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“Yeah, must be tough growing up with all that wealth,” he says with sarcasm.
Granny raises her eyebrows. “And you’ve lived in poverty?”
Mitch grins. “All right, so you’ve got me there.”
I’m enjoying their conversation, even if I feel a little excluded at the moment.
“Enough about Monica.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks for breakfast, Granny. It was delicious. I’ve got to get back out there and check the rope tow and ski lifts—make sure everything is running as smoothly as a beginner’s slope.” He scoots out his chair and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll see you in a little while.” Putting on his coat, he grabs his hat and gloves and heads out the door.
My shoulder tingles where his fingers had been, and I linger there a moment.
“You want anything else?” Granny asks as she rises from her chair and starts to clear the table.
“No, thank you.” I want to add that I’m stuffed so she’ll think I eat next to nothing, but that would be a flat-out lie. I’m not stuffed. I’m starving. I consider throwing myself on the biscuits and gravy, but decide against it. Instead, I lift some dishes to help clean off the table.
“Nope, this is my work,” Granny says with a possessive edge to her voice.
My hands have been slapped so I will know my place around here. I’ll have to work my way into her heart. In the meantime, I go to my room to get ready for my trip to Dream Slopes. Once inside, I see Guacamole nosing around the handbag that I had left on the floor. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, scooping it up. I have to keep everything out of his reach, or he’ll hurt himself.
Which reminds me. I haven’t told Mitch about Guacamole yet. Good grief. He doesn’t know about my iguana. He probably won’t mind, but an iguana is hardly a normal household pet. He also doesn’t know I can’t ski. The man will throw me out. I have to tell him. And soon.
The cold air stings my cheeks as I purchase my ski ticket at Dream Slopes and head for the entrance. My fingertips hide in my gloves and tingle from the chill.
Skiers and alpine trees dot the mountainside, giving the scene a winter wonderland feel to it. The sky boasts a vibrant blue with only a smattering of shredded clouds drifting lazily along. God creates the most incredible color. I take a satisfying breath. Before leaving the B and B, I changed into my new purple ski suit, new gold-colored coat, gold-and-purple stretchy band around my head and matching ski gloves—complete with the leather strip for grabbing the rope tow. I feel quite the skier. My snow boots keep my feet warm as I trudge through the snow toward the rental building.
I could get into this. In fact, this is downright fun. The air invigorates my spirit, and I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing in taking this job. If I were back in Tumbleweed, I’d be in a stuffy old building, standing in front of a class of rowdy fifth graders, trying to make my voice be heard in hopes of teaching them a lesson or two.
I take a deep breath of the mountain air and feel thankful down to my toes. I think there’s something to this whole mountaintop experience thing.
Once inside the rental building, I have to fill out some sort of card, giving my height, weight, experience as a skier, that type of thing. I’m not real excited about telling my weight to a total stranger. I mean, social security number is one thing, but weight? Anyway, the young woman looks nice enough, so I figure I can trust her not to spread the news.
She directs me to the next person, who looks over the card and looks at me as though I’ve lied about the weight thing. I didn’t fudge, not even a little bit. I figure I’ll never see these people again. Who cares if they know I’m not a size two? It’s obvious anyway. With all these winter wraps on, almost everyone could be a candidate for plus-size clothes.
The woman directs me to the ski boots and then tells me how to proceed to get my skis. I admit it. I’m excited. This is totally out of character for me. Not the excited part, but the stepping out and doing something out of the ordinary. I mean, I enjoy a challenge, adventure, all that, but within the confines of my safety bubble. But away from home? Away from what I know and hold dear? That’s a completely new adventure for me. A bit risky. Kind of scary and invigorating all at the same time.
I spot my ski boot size and pick up a pair that seem to match the weight of a cement truck. What do they put into these things? How can I possibly stand up in them? Deep breath, Gwen.
I find an empty spot on a nearby bench, sit down and pluck off my snow boots. Then I shrug on the ski boots. I strap them tightly around my ankles, and I wonder if my legs will turn purple. I’ll never know since I’m wearing purple pants. I look around to make sure no one is watching, and then I attempt to stand. Success. I don’t even wobble—okay, maybe a little. Dragging my feet along, I slog over to the ski station with all the grace of Igor.
A middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and large, brown-framed glasses greets me with a smile. I hand her my little paper with the pertinent information. She reads it, then walks over to a row of skis, and lifts a pair from the slats. I could have brought my own skis, but I want to see how they do things in the rental building and all, so I decide to play the tourist for now. She then goes over and retrieves a set of poles and brings everything to me. “Here you go,” she says brightly.
“Thank you.” I almost fall over with the awkwardness of the skis, the poles and the heavy boots. I smile my apology and trudge out of the way. I have to not only stay up in these boots, but I have to carry all this stuff?
I like challenges, I like challenges, I repeat over in my mind.
Finally, I make my way through the exit and step into the bright sunshine once again. My heart feels lighter, despite my concrete boots.
I see some workers standing nearby and manage to approach them. “I’m interested in a private lesson. Who would I talk to about that?”
A dark-haired man in his thirties with chin stubble and a glint in his eye smiles brightly. “I can help you with that,” he says. He takes my credit card to pay for the lesson and, before I can blink, we begin.
The good news is the bunny slope is small, so my vertigo and fear of heights should be at a minimum. However, five minutes into the lesson, it becomes apparent to me that I’m in over my head.
I’m at Bliss Village, on top of a mountain—well, a hill on the mountain, but I’m at a ski resort, mind you, attempting to ski. That’s right. Me. Gwen Sandler, wearing a pair of skis and actually considering going downhill in them.
Would somebody please call 911? I think an alien life form has taken over my body.
Chapter Four
My first trip up the rope tow nearly scares the living daylights out of me. I had visions of a gentle ride up a nice little hill. Um, no. Picture me grabbing hold of a rough, thick rope, being jerked forward and hanging on for dear life. I am convinced my grasp on said rope is the only thing standing between me and the afterlife.
Still, about halfway up the slope, I have to admit a sense of accomplishment overtakes me. When the wind hits my face, I feel like a kid on a bike who raises her arms from the handlebars and says, “Hey, look at me!” I feel so alive.
But when I see the top of the hill coming toward me at breakneck speed, I realize that could all change in a heartbeat.
Before I can consider what to do, I reach the top and let go in a flash, causing my backside to crash down with a thud. My instructor, whose name is Greg, skis up behind me.
Despite the pain, I laugh for a moment, figuring this is all part of the learning process.
“That’s all right, Gwen. You did a great job,” he says with encouragement.
I scramble to get up. Greg stares at me. I struggle once again to rise, my arms growing weaker by the minute, and nothing happens. With my eyes, I plead to him for help, but he continues to stare back at me. I’m at a definite disadvantage here, but once I get all this stuff off, he’d better run.
“Keep your skis perpendicular to the slope, put your poles to the side and push yourself up,” Greg says.
Easy for him to say. I strive to do that, but somehow in all the grunting and moving, my skis get turned. By the time I get myself up, I wobble a couple of times, glance at Greg, who is exchanging a smile with a pretty skier standing close by, and before I know it, my instability thrusts me forward. I go sailing down the slope, arms and poles waving wildly in the air, my legs splitting so far apart, I could win a national cheerleading competition. My scream punctuates the air and people scramble to get out of my way. It seems an eternity, but I zip to the end of the slope and plop hard upon the ground, my derriere growing intensely uncomfortable by now.
People around me stare, point and laugh. Two thoughts come to mind.
I hate skiing.
I might have to hurt somebody.
“Uh-oh, did somebody forget the perpendicular ski thing?” Greg says, flashing his handsome smile.
Just how much do you enjoy those pearly whites, buster? My thoughts are turning ugly, and I need to rein them in. I merely smile and this time, he helps me up.
“Now, Gwen, we’re going to try this again. Try to push your shins into the tongue of your boots, keep your knees bent. You forgot the snowplow/wedge position. Any time you feel yourself sliding downward, snowplow your skis. Remember, front tips are almost touching, back of skies bowed outward.” He demonstrates.
I don’t want to try this again. Ever. I’m cold, hungry and my arms are shaking. Still, I’ve paid for this lesson, and I’ve got to follow through. Besides, if I don’t learn to ski and the ski lift at Windsor Mountain malfunctions, I’ll have to stay in Cool Beanz all night on top of the mountain where bears and moose might decide to drop in for a late-night snack. I have to learn to ski.
Greg takes me through several more runs down the hill, teaches me a few more tricks of the trade—or tries to, anyway—and then our hour is up.
“Listen, I know this is your first time, but you did a good job, really.”
“Thanks,” I say, knowing he’s getting paid to say those things.
“I would suggest you try to go down the beginner slopes and get a feel for real skiing.” His smile is back in place.
I nod, say my goodbye and turn to look for the flattest ground to scoot across. Forget the practice business, I want some lunch, and I want it now. A little hot chocolate or a mocha sounds pretty good, too.
It takes me a good half hour to get myself out of all the skiing paraphernalia, retrieve my handbag from my locker and head to my car—with my dignity barely intact. I could have stopped at their restaurant, but I figure when I’m getting paid room and board, why pay for food somewhere else? Besides, I need a nap.
“So how did it go?” Mitch asks, as I climb out of my car. Is this guy eager to hear about the competition? Nervous? Worried?
“Oh fine. I did a little skiing,” I say, confident that I have not told a lie. I did do a little skiing. Very little.
He looks worried. “I know their slopes are bigger, better and all that.” He looks around. “I think we’ll do fine, though, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I assure him, as though I know what I’m talking about—which I don’t. “Ours will be a cozy establishment,” I say, feeling embarrassed that I said ours instead of his. He looks at me and flashes a grin.
“Please don’t take this as harassment of any kind, but I’m really glad you’re here, Gwen.” He walks with me up to the B and B.
If this is harassment, baby, bring it on.
“Thanks.”
I slip on a slight incline in the snow, and Mitch reaches out and grabs my arm to steady me. “So do you think you can be happy here?”
I try to gather my wits about me, but I can’t get past the touch of his hand. I know he has his gloves on, but I still feel the heat of his hand.
I take a deep breath, stare at the snow and mentally shake myself. I have to tell him about the whole ski problem. “Mitch, listen, I need to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah?”
“Hey, you two,” Granny calls out the back door. “You’d better get in here. Your food is getting cold.”
“We’re coming, Granny.” Mitch’s hold on my arm tightens as he helps me through the snow so we can get inside quicker.
My heart sinks. I have to let him know that I can’t ski, and I have to tell him about Guacamole. I hate to spring it on him before opening day. One thing for sure. He’ll be furious with me no matter when he finds out.
“We’ll have to talk later. When Granny ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy,” he says with a laugh.
It’s nothing compared to how you’re going to feel when I tell you what I have to tell you, I think to myself. Suddenly, I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.
I’m fairly miserable through lunch, picking at my food, wondering how I’ve gotten myself into this mess.
“What’s the matter, aren’t you hungry?” Granny asks, pointing to my hamburger minus two bites, and the full stack of chips and apple slices still on my plate.
I look at Mitch and see concern in his eyes. Though I hardly know him, I know that I don’t want to hurt him. He can hardly wait for opening day, and I don’t want to ruin it for him.
“I’m fine. Just not very hungry.”
Mitch relaxes. “I’m meeting with the workers in a few minutes. That should take about an hour. We’ll be going over last-minute details and such. They’ll check out their equipment. After that I’ll show you around, and take you to Cool Beanz. You need to meet Lisa Jamison, the woman who will be working with you. She’ll only be here on an as-needed basis, though. That’s the best she can do since she already has another part-time job, and attends community college.” He shrugs. “I’ll take what I can get.”
Obviously. He’s hired a woman with a fear of heights.
“If things get really busy, we’ll hire more help later.”
I nod.
“Lisa will be training you. She’s taken care of a lot of the setup, but you need to get started before the crowds roll in.” He grins.
I was hoping to stall the inevitable by working on menu plans, taking inventory, placing orders and such at the B and B, but I guess that’s not going to happen. I can do this. I can do this.
We finish eating our meal, and I’m praying for ways to tell him my, um, less than strong points.
Mitch wipes his mouth with his napkin and scoots away from the table. “Great meal, Granny.” He turns to me. “I’ll be back and get you in an hour.”
I nod then look to Granny to offer help with cleaning things up but one look at her tells me she might hurt me. She shakes her head before I can say anything and starts clearing the dishes.
“I’ll go up to my room for a while,” I say.
“Take your time. I’ll be back and get you,” Mitch says. His words are soothing.
“Thanks.” I trudge my way up the stairs and think this might be a good time for a word with the Lord.
“Moms whose kids are in school fill the positions needed in the rental building.” Mitch’s words come out in frosty puffs as we make our way around the mountain. He introduces me to the new employees along the way, we put on snow boots and skis, and I’m thinking life as I have always known it—you know, where you breathe and eat, that sort of thing—is about to come to an end.
Dressed in all the ski stuff, we shuffle toward the lift. “I’ve invited some friends to ski this afternoon so we can kind of have a trial run with all the workers here. Tomorrow will be much the same. Candace and I will wander about, making sure everything is in place and running smoothly,” Mitch says, pointing to the various work stations.
I glance at the employees as they mill around the area. The place looks alive with business, and I can’t help feeling excited for Mitch. Must be wonderful to live out a dream. I don’t even know what my dream is.
I watch a lift float heavenward, and I gulp out loud. Fortunately, there’s enough distraction that Mitch doesn’t seem to notice.
I want to go home. To my Tumbleweed, Arizona, home.
Now.
My heart quickens, and I’m sure I will have a coronary right this very minute. My knees wobble, and I have to give myself a pep talk.
“You doing all right?” he asks.
This is my way out, and I know it. But how can I let him down at a time like this? He needs me, right? I can do this. “I’m fine.” So maybe I’ve had better days, but why worry him?
He smiles, and I schlep directly behind him toward the ski lift. The lift looms ominously before me. Marie Antoinette comes to mind.
There must be a trick to getting onto these ski lifts. I’m praying whatever it is, I can do it, and quickly. Have I mentioned I’m a klutz? Not horribly, but I do have my moments. Right now I’m praying this isn’t one of them.
The wind is still, almost as though creation is holding its breath. Mitch and I step up to board the ski lift. My pulse beats against my temple. My hands feel clammy inside my gloves, and I’m tempted to take them off, but fear holds me perfectly still.
It would be a cinch to board without the skis, but when you have contraptions the size of California redwoods attached to your feet, well, it changes things, that’s all.
I dare a glance at Mitch. He’s smiling and waving at friends. His eyes dance; his face glows. This lifestyle agrees with him. Me, on the other hand? Let me serve hot coffee, throw around a few balloons and I’m in my element.
“Here it comes,” he announces, causing my stomach to flip.
I’ve seen people do this on TV. They step in place and allow the lift to scoop them on board. I watch Mitch, and he takes the same stance. I follow suit. The lift takes me unaware, but I’m on and that’s half the battle. I hear Mitch let out a contented sigh.
