Icing on the Lake (11 page)

I noticed he had a bruise near his eye, like Sean. “Ouch. Your face doesn’t look too good either,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“No! I mean, your face is fine, your face is great. Just a little beat up.”

“It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt. Superficial scrape is all. What’s for dinner tonight?” Conor asked as he started to pack the groceries.

“Chicken.”

“Yeah. I kind of figured.” He dropped the package of chicken into a plastic bag and it landed with a loud thump.

“Easy. Don’t break the chicken,” I said.

“I think it’s been broken already,” he said dryly. “So, just chicken. Baked? Fried?”

“Chicken with onions, mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes,” I said.

“No kidding,” he commented as he bagged each item in the same order I listed it. He stopped when he got to the tomatoes, and shook the plastic bag so that three of them rolled out. He started to juggle them, saying “I’m all about the tomatoes.”

The cashier and I looked at him, and then at
each other, and exchanged irritated, he-is-so-annoying-and-we-have-no-patience-for-this glances.

When he dropped one tomato, he swore, then quickly let the other two fall right into a waiting plastic bag. “So, Italian night or what?” he asked.

“I don’t know what we’re having, actually. It’s Gretchen’s list, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of Italian dish. If you must know.”

“Oh, I had to know. I’m very nosy when it comes to my customers’ meal planning.”

“You are?” I laughed.

“No, not usually. People buy stuff that you don’t even want to think about putting together for a meal.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Like…prunes and ground beef,” he said. “Lots and lots of both.” He made a face.

“Conor,” the cashier, an older woman, said in a weary, warning tone. “More bagging, less commentizing.”

“Commentizing?” Conor dropped a loaf of Italian bread and a package of thin spaghetti into a new plastic bag. “Mary, you are making
up new words every day.”

“I have to do something to amuse myself,” she said. “You sure don’t help.”

“Help? Did you say help?” Conor cleared his throat. “Yes? Okay. I’d be glad to help you, Miss,” he said in a loud voice.

“
Miss
?” I repeated as I followed him out the automatic doors, past a bunch of giveaway newspapers in wire displays and a collection of carts and baskets. “Since when am I a Miss?”

“What do you want to be? Ma’am?” He quickly wheeled the metal cart toward the door.

“How about just…how about you let me carry my own bags?” I said.

“We have a rule here. Two bags’ worth, and you get me,” he said.

“Remind me to shop lightly next time, then,” I said. “Anyway, what’s in that bag? One thing?”

Conor laughed and strode out the automated exit doors ahead of me. “I wanted some air, okay? It gets boring in there.” He turned to the left as we headed across the parking lot, just as I turned right.

The cart smashed into my shin, then its
wheels rolled right over my foot. “Hey! Watch it!” I cried. I jumped back out of the way, and Conor stopped in the middle of the lane to apologize.

“Look out!” I said, pushing Conor as a car came toward him, and he grabbed the cart to catch his balance.

The car veered around Conor—and instead sprayed
me
with slush as it went past.

“You are a seriously dangerous person. You know that?” Conor commented as he wheeled his way out of the driving lane.

“Hey. I’m the one who just got her foot run over. Not to mention drenched.” I looked at the bottom of my jeans, which were now soaked with water and slush.

“Like it hurt. There’s nothing in this basket,” Conor said as we started to move toward the minivan again.

“Then why are you carrying it out for me?” I asked.

“I told you! I wanted some air. Do you know how boring it gets, arranging things in geometric shapes in bags?” he asked.

I laughed. “Well, enjoy the fresh air. By all
means.” I lifted the back of the minivan and he put the grocery bags inside, even though I could have done it myself with no problem. I hoped he wasn’t expecting a tip.

“Well, thanks,” I said, closing the hatch.

“No problem. Sorry about your foot,” Conor said.

It was hard to take him seriously when he was standing there in an apron. “You should take some time off or something,” I said. “You work too much.”

“Oh, yeah? This, coming from someone whose idea of work is collecting text messages?” he scoffed.

How could one person be so nice, and so rude, at the same time? “Okay, well,
bye
,” I said. “Have a great night.”

Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about what had happened that morning. Things with Sean were fixed, and fine. Things with Conor were back to normal: in other words, strange.

“E
xcuse me,” I said as I climbed into the small, red pickup truck. “But what are you doing here?”

Shouldn’t you be at work?
I wanted to say.
A double latte goes unmade right now because of you.

“Ask him.” Conor didn’t look thrilled as I scooted over across the bench seat to sit next to him. Sean climbed in after me and slammed the door closed.

“Don’t slam it,” Conor said, aggravated. He looked like he needed a few more cups of coffee or something. I remembered Paula saying that he wasn’t a morning person.

“I didn’t slam it,” Sean protested. “I
closed
it.”

I sat there between the two of them: Conor
was behind the wheel, my left leg was jammed against the shift-stick, and Sean was as close as he could be to my right leg. The mattress for the charity event was tied to the roof, on the truck topper.

“He insisted on driving when Ian couldn’t get the car like he thought,” Sean explained.

“I didn’t want to drive,” Conor said. “You made me.”

“No, you just didn’t want
me
to drive your truck,” Sean replied.

“Exactly.”

“So. Nice weather today,” I said, trying to interrupt before they turned this into a full-scale, all-day argument. “Sunny, not too cold…”

“Believe me, there are things I’d rather be doing,” Conor mumbled.

“No doubt,” Sean said. “Like harassing someone else?”

We pulled out of the neighborhood and started heading down Interstate Highway 35. If we took this highway north, we’d end up back at my hometown. Which maybe wasn’t such a bad idea, with things going so strangely
this morning. But we were going south.

I was completely confused by the Benson Boys.

First, one of them basically starts dating me and we kiss. But then I see him with another girl. He says it’s nothing, but I’m worried. And we kiss some more.

Second, the other one acts like he thinks I’m stupid. Then all of a sudden he starts following me everywhere. Then he almost sort of kisses me.

And now here I was, smushed between the two of them, with a mattress bouncing on the rooftop, being buffeted by the wind as we reached sixty miles an hour.

Conor accidentally put his hand on my leg as he reached to push the stick shift into overdrive. “Oh, sorry,” he said, turning to me with a bashful smile.

“Sorry,” Sean muttered. “You’re not sorry. Well, you are, but not that way.” Then he snuggled closer to me, and put his hand on my other leg.

I wondered how far away this Buck Hill
place was, and whether we’d all survive the journey intact.

When we reached the ski area, we had to park at the outskirts of the lot because we were a little on the late side. Conor and Sean hoisted the mattress off the truck and carried it on their heads over to the staging area, near the rope tow.

A local radio station was sponsoring the event, along with several other businesses. They had tables set up and were selling T-shirts to raise money. Music was blasting from speakers on top of a black van. There must have been a few hundred kids milling around, some in costumes and some as spectators, and lots of parents, too.

When we went up to the table to register, I wandered up and down the line, checking out the other organizations there.

“Are you going to sign up for the loppet?” Conor asked as he and Sean came up behind me.

“No. What’s a loppet?” I said.

“A ski race,” Conor said. “It’s Norwegian.
This one’s in Mora and it’s called the Vasaloppet—it’s 30K.”

“Oh. Well, then I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve never really done much cross-country skiing before. I tried telemarketing once—”

“Telemarketing?” Conor burst out laughing. “Did you say ‘telemarketing’?”

“What,” I said.

“I think you mean telemarking,” he said.

I grinned. “Oh yeah. That sounds better.”

And everyone at the table started laughing at me, and both Sean and Conor were laughing, too. The one time they agreed on something, and it had to come at
my
expense.

“Yeah, that’s the worst kind of skiing,” Conor said. “You have to hold the phone to your ear while you’re going downhill. There’s the do-not-call list, and then there’s the do-not-fall list,” Conor added.

“Very funny,” I said. But I couldn’t stop myself from smiling, because it actually was.

“I’m going to go find the guys—we’re meeting over by the locker room. I’ll be right back with your costume,” Sean said. “Ian’s bringing it.”

After he jogged off, Conor and I stood there for a minute, looking around at all the other contestants—if that’s what you would call them. “Don’t you need to find your team?” I asked him.

“Oh, no. I’m not doing this,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Are you serious? I’m just here to laugh at everyone else.”

“Why? Is there going to be a lot to laugh about?” I asked.

“Yeah. I think so,” Conor said. “For example? Here come the seven idiots.”

Sean and his friends were walking toward us. Their costumes were simple, no-brainers: They wore hockey team jerseys, over jeans. Some of them wore ball caps. A few of them carried hockey sticks.

“Hey,” a few of them greeted Conor, and me. As they all gathered around me, all I can say is that one or more of their shirts definitely hadn’t been
washed
since the last game. Which I guess made it an authentic costume.

“Which one’s Dopey? That you?” Conor asked Sean.

“Ha ha,” Sean muttered. “Look, Conor, you’ve got to help us out.”

“Wait a second. I only count six hockey players,” I said.

“Exactly. That’s why you’ve gotta do it with us, Conor,” Sean said. He held out a jersey. “Tommy’s sick. You have to fill in for him.”

Conor stared at the jersey. “You want me to wear the sick guy’s jersey?”

“It’s not Tommy’s, it’s one of mine,” Ian said. “I brought an extra after he called to say he couldn’t make it.”

“Go change,” Sean said.

“Wait. Who said I was doing this?” Conor said as he caught the jersey Ian tossed to him.

Then Sean held out a sparkling tiara to me. “Here’s your crown.”

“Snow White wore a crown? Really?” I asked. I put it on top of my head and mashed it down so that it would stay there. “Okay, that was easy. I’m ready!”

“And…here’s your outfit.” Ian handed me a black garment bag.

“Oh.” I peeked at the dress inside. I nearly dropped it. The costume looked like it might fit
someone half my height. I held it up against me. “You cannot be serious. This is going to be way too short on me!”

“Hey, maybe we’ll score more points with the judges.” Sean winked at me, and his friends laughed.

I don’t want to score more points with the judges
, I thought.
I really only want to score points with you
.

Therefore, I’d wear the outfit.

“Be right back,” I told the guys. Unless of course I ditched this entire event and ran for the hills. There were lots of hills around. It wouldn’t be hard.

“You have to be kidding me. This whole thing makes no sense,” I muttered as I changed into the outfit in the women’s locker room. Fortunately there were a few private changing rooms so I didn’t have to try it on in front of everyone. “Since when did Snow White hang out with hockey players?”

This must be what’s known as “taking one for the team,”
I thought as I examined the skimpy cocktail-waitress-type outfit. It must have been from some sexy costume shop. Or sex shop, rather.

There was a short black skirt—a mini—and a white blouse that cinched right below the bust line. I was a Vegas act waiting to happen. I slipped my pink, furry boots back on, to keep my legs warm. Then I put on some deep red lipstick I’d borrowed from Gretchen for the part, and fixed my hair with the tiara. Wasn’t Snow White a brunette? And I was pretty sure she didn’t parade her cleavage around town. But oh well. This was for Sean.

I put on my jacket and stepped slowly out of the locker room. A couple of girls gave me critical glances, and I winced. Why am I doing this? I wondered. No wonder that other girl dropped out. She probably saw the costume, then changed her mind.

When I finally met up with Sean, he was waiting anxiously for me. “Come on, they’re all waiting at the top. Our start time is in fifteen minutes,” he said.

He didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact I was all legs. Did this not faze him? Or was I not impressive as a leggy fairy tale heroine?

On our way up the ski lift (and I don’t even want to think of the view from below), a team
went by on its way down in a cardboard ship that said, “Pirates of Lake Minnetonka.” A guy who looked a lot like Captain Jack Sparrow was at the helm, while ghosts—some real, some made of sheets—bobbed behind him.

Couldn’t I have been on
that
mattress ship?
I’d kill to be a ghost right now
, I thought.
No pun intended
.

We got to the top of the hill, and I saw the mattress and its pseudo-platform that I was supposed to lie on. It looked like an old desk with a few sleeping bags piled on top of it. Whatever these guys ended up doing with the rest of their lives, you can bet it wouldn’t be construction or design. One of them handed me a clump of plastic flowers to hold.

When the M.C. introduced our group, the guys raised their hands over their heads, like victorious boxers, and everyone cheered.

“You have to take off your coat,” Sean told me as he bowed to the crowd.

“I think she should keep it on,” Conor argued.

“I’m with you,” I said to Conor. I wasn’t about to do
any
bowing, needless to say.

“Come on, Kirst. Let ’em see the costume, or
it won’t count,” Sean urged.

“Okay, fine.” I kept my jacket on until the last second. Then I flung it over to the side, and stood there awkwardly grinning and waving at the crowd. Meanwhile, the rest of the team was standing there sort of gaping at me.

We all gathered on the mattress, me lying on the platform and the guys standing around me, sort of in surfing stances.

“Whose bright idea was it to put non-stick Pam on the bottom of the mattress again?” someone asked Sean as we began hurtling down the slick snow.

“Come on, this is fun!” Sean cried.

Needless to say, we lasted about halfway down the steep hill. Guys tumbled off, or dropped to their knees to stay on. We were setting some kind of land speed mattress record, that was for sure.

At the bottom, we crashed into the hay bales and everyone tumbled on top of me, especially Sean. It was almost just like when we rolled off the toboggan, except this time I had less clothes on. Funny things happened when we
went down slopes together.

Conor was one of the first people to get up. He leaned down to help pull me to my feet. “Come on, get up, your fans await.”

A huge cheer went up from the crowd gathered to watch, as we untangled ourselves, all stood up, and stepped off the mattress.

“Skirt,” Conor said out of the corner of his mouth.

I reached back and realized that my skirt had flipped up in the back. I pulled it back into place and muttered, “Thanks.”

Then the guys surrounded me, and we all posed for pictures. I didn’t think we’d win any prizes for that performance, but at least we’d raised money for charity. Gretchen had kicked in fifty dollars when I told her about the event.

“Do you want to go get a hot chocolate or something?” I asked Sean as we moved out of the way, so the next team could come down the hill.
And some clothes? For me? Please?

“Sure. But I want to go down the hill a few more times—maybe jump on someone else’s
ride,” Sean said. “Don’t you?”

“Not without changing first,” I said. “Are you crazy?”

“Crazy about that costume,” Sean said. “Can I call you ‘Snow’ from now on?”

“I’m contemplating suing you,” I said through clenched teeth as we posed for yet another photograph. “These photos. You’re going to confiscate them, right?”

“Oh. Right. Sure.” From Sean’s reaction, I wasn’t sure if he knew what “confiscate” meant.

“Okay, now I really must go.” I tried to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he turned away to talk to some pals just as I was leaning toward him, and I ended up kissing the air instead.

I walked as inconspicuously as I could away from the stage area, making sure I didn’t take any long strides that might make my costume ride up—again.

Conor was waiting off to the side with my jacket, which he must have carried down from the top. “Thanks,” I said.

“Hold on.” Then he thought better of it, and took off
his
jacket to give me, because it was longer and would cover more of me.

“Thanks, but I’ll just go change,” I said. “I’m ready to turn into a different fairy-tale character.”

“Yeah, me too,” Conor agreed as we started to walk up toward the lodge.

Suddenly a couple of guys stepped in front of us—they looked like they were about twenty. “Hey, Snow White! Can I be your prince?” one of them asked.

I would have killed for my over-protective dad to show up right about then. Fortunately, this was something I could deal with on my own. “I don’t think so,” I said firmly.

“Come on,” the other guy said. “Aren’t we supposed to kiss you to wake you up?”

“Yeah. In your dreams,” I said. I started to walk past them, and one of them reached out to put his arm around me.

I jammed him in the ribs with my elbow, dodged out of the way, and said, “Leave me alone, or I’ll have the seven hockey players find you. They carry hockey sticks, okay?”

I heaved a sigh of relief once I was back into my own clothes—jeans and a sweater. My
furry boots looked much better with jeans than they did with a mini. I hung up the Snow White costume and put it back into the garment bag, then draped it over my arm and walked back to the lodge lounge.

Conor was waiting outside the entrance. “You’re funny. You know that?”

“What?”

“You nearly knocked that guy out!” He laughed. “So, you going to go with the tiara for the rest of the day?”