Adventures with Max and Louise (24 page)

“You think I fancy Chas? You think I’m a poof?” Max screams.

“You’re a blabber mouth British boob. Homo-sex-ual would be a huge step up,” Louise drawls.

“Oh, for the love of St. Peter,” Max screeches.

“See!” Louise quips.

“Shut up, woman, I’m trying to get the girl down the hill, plain and simple. Molly, listen, luv, the trick is to find another skier that’s approximately as dicey as you are and follow ’er down.”

I study the other skiers exiting the lift. Even the children fling themselves down the hill like jackrabbits.

Chas waits.

“You go on ahead. I’m going to take my time,” I yell. “It’s been a while.”

“Are you sure?” he calls back. “I don’t mind waiting. Take your time!”

“Tell him to go. If you’re gonna go ahead and make a fool outta yourself, no sense him watching,” Louise says.

“This is a date. The man should be here, not bloody skiing by hisself,” Max says. “Show ’im you’re vulnerable. Let ’im give ya a few pointers and all. Men love that sort of thing.”

“He’ll laugh at you,” Louise says. “If he doesn’t do it out loud, he’ll be busting up inside. I know the type.”

“Oh, you know the type? Ha!” Max says. Then, to me, “Women, especially Louise, ’ave very little idea of what men want. You ’ave a rare opportunity to learn ’ere.”

I wave my pole at Chas, calling out, “You’re making me nervous. Go on ahead. Make another run.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind hanging out.” He waits another moment to see if I’ll budge.

“You see?” Max trills urgently. “ ’e doesn’t mind, truly. I’m tellin’ ya, luv, make him stay.”

“Really, I just need to take it slow. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” I motion for him to go. He shrugs, turns his skis downhill, and attacks the mogul field, jackhammer knees working furiously.

“Oh, Christ, now you’ve gone and done it. Typical woman, you give ’em all the benefit of years of masculine experience, and what do they bleedin’ do? Throw it right back in yer ruddy face. Now, how you gonna get down this bloody thing?”

“She’ll figure it out,” says Louise. “She’s a smart girl.”

For ten minutes I shift in my skis, pretending, when someone skis past, to be waiting for a friend on the lift.

“Find yerself a crappy skier,” Max mumbles. “That’s the ticket. Find a crappy skier and follow ’er right off a bleedin’ cliff. Don’t know why I’m helping ya. I oughta leave you and Miss Get-a-Drink-Instead-of-Ski to fix thing up. That’s what I oughta do.”

“Ha! You’d have to cut off your tongue before you quit givin’ advice,” Louise says and laughs.

“That’s it. Now you’ve gone and done it. I’m done.” There is a long moment of silence. “Not another word; really, I’m done.”

“Okay, Max, bye.” I say, wishing he would shut up.

“Forever.”

After a good ten minutes of searching the slope, I finally spy a lone skier wobbling down the incline from the lift. She can barely keep her skis straight. She makes her way across the hill, then snowplows her way into a gentle, wide arc. When she comes past me, I get a better look. She must be eighty.

“Follow the old geezer,! Max shouts.

“So much for zipped lips,” Louise says. “But he’s right. Follow her.”

Swallowing my pride, I point my skis toward her, following her wide, gentle turns down the hill. Most of the other skiers give us a wide berth, as if our klutziness is contagious. I’m feeling pretty good about my progress until the old lady pulls up short, turns her head, and gives me a sly grin.

“I’m practicing to ski with my grandson this weekend.” She turns her skis down the mountain. “He’s two.” She shoots down the mountain with graceful speed.

“The bitch!” Max grouses.

I watch her disappear down the hill. “Now what am I supposed to do? It’s getting dark.”

“Take it very, very slow,” Louise says. “And say a prayer.”

“Say a prayer? What kind of stupid bloody advice is that? Who’s she gonna pray to, Our Lady of the Icy Bleedin’ Moguls? Chas woulda helped ’er if you’d ’ave let ’er ask! There’s nothing embarrassing about not knowing how to ski.”

“Oh, yeah?” I’m fed up. I’m hot, sweaty, and tired, and I haven’t made it halfway through this frozen obstacle course. “There are four-year-olds passing me. An eighty-year-old woman just kicked my ass. You try it sometime, Max. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to embarrass yourself. You ride around all warm and dry tucked into my bra. You hide behind me. I’m the one out here making a fool out of myself. Don’t tell me it’s not embarrassing. It’s humiliating.”

“Hoooo-hoooo!” Louise laughs uproariously. “Score one for Molly!”

“Hallelujah,” Max whispers. “You’re finally living.”

It takes me forty-five sweaty, painstaking minutes to reach the bottom of the hill. During this time, Chas makes four runs. The sun has long slipped behind the mountains. Skinny shadows fall across the snow from lift stanchions. Skiers race past, their silhouettes dancing in the snow. I am so happy to reach the bottom that I forget all the pain, fear, and agony in an instant when I see Chas’s toothy grin. A couple of women check him out as I arrive. It feels great to grab his arms in front of them and see his face light up. Max is right, I am finally living.

He kisses my cheek. “Hey, you made it. How’d it go?”

“Well, it’s a big hill,” I say, stunned by the kiss. “And I’m glad to be down here. How about that hot drink you promised me?”

He pushes down his glove to look at his watch. “You know what? We have enough time for one more run.”

I don’t need Max and Louise to make this call. “I think I’ve had it for today.”

“I always do this one before I go in. It’s kind of a ritual. I’d really love you to see it. It’s really cool at night. You can see the whole village lit up down below.”

“Another black diamond? I know what that means: fall down, get sore butt. No, thank you.”

“You know what? You’re right. Why don’t you just meet me over there in the main lodge?” He waves toward the three-storied building. “There’s a nice bar on the second floor. Get us a table and order us a couple Irish. I’ll be there in a sec.”

“There we go! Order me an Irish too,” Louise trills happily.

Something stupid and stubborn rises inside of me, refusing to let him make the last run alone. I don’t want to miss my one chance to sit next to him.

“No. It’s the last run. I can handle one more.”

“You did not just say that!” Louise screams. “Tell me you did not just say that!”

“Cool,” Chas says with a happy smile.

“For the love of St. Peter!” Max says and sighs.

A few minutes into the ride, my limbs grow cold with fear. Below us the steep incline makes my first run look easy. There is no easy way off this mountain. Chas must see the mounting fear in my eyes. He takes my hand and squeezes it. “You’re such a trouper.”

“Dumb ass’s more like it. Now I see you two are a perfect couple: Mr. and Mrs. Dumb Ass,” Louise says. “Now you can go have a bunch a little baby dumb asses and live happily ever after.”

Despite Louise, who I now hate, the fear of what lies ahead vanishes. It’s worth it just to have Chas so close to me I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cheeks. The evening stretches out like a fire-lit painting, my body limber and sore from a night on the slopes. Some drinks, some dinner, maybe it can start with an innocent massage . . .

I look down. Ice glints wickedly on the steep incline. Perilously sharp moguls, carved by the razor-sharp skis, gleam like landmines. As the lift climbs ever higher, I wonder how I’m going to get down this treacherous mountain alive.

Chapter Twenty-Four

C
HAS AND
I stand side by side, resting on our ski poles, gazing down at the twinkling lights of the village beneath. It is breathtaking, a glittery Chinese dragon following the curve of the valley, tapering into a single string of lights as it hits the highway. A snapshot of us could grace the cover of
Ski
magazine, and no one could tell that I am about to wet my pants in fear.

“Pretty, huh?” Chas asks.

I can barely form a sentence; I’m so terrified of the altitude. How will I get from point A to point B when the trajectory is straight down? “Oh, uh, yeah, I guess.”

The wind whips up the side of the mountain, cutting into the downy warmth of my jacket, reminding me just how far I have to go before I reach warmth and safety below. I wish with all my heart I was on solid ground without these stupid instruments of death strapped to my feet.

Chas frowns as he surveys the terrain. “Wow, this used to be groomed differently. It was much easier before. They kind of turned it into a mogul field.”

“Oh, they kind of did.” I am numb. Louise was right: I am a dumb ass.

“All right, look, I’m going to go really, really slow across this thing, and you just follow me. Wait until I wave, and then you go, all right?”

“All right.” Realizing there really is no other alternative, for the first time since I was four, I do almost wet my pants. I catch it in time, but it’s not a nice feeling, knowing I am that close.

Chas picks his way through the mogul field, avoiding the largest ones. I wait until he’s traveled about a hundred yards, stopped, and waved. Staring down at the village lights, my heart thumps wildly in my chest. I am a spider trapped on the side of a bathtub. Chas waves again with his ski pole. I take a deep breath and push off.

Forty minutes later we have laboriously traversed our way across half of the mogul field. I am exhausted, and Chas, despite his good-natured veneer, grows impatient. He skis faster, more recklessly, as though his speed can make up for my own snail-like progress.

“Don’t pay attention to him,” Louise cautions. “You just take your own sweet time.”

“Careful, luv,” Max says evenly.

Chas reaches a point farther down the mountain and waves. I wave back. And then I do something really, really stupid: I choose a route slightly to the left of where Chas has skied. The moguls are noticeably larger, but by this time even I’ve grown tired of my glacial progress. Cold, tired, and impatient, I make the fatal decision to go faster.

At first the larger bumps don’t bother me. The fatigue loosens my legs; I am tired enough to be reckless. Turning my skis at a sharper angle down the incline, my knees lift up higher and higher as the moguls grow. Trees whiz past as I zoom along. Chas watches in astonishment as I master the hill for, oh, maybe a minute. Grinning with maniacal delight, I am high on the adrenaline rush.

“This is amazing!” is the last thought in my head before the edge of my ski hits an icy patch, and I fly apart. Tumbling down the mountain, skis flying overhead, my chin smashes deep into the snow. My teeth rattle around in my head like marbles.

“Keep your chin in! Tuck it in! Save your neck!” Louise hollers.

“You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay!” Max whispers in the background. “Keep it loose, don’t tense up.”

Over and over I tumble, an ungainly snowball with flying bodily parts. Limbs, face, ankles, everything hits something, whether it’s my own body, my equipment, or the mountain, I can’t tell. I am a blur. Max, Louise, and my own warm breath are the only things holding me together.

When I finally land, it’s quiet. The only movement is the lift, a ghostly, rattling chain in the distance. My heart thumps frantically. For a moment, I don’t know what I’ve hurt or if I can move. Max and Louise breathe hard inside me.

“Your neck’s not broken. I can tell you that much,” Louise chirps. “My mama taught me that. In a fall, you don’t look, you tuck.”

Max sighs deeply. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

“I saved your neck,” Louise says quietly. “You got your brain, child, and that’s the most precious thing.”

I spit out the snow in my mouth. “Thank you,” I say quietly, grateful that I’ve forgotten all about wetting my pants.

I blink the soggy clumps out of my eyes, trying valiantly not to cry. My skis, poles, mittens, and hat are scattered above me on the hill. Craning my neck, I find Chas, ashen-faced, twenty feet above me on the mountain. He waves, waits for a response, and collects my scattered gear on the way down.

Numb and shaking, I prop my leg up and try to stand. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I spit through gritted teeth.

“Are you okay?” Chas skis up to me, his arms clutching my skis, poles, one mitten, and a hat.

“Oh, sure, fine.” Pain shoots through my ankle. I fall down.

“You’re not fine.” He brushes the snow from my hair and gently tucks my hat back on my head.

“I think I sprained my ankle.” Hot tears spring from my eyes.

He rubs my hands roughly to warm them, then quickly zips them into his own warm, furry gloves. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You keep warm, and I’ll go get the ski patrol. Sit down on this if you get tired.” He places his unzipped jacket beneath me on the snow. “Wait, will you throw me my wallet? I might need ID. It’s in the inside pocket.”

I find his wallet and toss it to him. He zips it into the back pocket of his snow pants. Side-stepping up the hill a few steps, he stabs my poles into the snow in an
X
above me, making me visible to the other skiers stupid enough to be skiing this late. Skiing down beside me, he pulls my hat down around my ears and plants a warm, firm kiss on my lips. “I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t you let him go,” Louise says.

“It’s okay, luv,” says Max. “Let ’im get help.”

I am too shaken to interfere.

“I’ll have you off of this mountain and in front of a fire in forty minutes.” Chas scrutinizes my worried face. “You’ll be fine, really. The sooner we get you looked at, the better.” He lowers me to the snow and places me on his coat.

“Here, this will help the swelling.” He loosens my boot, slips it off, and packs my whole foot in snow.

“Okay,” I say weakly. We are the only skiers on the mountain. I feel small, alone, and terrified. I really don’t want to be left there.

“Ask him to stay. The lift’s still running. Someone else will come,” Louise says.

“You don’t know that,” Max counters.

“Forty minutes. Scout’s honor,” Chas says, lifting his hand theatrically.

I smile weakly.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Stop worrying. I’ve got this. Really.”