Tough Cookie (2 page)

"Just be there by seven, Goldy," Anhur said, ignoring my protests. "Don't come early. I have too much to do and you'll be underfoot. When you get there, you can tell Eileen and Jack what you need and I'll run you through the telethon scenario. We'll start filming at eight. Ciao!"

He hung up. The wind wailed around the house. I whisked cream and sugar into a heap of dry Dutch-style cocoa, beat in the steaming milk, and liberally doused the cocoa with whipped cream. Worries about the next morning crowded in as I set two fragrant, filbert-studded fudge

cookies on a china plate. I took a bite of cookie and nearly swooned over the combination of life-restoring dark chocolate and crunchy toasted nuts. Forget the show! Consume chocolate! Oh, and get some sleep, I ordered myself. Otherwise, people will call in to complain that the chef looks half dead.

The phone rang again. "Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?" Doug Portman's obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. "Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?"

"Yes, Doug." What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We'd dated unhappily after I'd rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex- husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains- crisis had brought him back in our orbit.

"Still want to sell those World War Two skis?" Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. "The ones Ike signed?"

"If the price is right." Tom's historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10th Mountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he'd fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower

himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we'd need to replace the drains, I'd called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He'd turned me down.

"I've changed my mind. Eight thousand. Cash." Doug said triumphantly. "Take it or leave it."

"Great," I said, surprised and pleased.

"Meet you at your cooking show, then." Doug lived in Killdeer. "And hey. If I'm going to buy your skis, I want some of those goodies you're making." He paused. "I heard they charge nine bucks for spectators. Suppose you could leave me a free ticket at the restaurant desk? We'll ski down together afterward. It'll be fun."

Everybody promised fun. I sighed and told him no problem. A free ticket? Eight thousand dollars to spend, and Doug

couldn't spring nine bucks for public television? But this was typical. Doug never paid for what he could scavenge for free. I told him I'd see him the next morning and signed off.

With my hopefully soporific hot drink in one hand and the second oversized chocolate cookie in the other, I strolled to the kitchen's back wall. Gusts of wind plastered icy flakes against our new windows. I put down the cocoa and placed my palm on the cold glass. The snow relentlessly batted against the pane, tat-tat-tat-tat. A whirling curtain of snow streamed past our deck light. The deck itself boasted at least eighteen inches of new powder. I prayed for Tom to be safe. He was down in Denver, working a fraud case. His Chrysler's snow tires

were in pretty good shape. Piloting my own rear-wheel-drive van to Killdeer the next morning would be another story.

I wanted to do the show. I pulled my hand away from the window and sipped my creamy drink. With my catering business

shut down, the program's wide audience still showcased the personal-chef venture, for which I refused to give up hope. Now, with Doug's offer, I finally had a deal for the skis. Plus, knowing the show was dedicated to remembering dear Rorry Bullock's husband, I had to get to Killdeer in the morning.

I bit into the cookie and watched the snow. Christmas was only nine days away, but the Yuletide spirit eluded me. I'd bought a snowboard for Arch - his heart's desire - and a new revolver for Tom. I was no gun-lover - far from it - but I'd learned a great deal about firearms from Tom. The dangers and risks of his work had convinced me he needed another weapon, even if all he used it for was practice. So: We had some gifts. Our tree sparkled in the living room. We had plans to bake Christmas cookies together, as a family. But without a job after the New Year, I felt a lack of purpose, and Christmas was just one more landmark on a calendar I didn't want to face.

Things could be worse, I consoled myself as I drank more cocoa. I could be out in this weather. I could be facing the holidays without a husband, like Rorry Bullock. My heart ached for her.

Handsome and effervescent, Nate Bullock had always been one to court - and then miraculously escape from - the perils of mountain life. Had he secretly been tracking Canadian lynx, reintroduced to the Front Range after the native lynx habitat had been destroyed by development? Who knew? One fact everyone agreed on was that Nate Bullock had strayed - or hiked intentionally - into Killdeer Valley, an area that was off- limits for all humans, not just skiers, because of the possibility of avalanches. The avalanche, that killer tide of snow that sweeps the unsuspecting to their death, was much to be feared in the Colorado mountain winter.

That's why the Valley is out-of- bounds, Killdeer officials had solemnly intoned, ever wary of their liability insurance. Avalanches in the high country happen without warning. Of course, this had not prevented Killdeer Corporation from recently deciding to expand the resort onto the slope adjacent to the Valley. Next season, a new lift would take skiers and snowboarders right over the area where Nate had died. Poor Rorry, I thought again, with guilt. Would she be at the fund-raiser? Would she want to talk to me, when all I'd done was write her a sympathy note? Why hadn't I been more persistent in checking up on her after Nate's death?

I finished the cookie and downed the cocoa. Late at night, problems loom large. I had to crawl to bed and get some beauty sleep. Or, as I checked my pudgy, curly-blond-haired reflection in the frosted window, just some sleep, period.

Early the next morning, in an impenetrable, windy, pre-dawn darkness, I loaded the historic skis into my van. It was still snowing hard. A torrent of flakes iced my face as I stamped inside. I left a note for Tom, whose large, warm body had finally snuggled in next to mine around two A.M. I packed up my boots and skis, traipsed out to check the tread on my radial tires - barely adequate - and set out for Killdeer.

As my van negotiated the snow-crusted expanse of Main Street, the wind lashed fresh snow across my windshield. When I pulled over to scrape it off, I was hit in the face with a swag of holiday evergreen and a strand of white lights. Convulsing in the wind, the decorations

had torn loose from a storefront. I climbed back into the van, shivered, and started the slow trek to the highway.

Once the van was headed west on Interstate 70, I cranked the wipers as high as they would go to sweep off the relentlessly falling snow. Traffic was light. Beside the road, a herd of bighorn sheep clustered below a neon sign warning of icy roads on both sides of the Eisenhower Tunnel. When I passed Idaho Springs, a radio announcement brayed the news that an avalanche had come down late the previous afternoon at the Loveland Ski Area. Cars slowing down to watch the cleanup were clogging the road, the announcer solemnly declared.

"Perfect," I muttered.

Twenty minutes later, I braked behind a long line of cars. Through the snowfall, I could just make out dump trucks laboring in the Loveland parking lot as they scooped away a three-story- high heap of snow, rocks, and broken trees. Under the pile was a maintenance building. The radio announcer passionately recited a rumor of a scofflaw skier who'd ducked a boundary rope and precipitated the slide. The avalanche had raced down the hillside, snapped a stand of pines like matchsticks, and buried the vacant building. Passengers riding up the high- speed quad lift had seen the skier schuss to safety - and away from being caught.

Concentrate on your driving, .I warned myself, as I entered the neon-lit purgatory of the tunnel, that deep, dark passageway bored beneath the Continental Divide. After a few minutes, the snowpacked descent from the tunnel loomed ahead in the early morning grayness. When I emerged, a sudden wind whipped the van, rocking it violently. Another thick shower of snow blanketed my windshield.

I thought: What would it be like to die in an avalanche?

-2- At six-twenty, my van crunched into the snowpacked parking lot of the Killdeer resort. To the east, the sky was edged with pewter. My fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. When I turned off the engine, flakes instantly obscured the windshield. I hopped out onto the snowpack. A frigid breeze bit through my ski jacket and I stumbled to get my footing. Righting myself, I tugged up my hood, cinched it tight, and donned padded mittens. I struggled to get my bearings. Through the swirling drapery of flakes, the parking lot's digital display flashed the happy announcement that the temperature stood at 19°. Windchill -16°. Welcome to ski country!

Lights from the ski area cast a pall across the imposing face of Killdeer Mountain. Columns of snow spiraled around the lampposts. A lead-colored cloud shrouded the runs. The digital sign went on to proclaim that the mountain now boasted an Eighty-five-inch base topped with Thirty-three inches of new!!! - ski- talk for how much snow we've got.

I pulled out my Rossignols, bought on sale long ago. I'd need them to follow Doug down from the bistro at the end of the show. The other skis, the valuable pair, I would be selling to him in less than three hours. I tossed down my poles and put on my boots. Another blustery breeze stung my eyes. The sign joyously screamed: More SNOW on the way! followed by a smiley face and the words Ski with CAUTION!

In the back of the van, I pulled out three blankets to hide the precious skis. The carved names glowed briefly: Abetone, Della Vedetta, Corona. They were a glorious find, and I would have loved for Tom to keep them. Arch, who was obsessed with learning about the Second World War, was extremely unhappy with us for thinking of selling them.

I was supposed to pick up Arch after the show. With his teachers out for a faculty conference yesterday and today, he had stayed overnight with his best friend, "Todd Druckman, Eileen's son, in her gorgeous Killdeer condo. The boys loved to snowboard together. I was dreading one of his adolescent bad moods when he heard these skis were actually sold.

It was not something I wanted to think about. I spread out the blankets, threw a tarpaulin over the whole pile, and locked the van.

I could just hear the muffled jangle and clank of the gondola, half a mile away. Apparently, this morning's winds had not been strong enough to delay the six o'clock start-up, when the ski patrol ascended the mountain. Resignedly, I shouldered my skis, poles, and backpack, and crunched across the mammoth lot. Buck up! I ordered myself. Doing the show and

selling the skis will get you closer to reopening. I breathed in tangy wood smoke and blinked away stinging snowflakes. An arctic breeze whipsawed my scarf, and my boots cracked and slid on the hard-pack. I trudged along in the semidarkness, determined to get out of the cold wind that had whipped to a fury in the lot's open space. Despite my resolution to be cheerful, I wondered why people thought hell wasn't frozen over.

Panting, my thighs and toes numb, I

finally arrived at the artfully carved wooden sign welcoming me to Killdeer. I leaned my skis and poles against the signpost. Under my bundled clothing, my body felt slick with sweat. Ahead, snow tumbled steadily around gold-glowing street lamps lining the walkway to the gondola. Extracting a tissue from my pocket, I wiped my eyes and blinked at Killdeer's just-like-Dickens row of brightly - lit Victorian - and Bavarian- style shops. The street lamps, I'd learned, stayed on until the sun was completely up. In my month doing the cooking show, the days had become shorter; the pale, cold sun had risen later and later. I'd teased Arthur that by the close of the year we'd be doing the show in the dark. Arthur had sighed glumly and then suggested we could do a champagne breakfast show, bubbly supplied - like all the other vintages we featured - by Wakefield Wines. Now, thinking of my frozen fingertips, I wondered if Arthur had schnapps up at the bistro. If so, did I dare drink some before "going live"?

Actually, I didn't want champagne or schnapps. I wanted coffee. I cared not a whit about the admonition that caffeine constricts skiers' cells and lowers their body temperature. If I wanted to be awake to cook at the top and raise money as well, I desperately needed several shots of the good stuff.

Luckily, I knew there would be one place open at this hour. My spirits rose as I schlepped my load down the short, charming avenue. Storefronts twinkling with thousands of holiday lights made Aspen Meadow's Main Street, fifty miles away, look as stark as a Shaker living room. In several hours, these brightly festooned boutiques would become a hive of commercial activity. I wouldn't be trucking in high-priced commerce, but never mind.

I sniffed the scent of the dark, fragrant brew even as I rejoiced at the Open sign dangling from the door of Cinda's Cinnamon Stop. I dropped my equipment near the covered decking that ran by the shops and clopped ; up the wooden steps.

"Hey, Goldy!" bellowed Cinda Caldwell from her steamy walk-up window. Cinda's hair, dyed in a range of pink hues from cotton-candy to scarlet, was luminous behind the swirl of fat white flakes. "Come in, come in, I need to talk to you about something!"

I'd come to know Cinda - tall, athletic, endlessly enthusiastic and energetic - during my stint with the program. "You look worse than usual!" she cried cheerfully. "You're still doing your show?"

"Yes, but I need your coffee to transform me into a chipper TV personality. Make that a warm, chipper TV personality."

She guffawed. "Want three or four shots? Need a pastry with your espresso? On the house! C'mon!" she hollered impatiently. "There's something I really need to tell you!”