool, so I smiled.
He was decked out all in blue and wearing a knit hat over dark hair. He looked oddly familiar in the way some strangers do, that kind of déjà vu thing that has you scanning back in your mind for some kind of concrete recollection.
He had pale blue eyes with laugh lines in the corners, dark stubble over a strong jaw, great nose, and was really, really good-looking in that edgy, outdoor-rough, Marlboro Man ad kind of way. He looked to be a good decade younger than Spider, and I idly thought that based on looks and age, I wished this guy had met my daughter first.
“The snow is perfect,” I said for conversation, perhaps because I just wanted to hear his voice again.
“Sure is, but not too many of those folks down there seem to care.”
Behind us, way down in the parking lot, people were gathering in dark clusters, packing up gear and driving away, and there were very few skiers and boarders coming down the top runs.
“Let the fools leave,” I said. “I’d rather take a few more great runs than start partying. Been there, done that.”
“I hear ya,” he said. “Back when I was twenty two, I celebrated New Year’s and completely lost the rest of 1989.”
I laughed and did the math. He was forty one. Molly was almost twenty five. Sixteen years older? Before Spider Olsen, I might have thought that was too old for her. Now, compared to a tomcat player who was twenty five years older, and a grandfather, this guy was a kid. And frankly, I could listen to him talk for days.
“I’m here with my family,” I offered, looking for wife and girlfriend information. The trouble with winter sports was that gloves hid the ring finger.
“I’m all by lonesome,” he said, dragging out that last word as if it was part of a song.
I looked at him for a second—he really had the most incredible eyes—and said, “You know, I have a really good-looking twenty-four, almost twenty-five year old daughter.”
“I just bet you do.”
I leaned back a bit as I looked at him, gauging him. “Seriously.”
“Seriously?” he repeated, looking me in the eye. “Then thanks, but I like my women a little less fresh and just out of the gate.”
“Oh, I get it.” I laughed. “You like the stale, barn-sour older types, probably what? Thirty?”
With a soft, knowing grin he said, “Tell me why you’re trying to set up your daughter with a stranger who could be big trouble.”
“Are you big trouble?”
“There are a lot of folks who would swear I was. But they don’t know me now. I got over causing trouble a long time ago.”
I liked his honesty, until he said, “You evaded the question about your poor daughter.”
“My poor daughter is dating an older man, older than dirt.” I couldn’t keep the disgust from my voice.
He laughed. “So you’re desperate.”
“You have no idea. It gets worse. He’s been divorced three times.”
“Some folks just keep trying, thinking eventually they’ll get marriage right with someone new. Usually the problem most likely isn’t the need for someone new.” From the way he said it, I knew he wasn’t talking about the world at large; this was a man who owned up to the failures in his past. “What does her father have to say about it?” he asked.
“I’m a widow.” I could say it without aching pain now. I’d had enough practice.
To his credit, he didn’t give me that look I hated. “Then it can’t be easy to sit back alone and watch,” he said kindly.
I stared down at my hands. “You must think I’m nuts. Here I assume you’re not attached. I try to set you up with my daughter. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this.”
“Because you wanted to use me to save your daughter, who I’m sure would be real delighted to know about this conversation we’re having.”
I laughed out loud. “She would kill me.” I liked him. I held out my hand. “I’m March Cantrell.”
His grin faded and he frowned slightly, but took my hand, then slowly scanned the Cantrell logos on everything from the knit beanie on my head to the neon graphics on board I rode. I was a poster child for the company that carried our name.
“Cantrell Sports?”
I held up my hand. “Guilty.”
“Your husband was Mike Cantrell,” he said flatly.
Before I could say anything, the chair stopped with a sudden jerk and I grabbed his arm instead of the bar.
“Whoa.”
We hung there, slightly rocking. Lift chairs had glitches and stopped, and until they could get them running again, you were stuck there. We dangled above one of the steepest, rockiest parts of the mountain.
I bent slightly over the side and looked at the small strip of soft snow below us and the jagged gray rocks on either side. “That’s a long way down. At least there’s no wind.”
He started talking to me, quietly at first, easily. He raised horses, which didn’t surprise me, considering the way he spoke. I wondered if he had been on the rodeo circuit at some point, roping or riding. He was in board clothes, not jeans, but I expected off the mountain he wore boots and a belt with a buckle you couldn’t miss.
He told me about his son, a twenty two year old musician and a guitarist, who had studied music abroad and was touring Europe with a country band. I did the math over again. He had been a young father.
“What made him go overseas?”
“The Royal Academy of Music. His mother is British. He calls me when he can, but . . . ” he laughed slightly, “he’s twenty two. I’m not at the top of the list. He spent summers at the ranch—I own a place outside of Sparks—but I usually have to track him down to see him for holidays.”
“I would hate to be without my kids at Christmas,” I said. “Although this year we’re without Mike, and it isn’t the same. There’s that empty spot to remind you someone’s missing.”
“Your husband,” he stopped for a moment as if he couldn’t find the right words. He looked at me for a long moment and then said, “There was something in the Reno paper about him passing. It was tied to an article about the boarding event last winter.”
“It was a horrible car accident. He was in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong moment. That haunts me sometimes, you know? I wonder if only his plane had been earlier or later, or if only he’d hit a couple of red lights along the way.” I didn’t say anything more, but turned and looked at him.
I wondered what he was thinking about because his look was distant and painful, almost grieving, as if what I said opened some old wounds for him, too.
I studied at him, and he finally looked at me, and I thought an understanding passed between us. He got where I was coming from. I didn’t have to say anything and neither did he.
“My son preferred his mother’s people for Christmas.” He changed the subject back on topic and shrugged. “I understood that. They’re good folks.”
“Your ex-in-laws?”
“I wasn’t married to his mother.”
“Oh,” I said flatly and wanted to bite back the words. I didn’t want to sound old fashioned and judgmental and wasn’t sure how I had come across.
“I suspect your daughter’s out of the offering now.” He laughed, clearly teasing me.
“That depends,” I said. “On how you treat your women.”