Her Last Letter (20 page)

“You’ve taken lessons, right?” asked Bob.

She waved a hand. “Dozens. I thought about hiring someone tomorrow, to accompany us, lead us around the mountain-save my ass if I get in trouble.” She nodded slightly at me. “Trevor tells me you ski very well.”

“I’ve been skiing a long time.”

“So, is that what I need, time on the slopes?”

“Sure … and patience. It takes a little while to get the basics down.”

“Well, that’s one thing I don’t have. Patience. Maybe you could help me a little tomorrow, and we can skip the instructor?”

“Ah … an instructor is probably not such a bad idea. I don’t think I can teach-”

“Nonsense. No instructor. Gwyn will show us how it’s done.”

She directed our waiter to bring us another bottle of wine, then with a delicate flip of her fingers, expertly cracked and removed another length of crabmeat from its shell.

I was up by seven the next morning. I could have slept a little longer, but Trevor wasn’t being exactly quiet, singing in the shower, using his electric shaver with the bathroom door wide open, and clomping around the bedroom in ski boots.

I looked up from the covers and smirked at him, dressed only in men’s briefs and the boots. “Should I ask what you’re doing? Is it really going to be warm enough for that outfit?”

“I’m breaking the boots in a little, so my feet don’t hurt later. You’d be wise to do the same thing.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I sat up in bed. “What are we doing for breakfast?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to take a long breakfast. And the lines could be bad. There’s food in the fridge. Eggs and English muffins and cereal.”

I climbed out of bed. “Okay, then I’ll make breakfast.”

The sun was shining through the blinds promising a beautiful day for skiing. I opened the front door and looked up toward the steep intimidating face of Aspen Mountain-also known as Ajax-then shut the door against the incoming rush of freezing air. “It’s cold out there,” I called to Trevor. “Better dress warm, honey.”

“I plan to.” He stepped from the hall and held up two outfits he’d brought to ski in, a royal blue ski suit, and a maroon jacket and ski pants. “Which do you think?”

“Which one is the warmest?”

“How would I know? I’ve never worn either one.”

“They’re probably both good, just wear a thick sweater underneath, a wool one. Which one would you rather wear?”

“I think the jacket. It would be easier to take off when we go inside to eat, but I like the ski suit. You know, I think I’ll wear the ski suit.” He walked back out of the room.

So glad I could help, I thought, then headed to the kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs and muffins from the refrigerator.

The plan was to meet at the gondolas. We arrived before Bob and Sylvia, and at eight forty-five in the morning, there was already a long line.

“I can’t wait to try these skis,” Trevor said. “Where are those guys anyway?” He slid his skis back and forth in place on the snow. “The wax seems good. It’s not sticking. How’s yours?”

“Great, so far.”

He pointed at my skis. “Those are the exact same skis a lot of the women World Cup skiers were using last year.”

“I know. I’m sure I’ll absolutely love them. Good choice.”

“You’ll have to slow down just so the rest of us can keep up with you.”

“Trevor,” I said, looking around to make sure Sylvia and Bob hadn’t skied up without me noticing, “she’s not really expecting me to try and teach her to ski, is she?”

“I have no idea. But don’t worry about it. Give her a couple tips and leave it at that.”

“I
know
how to ski. I
don’t
know how to teach people. There’s a big difference between skiing well and having the proper training to instruct someone.”

“She probably just said it to make you feel good.”

“I doubt that.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Is she going to be able to ski here? There’s a lot less beginner terrain on Ajax than there is over at Snowmass or Buttermilk.”

“Maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe she’s a better skier than she let on.”

“She’d better be.” Then I realized Trevor wasn’t listening.

“Hey,” he shouted. “It’s about time. The lifts close at three-thirty.”

“It’s nine a.m.,” Sylvia called back. “We’re right on time.”

She was wearing red again, a red ski suit that emphasized every curve, and so tight I wondered how she moved. She didn’t intimidate me though. My own navy stretch pants and silvery-blue ski jacket looked just as good, better in fact.

Sylvia sidled up to me, but smiled at Trevor. “What a glorious day.”

“Incredible,” Trevor agreed.

Each of us reached down toward our ski bindings, unsnapped our boots from the skis, then brought our skis upright. We quickly moved into the line for the gondolas, the crowd so thick now that skiers’ bodies pressed against one another, jostling for position. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that I’d already become separated from the group. I suspected Sylvia was responsible for that move. I stopped and waited for the three to catch up, letting the crush of skiers carrying skis and poles push past me.

“The joys of being first on the lift,” said Trevor. “It will be better once we’re on the mountain.”

“I don’t know. This isn’t so bad,” said Bob, “depending on where you’re standing.” He was positioned behind a tall Nordic-looking blonde. “Anywhere else I could get sued for this.”

“Shut up, Robert,” said Sylvia.

“What’d I say?”

Finally, it was our turn and the gondola swung in and slowed. Trevor, Bob, and I jumped inside. But Sylvia took so long at the door putting her skis into the slots outside the cab that no other skiers were able to hop on.

“I did that on purpose,” she said, stepping in just before the door closed and the gondola picked up speed, “so we could ride with each other in private.”

“I’ll bet you did,” said Bob.

“I did.” She stared at us all.

For a while, I ignored their conversation and simply enjoyed the view from the gondola as it smoothly swept us high up the mountain. Tiny skiers seemed to dance on the slopes below, the town of Aspen disappearing behind us as the cab ascended a rise and sailed past colossal pines toward the farthest reaches of Aspen Mountain.

Finally, the gondola slowed again at the top. We exited and retrieved our skis. The four of us stood there, surveying our trail maps.

“Looks like we can get over to Spar Gulch from here,” said Bob, “and that’s an easier run. But all the other runs are difficult, true blacks or blues.”

“And that’s what I’ll be if we take them,” Sylvia said.

Trevor leaned on his poles, taking in the panoramic view of the mountains. “It would be good to warm up on something easy. I’m for that.”

“So am I,” said Bob.

“Sure,” I said.

Trevor skied off first, then Bob, then Sylvia. I took off last.

I watched as Trevor swung his skis back and forth smoothly over the snow in parallel consecutive arcs, having no difficulty. He was a good athlete, a confident skier who could handle any terrain, though he wasn’t at ease on extremely steep slopes. Given that he’d skied only a few years, he’d picked up the sport quickly.

Bob, from what I could tell watching him make a few turns, appeared to be a good intermediate skier. His skis were parallel most of the time, but he skidded his turns instead of carving them. Other than the fact it was early in the season and his form was probably rusty, chances were good he could ski something more difficult, though I couldn’t tell on this flat ballroom slope.

Sylvia tried to make parallel turns, but forced them, almost willing her skis to turn. I had no idea what would happen should she end up on something steeper. If she could resort to a good aggressive snowplow, and stopped often to slow her speed, she might be okay.

I liked the skis Trevor had picked out for me, fairly lightweight and not too stiff. They worked the soft snow smoothly, and the edges were sharp, should I hit a patch of ice. Though it didn’t appear there would be any ice today, certainly not if the sun stayed out.

We stopped farther up and rejoined.

“Wow,” said Bob. “The snow is great.” He was breathing hard, and I suspected the altitude had winded him.

“Yes,” said Sylvia. “How did I do, Gwyn?”

“Fine. How did you feel?”

“Great, but of course it isn’t steep at all here.”

“I’m not crazy about steep,” said Trevor. “I like the intermediate runs, where I can cruise. And these new skis, I can’t believe how great they turn. You’d love them, Bob.”

“Yeah? Maybe I should try a pair. What are they? Volkls?”

We continued down, stopping and starting several times, all managing to stay on our feet. I didn’t try to show off, though I could have. I could have easily picked up speed and left them all a half-mile back in no time. But then I might also never find them again. And I wasn’t about to leave Sylvia alone with Trevor.

We wound our way down the mountain and stopped in the line to a four-place chairlift. Bob and Trevor studied the trail maps again.

“It looks as if we can pick up several different trails from here,” said Bob, “including several black runs we need to avoid, unless you and Gwyn want to ski them.” He looked up.

“Not particularly,” said Trevor. He pointed to a spot on the map. “But here’s a great one we might try, Ruthie’s to Roch Run.”

Bob and Trevor both looked to Sylvia.

“Maybe I’ll try that after lunch,” she said. “So far I’m having fun on the easier runs.”

“True,” said Bob. “And we haven’t skied this one.”

We took the chair up.

It appeared to me that Sylvia was going to make all the decisions unless someone stopped her. As we slid off the chair at the next stop, I sidled over and whispered to Trevor, “Why don’t we do Ruthie’s ourselves and meet them at the bottom? We’re never going to ski anything good this way.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

But he didn’t answer because Bob and Sylvia skied over to join us.

“You two go ahead and ski the difficult run,” said Sylvia. “Bob and I can do this one and meet you at the bottom.”

I looked to Trevor.

“No,” he said. “Let’s all ski together. It’s more fun that way.”

Sylvia seemed pleased with that response, but added, “Well, I tried.”

I again followed them slowly down the slope, but I was steaming. Eventually, Sylvia crossed the tips of her skis and tumbled. Trevor rushed over to her and gently helped her up. Watching this made me so angry I thought about leaving and skiing to the chair alone, but I knew that was exactly what Sylvia would have liked.

Eventually, I cornered Trevor again. “Are we ever going to get to
ski
anything?”

“Look,” he said. “I can’t leave them. Obviously, you don’t see that. We’re their guests. Okay?” His tone softened. “But you go on and ski. I’ll make some excuse, say your boots are hurting or something.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t want to.”

“Then don’t complain.”

We stopped for lunch at twelve-thirty, and though we could have stayed on the mountain,
we
-that is-
Sylvia
, decided to have lunch in town.

I didn’t say a word as I brought my skis through the door of the condo and changed into my snow boots.

Trevor was quiet too. Then, as we walked back out the door, he turned to me. “Would you rather I’d left you at home for the weekend? It’s not my fault we’re not as free as we’d like to be. But we’re here, aren’t we? I’m not working.”

I nodded.

“And we’re skiing,” he said. “And now we’re going to have a great lunch. I’m having fun. Try to have fun with me. Please.”

“I just don’t like Sylvia.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

He frowned, then shook his head. “It’s because of what I said before, isn’t it? About her being attracted to me. Gwyn, I work with her. I have to be nice, but I’m not interested in her. Don’t go and get jealous on me. It’s flattering, but it’s silly.”

“I am not jealous of her. She’s bossy and self-centered, that’s all.”

“Okay, but she’s basically
my boss
right now, and this deal is very important to me, so try to remember that the rest of the weekend.”

Lunch took an hour and a half, and by the time we were back on the gondola, it was past two o’clock. Again, we took an easy run, the same we had started the day on.

Midway down the slope, Sylvia skied over and stopped near me. “I think I’m ready for that ski lesson now, Gwyn, if you don’t mind. My legs feel warmed up enough to try something more difficult, though maybe not right away. What am I doing wrong?”

Trevor gave me a look, and I understood.
Do not say anything that could offend.

“Well, it’s not that you’re doing anything wrong really.”

Sylvia nodded eagerly.

“But on a slope like this, I like to let the terrain help me make the turn, let the ski do what it’s shaped to do. Actually, if you press the ski on its edge into the snow even slightly, it will start to turn.” I demonstrated. “Bend each knee into the slope to put the skis on their edge.”

Sylvia tried it, but fell. She raised her gloved hands in the air and laughed. “I’m such a klutz,” she said, “but don’t help me. I can do this myself.” She struggled to her feet.

Bob and Trevor watched all this with interest.

“The thing is,” I said, “you have to change your approach on a steeper slope, otherwise you’ll be going ninety miles an hour into a tree.”

“I knew there was more to it,” she said.

“Actually, you should practice making”-I hated to say it, since so many skiers considered it a beginner move-”snowplow turns, in tight arcs, very slowly. Because that’s what you need to be able to do on a steeper slope if you get into trouble. Also, as a last resort, you can always stop and side-step down the slope until you reach a place you feel confident.”

“Snowplow turns? I thought I was all done with those.”

“They come in handy,” I said, “and even good skiers resort to them if they get in a really tough spot.”

“Well then, let’s try a more difficult blue run,” she said.