The Jeweler (6 page)

At the end of her shift, Ginger drove down the mountain, listening to the radio and the grumbling of her stomach.
Kind of a weird day, today
.

There wasn’t anything weird about the lesson. The day had been clear, the snow powder, and Miriam and Rose had skied beautifully.

What was weird was the interlude on Lulu. Ginger had stopped to help Miriam fix her buckle, as it must not have been wrenched down correctly. It was being kind of stubborn, so Ginger had stood up to take her gloves off before trying again to fix it. She and the women chatted. She’d been appreciating what a pretty day it was.

Then she’d spotted two men coming toward them. The first was very fat and dressed like a car mechanic. He had a wide smile on his face.
He wants to help out
, she’d thought.

But the one behind was more noticeable. Clad in a garbage bag, he hunched over his skis and held his arms like he was steering a car. He was wedging like there was no tomorrow but was pointed straight downhill at them. As he started to pick up speed, Ginger could barely make out a face contorting in sheer panic. She looked at Miriam and Rose.
He’s going to make bowling pins out of all of us.
The fat man must have realized her concern, and he turned around. He began to wave his arms wildly. They were all bracing for a collision, when suddenly the garbage bag man leaned over and turned left, riding his outer ski like it was on a rail. Then he was pointed down the hill in the opposite direction and began to pick up speed again. Ginger could hear him yelling. Actually, it sounded more like a high shriek of terror.

His friend, who’d stopped in front of them, maybe in an effort to break the impact, looked at Ginger. He held up his hands. “Beginner. What can I say?” Then he turned to pursue the wailing creature down the rest of Lulu.

The ladies thought it was wonderful. They regarded the whole episode as something of an adventure and had talked about it for the rest of the day. Ginger was glad no one got hurt. They’d skied down to the bottom of Lulu, and she’d half-expected to find ski patrol with a sled, carting the poor soul off. But the two men had vanished.

Later, after finishing the day with Miriam and Rose, Ginger had gone to the lodge. She’d walked through the tables and even the bar area. The fat man would’ve been easy to spot. The other man had been kind of a blur, but he’d seemed strangely familiar. The dark hair, or something. From somewhere before.

But they hadn’t been in the lodge. And even now, driving down the mountain, she couldn’t put her finger on it.

She stopped thinking so hard and laughed.
That boy needs a lesson
. She could add this to her long list of stories from teaching skiing.

Rocket, for instance. Rocket’s real name had been John. He was a three-year-old in the ski school program, and he was a terror. He knew no fear. He would gather his little self up and tuck, roaring down the steepest run. Rocket could take terrible spills and stand up from the wreckage not even shaken. On one sunny morning, Ginger and Rocket had sat and chatted on the chairlift. They’d talked about what you can talk about with a three-year-old: his dog, his preschool teacher, his mommy.

It was about the time Ginger was asking Rocket about his dog that he interrupted her.

“Miss Ginger?”

“Yes, Rocket?”

“I’m going to jump off, ’kay?”

“
Huh?”

And then he’d pitched forward. They were three towers away from the top of the chair and about twenty feet off the ground. Her heart leaped into her mouth, and she grabbed at him reflexively. He was tipped down, falling out of the chair already, and she went for the handle on his vest. Then she had him, and she was staring at the red letters
MOGUL MOUSE
on his little yellow back. Rocket screamed bloody murder and demanded to be let down so he could “jump in the fluffies.” At the top, Ginger had managed to drag him off the chair and ski down to the ski school building, basically carrying him all the way because she hadn’t wanted to let him go. Ever since then, she’d maintained an iron grip on the little ones as they rode up the chair.

Part of teaching was caretaking. Of course, it was obvious with the little ones. The three-to-five-year-olds came in at eleven forty-five for a break. They had lunch and then watched videos and hopefully napped. These littlest learners were the Mogul Mice. Some of them could actually ski moguls, too. Or anything else thrown at them, Ginger figured. Though most were more cautious than Rocket, they really did not possess a fearful bone in their bodies. Unless she’d taught it to them. Since Brad’s accident, Ginger had felt the need to be careful. She was always thinking the worst. Protecting when protection wasn’t needed. Hovering.

Even in the Mouse House, the carpeted room where they penned the children for lunch, she hovered. The other instructors ate their lunches and kept one eye on the kids, but Ginger was in the thick of the Mice. She kept so close that the kids even noticed.

One day, a splinter group of Mice decided watching movies was for “babies” and dragged out their skis. They made a game of placing an empty boot in the bindings, clicking it down, and then popping the release, sending the boot flying. Ginger swooped down on them and took the ski and boot away. Rocket was one of the instigators, and he piped up in protest.

“We’re not babies, Miss Ginger. We can do it. Go away.”

Ginger knew Rocket was right, but it didn’t melt the knot in her stomach. She wished for the impossible: control over the uncontrollable.

Of course, then Rocket would pull a stunt like the attempted swan dive from the chair, and Ginger would be glad she tried to protect them.

“It wasn’t that bad, Fender.” Sam sucked a little of the foam from the top of his mug.

“Who are you kidding? I don’t even want to talk about it. I thought I already made that very clear.” Fender stared at the oversized deco mirror behind the bar, stenciled with
The ’Vous
in red and white paint.

“What are we talking about?” Pop slid into the booth next to Fender. The red vinyl squeaked.

Fender looked at Pop. He’d never been very tall, and now age made him basically little. He’d boxed in San Francisco during high school and college—in featherweight classes, Fender assumed. He’d been wiry, but age had worn that away, too. If Fender didn’t know Pop, he’d think he might be helpless. But he wasn’t. He could be belligerent and overbearing. Women loved him, though. They thought he was “cute” or “adorable.” And Pop adored them. He loved women’s attention, which is why he came to the Rendezvous so often to hold court. The waitresses would flirt with him, bring him sandwiches (“Do you feed him?” they’d ask Fender), and play songs on the jukebox for him.

Two years ago, once he officially gave the business over to Fender, Pop took on a number of other hobbies. He’d eat breakfast with the cook at the Rendezvous and walk over to the Statehouse, if it was in session. He’d sit up in the gallery and read the newspaper, listening to roll calls or filibusters. He also liked to walk down to the library and read in the rust-colored chairs of the reference section. Sometimes Fender could tell when Pop had been to the library by the rusty lint on his clothes. Pop probably took more naps than read books, but the librarians didn’t seem to care.

Pop’s questioning gray eyes were still trained on Fender, and his sparse mustache twitched with curiosity. “Tell me, Sonny. What’d you do today?”

“Nothing.” The day had been humiliating enough. He didn’t want to his dad to know on top of it all.

“Jerry, he was in fine form.” Sam sat across the table from them, out of Fender’s striking distance.

Fender tilted his head and shot his most withering look at Sam. “I went skiing.”

“No, no, it’s better than that. We went after this girl, and Fender learned how to ski all over again. He also tried to use two old ladies as bowling pins.” Sam’s shoulders were shaking again.

As per usual, Pop focused on the woman in the conversation. “Fender went after a girl? Really? Does this mean little Sandy didn’t make you swear off women forever?”

Sam brightened. “I’d almost forgotten about Sandy. Isn’t she the one that wrote
I HATE YOU
with weed killer on your front lawn?” Sam sat back and stretched his arms out on the top of the booth, relaxed and apparently prepared for a stroll down Fender’s memory lane of exes.

Fender shifted uncomfortably. All of this attention was too much. He also felt his back stiffening.
I wonder if I can still stand up
. The skiing thing had just about killed him.

Pop waited for a response.

“Okay. I went up the mountain looking for the girlfriend. Remember the big diamond? And the guy? When I went to the funeral?”

Pop loved stories. He loved stories he was a part of, especially. “The man I found for you in the obituaries? Yes, yes, I remember. I thought you found her at the funeral.”

This is why I don’t talk to my father. It always turns into a discussion of what I didn’t do right. Or what I didn’t do, period
.

Sam chimed in. “Yeah, how come you didn’t give it to her then? Or when you saw her at her house?”

Pop pursed his lips. “You know, don’t you, Fender, that this state has stalking laws?”

“Both of you stop. I’m not going to discuss this with you if you’re not going to let me finish.” Fender signaled to the waitress. He definitely wanted a Dewar’s. “Neither of you has really seen her.”

“I saw her. Today. After you almost killed her. Yep, that was definitely her I was apologizing to, if I recall correctly. She’s actually kind of good-looking, if you go for the outdoorsy, crunchy-granola kind of girl.”

“What the hell did you just call her? Are you calling her cereal? She’s not whatever you just said. You didn’t see her at the funeral. She’s…lost, or something. It’s in her eyes. I have to do this right.”

Pop and Sam sat back and smiled broadly. Sam spoke first.

“I’m not sure there’s ever been a documented case of Fender wanting to do something right. Are you aware of one, Jerry?”

Pop slapped Fender on the back, sloshing the Dewar’s now in Fender’s hand. “Let’s give him a break. I sense something. Call it father’s intuition. Let him do this, Sam. Who knows, maybe the young lady needs a shoulder to cry on in her time of need?”

“You’re disgusting, Pop. That’s not what I’m talking about. I could just keep the ring, but she deserves it. I don’t know why, but I know she deserves better than what I usually give. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go home and cover myself with Bengay.” Fender tried to make a grand exit, but Pop had to climb out of the booth first. And then he was too sore to really stomp out.

What am I thinking?
This whole ring thing was ridiculous. He was going to go home and toss the thing. Screw the girl. She’d probably forgotten the dead guy anyway. He breezed through the bar toward the front.

He came out of the door and onto the street. And she stood in front of him. Fender choked at the sight of her. Her hair was down, framing her face and those eyes. She wore a brown jacket over a purplish dress with brown boots. She seemed to recognize him, and he tried to fight the impulse to run. Who was he kidding? He was so sore he could barely walk. He could not flee.

“Hey, the guy from Lulu. You’re still in one piece?” She stood in front of him as another woman walked up the sidewalk to meet her.

“Sorry.” He stared at her.

She dug into her purse and handed him a card. “See you later.” She and her friend walked past him into the Greek restaurant next to the Rendezvous.

He stood on the sidewalk.
Sorry? I see her, and all I can say is sorry?
Fender marveled at his stupidity.

He looked at the card in his hand.

Ginger Stevens
Professional Ski Instructor
Blackwolf Ski Resort
[email protected]
888-555-0101

Ginger. Now he knew her name.

A F
EW
D
AYS
L
ATER
, with a little Dewar’s in his stomach in place of resolve, he’d dialed the number on the card and spoken to the Blackwolf Resort Ski and Snowboard School. He hadn’t been sure of his plan or what he wanted to say, but he’d picked up the phone anyway.

A nice saleslady had answered. She sold him a private lesson with Ginger Stevens, the girlfriend, she of the green eyes, for later that very day. So here he was, driving up the mountain. This time, he’d brought the ring. It was in its velvety box, tucked in the glove compartment.

His big plan at this moment was to take the lesson, strike up a conversation, and find a gentle way to give the ring back to her. Maybe she’d mention the dead boyfriend.

Fender stopped thinking about it. When he explored the train of thought too far, it didn’t make any sense, and he had to stop.
I am going to throw up. If I don’t figure this out, I will throw up or drive off the road or something
.

Which is when Fender decided not to think about it anymore.

Ginger picked up her lesson slips in the office after the morning meeting. It was mid-January, but on Sundays, things had begun to slow down a bit. She had a lesson at nine with the Davises, a brother and sister who’d learned to ski with her last year. But then she had a request for a private lesson with a Fender Barnes at two. This did not ring a bell. Usually requests were people she’d taught in lessons before.

There was one possibility, and she dismissed it almost as soon as it occurred to her: the Lulu guy. She’d run into him downtown when she and Molly went for Greek food a couple days ago. It was pretty weird, running into him. She’d looked for him and his friend in the lodge, but to see him downtown the same night was quite a coincidence. It had also made for fun dinner conversation with Molly. The story made her smile even now. What a crazy guy.

And maybe that crazy guy was this Fender Barnes. Her two o’clock. She shrugged and went to boot up for the Davis kids.

Fender almost felt like an old pro as he made his way through the rental shop. Now when the little kid in front of him tried to put the skis on inside, Fender shared a knowing laugh with the kid’s dad. When Fender stepped outside of the shop, he remembered to step down. He bought a ticket and put it on the right way. It took him two tries to step into his skis, but so what?
Maybe this skiing thing isn’t so bad after all
.

The lady on the phone had told him to look for a little bench in front of the lodge, to the right of the ticket window. He saw it now. Above the brown bench was a sign: PRIVATE LESSONS. He shuffled over and plopped down.

Then Fender looked at his watch. It was one thirty. He had half an hour to wait. The old feelings of panic and inadequacy raced back into his brain.
Someone’ll notice me sitting here for that long. Jesus, I’ll probably get arrested for loitering
.

He came up with a plan to look purposeful.
If I look like I’m supposed to be sitting here, then I’m fine. Look like you belong on this bench. Own the bench, Fender. Be one with the bench.

So he sat. At about fifteen till, a red-haired young boy shuffled up to him. He was dragging a pale blue snowboard behind him, tied with black cord to his ankle.

“Can I sit here?” The boy moved to the end of the bench and began to sit down.

“No, no, you can’t. I’m waiting for someone.” Fender spread his arms out on either side of him, taking up most of the room.

This didn’t deter the boy. He detached the board from his leg and stood staring at Fender.

“Didn’t you hear me, Red? I’m waiting for someone. The bench’s taken. Move along.”

“Let me sit down, mister.”

“Are you going to take a private lesson?” Fender was on the attack now.
I’ve got logic on my side
.

“No.”

Fender sat up straighter in his righteousness. “If you noticed the sign, this bench’s clearly the meeting spot for private lessons. You’re not in a private lesson, so you cannot sit on this bench. Now move along, mouth-breather.”

Defeated, the red-haired boy put the cord to his board around his ankle again and scooted off.

Then Fender saw her. She glided toward him on skis, her hair tucked up in a knitted cap. She had the Blackwolf parka on and a pair of black ski pants. She smiled broadly. In front of the bench, she turned and stopped hockey-style, kicking up a puff of snow.

“Hi. You’re Fender, right?”

“Yeah.” He stood and almost fell right over. “That’s me. I have a private lesson with you.”

“I’m Ginger. Well, let’s go see what you can learn today.”

She didn’t mention the Lulu incident.
Does she recognize me? Of course she does. She’s being polite. She’s a nice person. Nice people don’t remind losers of their humiliating moments
.

Fender followed in an awkward shuffle behind her. She guided him to a flat area in front of a lift and reviewed the wedge turn. She showed him how to get up if he fell. He liked watching her smile and the way the corners of her mouth turned up when she talked.

“I think we should try the lift.”

She was talking to him. He nodded.
Whatever
. He noticed that he felt good around her. He wondered if she was still sad.

He was still wondering about this when he realized they were in line to go up the mountain. All the horror of the other day came to him at once.

“Are you ready, Fender? I think we should go up this lift and try the beginner terrain. You’ll find it’s a little more forgiving than where you were the other day.”

I guess she does recognize me. She’s nice. Of course she’s nice.
He thought her eyes were probably very pretty right now, except that she was wearing sunglasses.

They waited in line for the lift. Another person in a Blackwolf parka skied up. Behind him were three small children. They all had bright yellow vests on over their coats.

“Hey, Justin.” Ginger waved at him. Justin’s lesson kids slowly shuffled up behind him.

“Is this your private?” Justin pushed his goggles up on his forehead to get a closer look at Fender. Fender noticed the little kids were eyeing him as well. He suddenly felt very stupid.

“Yep. Are you guys going up the chair too?”

“I was waiting for someone else to ride up with one of my guys. I can only ride two on the triple. But no one’s shown up, and we really need to get going. This is the last week, and I want these guys to ride up the chair a lot today.” Justin motioned behind him to the three kids. Fender noticed one had plopped down and was eating snow.

“We can ride one up to the top.”

“I’d appreciate it. Thanks, Ginger.” Justin picked the snow-eater up off the ground and shoved him up to where Ginger and Fender were in line. “This is Wylie. Say hi to Ginger.” Wylie chewed on one of his gloves now. He looked up at Ginger and then at Fender.

“I want to ride next to him.” Wylie pointed directly at Fender.

Ginger pulled Wylie into line next to her. “Well, Fender’s learning just like you, so you have to sit next to me, Wylie.” She lowered her voice and looked at Fender. “I’m sorry about this. Usually we have chair riders to take the little ones up. They can’t ride alone. We’re just really short-handed today.”

She’s apologizing to me. She’s sweet.
Fender shook himself out of his reverie. “It’s okay. Totally. Don’t worry about it.” He tried to smile as broadly as he could.
Totally? What am I now, a Valley Girl?
He marveled at how lame he could be.

Wylie was growing impatient. “I said I want to ride with him!” He again pointed at Fender.

Ginger picked Wylie up and put him between her and Fender. “How’s that, Wylie? Now you can ride next to both of us.” The little boy grabbed Fender’s hand.

Getting on the chair was actually okay. Fender just tried with every fiber of his being not to get in the way of the little kid or Ginger. As the chair swung around behind them, Ginger lifted Wylie up and put him on the chair between them.

It was quiet for a minute. Ginger had an arm looped around Wylie’s waist. She seemed to have a tight grip on him. Wylie turned to look at Fender. He stared.
I should say something to the kid. I don’t want to look like a jerk.

“So, do you have any brothers or sisters?” Seemed like a safe question.

“I have a sister. She’s a black Lab. I like to kiss her.” Fender tried to keep up with the three-year-old train of thought. “Not here.” Wylie pointed to his nose. “Here.” He lifted up his upper lip and pointed to the gum beneath. “The pink part. You think it’s wet, but it’s not. It’s dry.” Wylie smiled. Fender tried not to shudder. Ginger just shook her head.

“That’s a pretty nice dog to let you kiss her like that,” Ginger said to Wylie.

“She’s my favorite friend. And she can catch the Frisbee, too.”

Ginger was still giggling a little as they neared the top of the lift, but she hazarded a glance over at her student. He wore a yellow coat, and his head was bare. He had a nice head of black hair—a little shaggy—plus a smaller nose, fair skin, blue eyes. And he currently looked like he might throw up.

At the top of the lift, she delivered Wylie to Justin.

“Ask Wylie about his sister, Justin.” She turned to Fender and smiled.

Justin seemed puzzled. “I thought you didn’t have any brothers or sisters, Wylie.”

“Let him tell you about it. See you later.” Ginger turned around to face her student. He smiled. He had a nice smile.

“Let’s teach you to ski, Fender. Are you ready?”

“I guess.”

He stood next to her at the top of a smooth, curving run. It was broad and open. He’d been brave to come back up here, Ginger knew. Most grown men wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of the other day and admit to needing a lesson.

“Look down the run for me, Fender.” He did as he was told. “See how much more gentle this run is? This is where your friend should have taken you the other day.”

“Yeah, but Sam may or may not be sane. I’d be short a couple of limbs if I left more stuff up to him. When we were eight, he was the one who convinced me that a burning pool of gasoline on the driveway would look awesome.”

“But you were the one who listened.” Ginger smiled.

“Point taken. In his defense…” He paused. “I’m amazed I’m defending him—he should be here to witness this. In his defense, the other day on Lulu was my idea, kind of.”

“Really?” she said.

“Well, I wanted to meet you. I saw you at the bottom of the mountain, and I made him follow you.” He’d been looking at the ground. Now he looked up quickly with a wide grin for her.

This guy’s downright charming
.