Tough Cookie

Arch turned toward his window with much aggravated shuffling of his down jacket. Suddenly I deeply regretted offering to take him snowboarding this morning, especially since I had just remembered Arthur Wakefield informing me that the mountain would be closed for a few hours for the Forest Service investigation into Doug’s accident. I sighed and glanced at Arch. If he’d been so worried about me last night that he’d canceled his overnight with Todd, why wasn’t he being nice this morning? Ah, adolescence. In any event, if Lettie wanted little silver pine trees dangling from her earlobes, the girl was out of luck.

We passed the lake, and I tried to put Lettie out of my head. Streetlights ringing the snow-covered sweep of ice revealed a lone fisherman with a lamp attached to his cap. I could not imagine how cold he was. No fish could taste that good.

I snuggled into my warm leather seat. The gorgeous Rover boasted every possible amenity, and gave a smooth ride, to boot. Julian had been wonderful to loan it to me. When it struck me that Julian could find out what Lettie wanted for Christmas, I instantly banished the thought. Perhaps I was trying to buy a Christmas present, a girlfriend, and happiness for my son.

No more.

CHAPTER 9

By the time I gingerly pulled the Rover onto the interstate, ski traffic was flowing steadily westward. Cars and trucks hummed through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Arch was asleep, or pretending to be. West of the Divide, the snow had finally stopped. A bank of thick white clouds clung to the far mountaintops. Above it, an azure-tinted sky promised sunshine. From the high drifts lining the roadway, wide swathes of snow blew across the lane dividers and obscured them. I was too timid to take my eyes off the road to see if there were any signs of my accident. The last thing I needed was to total another vehicle.

Tom had called the wrecker service that dealt with near-the-tunnel mishaps and asked them to tow my van to a secure storage lot in Dillon, near the tunnel. After I finished in Killdeer, I would pick up the historic skis on the way home. We wouldn’t try to sell them again—of that I was absolutely certain.

When I made the turnoff for Killdeer, a red-tailed hawk swooped close to the Rover. I braked and Arch woke with a start. After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed to a herd of elk along a rocky stretch of road only sparsely covered with snow. Since he’d turned fourteen, he’d ceased giving direct apologies. He simply resumed speaking as if nothing had happened. While I found this disconcerting, at least it was better than silence. Eileen Druckman complained that Todd gave her the silent treatment on a daily basis.

I turned onto Camp Robber Avenue, named after a wild bird frequently seen on the slopes. The killdeer was also a bird commonly seen in our state, and its distinctive “kill-dy, kill-dy, kill-dy” call could be identified by even the most inept birders, among whom I counted myself. But the loud, invasive camp robber ruled the slopes, boldly hopping onto picnic tables, pecking at leftover hamburgers, then carrying off its booty to nearby pinetops.

I passed a series of gray, white, and beige clapboard double-wide houses, actually massive duplexes marketed as condominiums. This was a misnomer, of course. Any half-house here possessed more floor space than our Aspen Meadow home.

I was surprised to see Eileen watching at a window when I pulled into her driveway. She wore a robe undoubtedly designed by the same guy who’d dressed Elizabeth II for her coronation. I glanced at my watch: eight-thirty. I’d made great time. Still, the anxiety in Eileen’s face was worrisome. I told myself I could spend a maximum of thirty minutes here before taking off to find Arthur’s place. But it was important to check on Eileen, and comfort her if she needed it. If Todd was in one of his silent phases and Jack was cooking at the bistro, my friend could be desperate for adult conversation. I’d been there myself.

But Jack answered the door. He was certainly a handsome dude, and I wondered again—although I’d never asked Eileen—exactly what had brought the two of them together. Disheveled half-braided dark hair surrounded his pale, unshaven, impish-looking face. His lustrous dark eyes were as big as Bambi’s. His well-built, slim-hipped torso was shown off to good advantage by a turtleneck and printed chef’s pants. A voice deep in my reptilian brain announced that this guy could melt women as easily as he did butter.

“Enter, O famed culinary one,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ve made you a pecan-sour-cream coffee cake.”

I grinned back. No matter what people tell you, caterers do get hungry. Ravenous, in fact. Arch tramped up the beige wool-carpeted stairs toward Todd’s room without any kind of farewell.

“Want to have an early lunch at Cinda’s?” I called after him.

“No!” floated down the stairs.