Making Spirits Bright (23 page)
Read Making Spirits Bright Online
Authors: Fern Michaels,Elizabeth Bass,Rosalind Noonan,Nan Rossiter
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)
As she spoke, he pushed off and moved to the top of Heartbreak.
“What are you doing? The intermediate trails just below us are open, but you can’t go down Heartbreak.”
He looked back at her, a picture of evil in the black mask. “I got it.”
“No, you don’t. Are you nuts? No one can handle themselves on an expert trail in sheer ice. It’s like jumping off a cliff.”
He didn’t answer, but pushed off toward the edge.
“Don’t be an ass!” Something sparked to life inside her and she burst from her spot, as if flying out of the gate in a downhill race. Within seconds she was on him, grabbing with her arms, tackling him as he loomed on the brink of the first big drop.
His body was hard under the ski clothes—all sinew and bone—but she must have hit some tender spot, because he groaned when she made contact and tugged him down to the ground.
For a moment they remained still, a tangle of arms and torsos, cold surrounding them, but a surprising source of heat at the core of the mass.
Well, sure ... body heat.
And the hot burn of fury for this moron, who was reckless enough to break both their necks.
Jo pushed away from him and sat up. “Are you trying to get us both killed?”
“You were the one who tackled me.” He lay back on the snow a minute, his right hand pressed to his left shoulder, as if applying pressure to a wound. He seemed to be in pain, but she was not unscathed either. Her butt hurt, and her hip, where she’d either rammed him or rammed into the ground, felt raw.
“I was trying to save your life,” she said, “but you don’t make it easy.”
“It never is.” He curled into a ball, lined up his skis, then rose. “Don’t get yourself hurt, Jo. You got a kid to take care of.”
She snapped to attention, amazed at the truth of his statement and surprised that he knew her this well. “Who the hell are you?” she asked.
He turned back toward her, pausing. “You wouldn’t remember me,” he said, then pushed forward.
“No, no! Wait!” One fist pounded the snow beside her, but she couldn’t keep him from the black diamond run.
He didn’t look back, didn’t hesitate at the edge. Dread clutched her as he pushed off into the curtain of snow and dropped out of sight.
Despair.
Panic.
She pulled off one glove. Her hands shook as she took out her cell phone and scrolled to the number of the lodge. With a fake calm in her voice, she asked Carla what they could possibly do to save a royal jackass from the mountain.
Chapter 4
The sound of his skis scraping ice cut through the silent night, the only sound besides the whoosh of adrenaline firing Sam’s body. At times he felt as if he rode the wind itself as he flew down, down, into the depths of the night.
The first landing was bone-jarring, but he bent his knees and rode the bumps to the next patch of air. He kept his body tight, his stance low. “It’s all in the knees,” old Vic, his ski instructor, used to say.
Though the run was closed, the resort had left the lights on; a good thing. Even as he hurtled down the mountain at a high speed, Sam could see that things had changed. Trees had grown taller. New moguls rose from the ground. Ice-covered drifts had formed lofty ledges, like a sloppily frosted cake. The landscape of his youth had changed. Not long ago he could have navigated this run with his eyes closed. He’d never expected it to change so dramatically.
But time had passed, the planet kept spinning.
And I return to the mountain and find Jo Truman working ski patrol at the worst possible time.
That was the damnedest thing, seeing her at the entrance to Heartbreak. He had recognized Jo Truman the minute he saw her, though she couldn’t have guessed it was him under the mask. Damned noble of her to try and stop him. She didn’t realize that, under the mask, he was already damaged goods.
Jo had been on his mind way too often in the past few years. She’d been there in the desperate moments of close calls, when shots whizzed past so close and exploded nearby patches of dirt to dust. And on quiet nights, when he lay on his bunk trying to tune out the snores of the other guys, Jo was the only good thing he could visualize. Like a star on the darkest night, she lit the darkness, reminding him there was still some good in the world.
“She’s one of the good ones,” Shane used to say. “Sometimes I think she’s way too good for me.”
And Sam had always jumped in with a string of objections, that no girl could be too good for his best buddy, because that was what guys did.
But Sam had seen how Jo had suffered when she lost Shane. He had held the sobbing girl in his arms, a girl pregnant with his best friend’s child, and felt sick with love and compassion for her. He remembered how her dark hair, soft as corn silk, had slid over the back of his hand as he held her. How she’d stood, tall and responsible, but how the pink around her eyes and the feel of her compact, delicate bones had argued that she wasn’t as strong and proud as she seemed.
She had sobbed in his arms, her face against the stiff shirt and borrowed necktie. Jo had cried her eyes out while all he could think of was the sweet smell of her hair and the way her body fit against his. And he’d hated himself for the attraction that had consumed him.
A hankering for his best friend’s girl. His dead friend. Sam had his own girl back then, but once he’d held Jo in his arms he knew there would be no playing house with Stacey. That relationship was done once he’d touched Jo Truman. He may have seemed polite as he consoled Jo that day, but inside he knew he was sick and disgusting.
Vile.
That day at the funeral, he had made the decision to leave. He knew he had to get away, and if the army wanted to send him to the other side of the planet, well, that seemed like a safe enough distance.
Unfortunately, the distance had only amplified his thoughts of Joanne Truman. In the back of his mind, he’d known that he’d run into her when he returned to Woodstock. Jo and her family worked in just about every small business in these parts. He’d expected to see her; just not so soon, and certainly not up here.
She’d sworn off skiing after Shane’s death. Maybe it was good that she’d bounced back and returned to the mountain. It had been five years since Shane died, and Jo deserved a chance for a do-over.
He whipped past a line of pine trees, veering dangerously close to the edge of the trail.
Pay attention. Stay on course.
Somehow, after seeing Jo, it was suddenly important that he make it through this run in one piece. He didn’t want to be another ghost on the mountain for her.
As he
schussed
toward the bottom of the mountain, where the black diamond trail cut back into the intermediate run, exhilaration flared in his chest.
schussed
toward the bottom of the mountain, where the black diamond trail cut back into the intermediate run, exhilaration flared in his chest.
He felt alive again.
It was more than that blazing sense of danger, more than the adrenaline rush of walking on the edge and cheating death.
As he tucked his arms and hunkered down low, he realized that he never needed to make peace with this mountain. And as for Shane, there’s no making amends with a dead man.
This was about making things right with himself.
Time for a good, hard look at his own black soul.
Chapter 5
For as long as Jo could remember, her family had celebrated Thanksgiving on the Monday after the actual holiday. Bob and Irene Truman had always been pressed to work in some food service industry or another over the holiday weekend, and as soon as they were old enough to get work permits, each of their children had followed suit.
So Thanksgiving Monday had officially become “Thanksgiving II,” or, as Jo’s mother, Irene, liked to say, “Thank Goodness Thanksgiving is Ovah!” The five Truman offspring and their children always assembled at Bob and Irene’s home, just a stone’s throw from the apartment where Jo lived with Ava and Molly.
With its cherry-paneled walls, bookcases, fireplace, and tall ceilings, the great room of the old house on Bull Moose Road was the perfect spot to assemble the large Truman family. Colored dots of cheery light—the lights outlining the frame of the old house—bobbed in the wind as Jo crossed the driveway with her contribution to dinner. Pops considered anytime after Thanksgiving fair game to trim the place, and it was already looking good, with twinkling lights and garland made from trimmings brother Dave had left over from his landscaping business. Jo and Molly were not the only Christmas fanatics in the family.
Earlier that day, as soon as school had let out, Pops had taken all the grandchildren out in search of a Christmas tree, and from the tall pine that now graced the large picture window, Jo could see they’d had success.
“The Holly and the Ivy” was playing as Jo carefully juggled a tray of roasted sweet potatoes and a tin of cookies to press open the door. The smell of pine and roasting turkey and the bright faces of children reminded Jo that Christmas really was coming. Teenagers were sprawled on the sofas, and the little ones perched on the oriental rug between the tree and the fireplace, a few of them dipping and tiptoeing in time to the music.
Ava popped up from the cluster of cousins. “Mommy, Mom! Look what we cut down from the woods!”
“I see you found the perfect tree, as usual.” Jo peered up at the tall pine that nearly grazed the ceiling. “Though you may need a cherry picker to get the star on.”
“We’ll figure it out. We always do,” Jo’s father said, crossing the room with strings of lights coiled on his wrist. At six-two, Bob Truman was a burly man who enjoyed his meals, as evidenced by the paunch that graced his argyle sweater. Jo and her sister, Fran, had gotten Pops’s dark hair and big brown eyes. And though the girls had spent some nights in junior high worrying that they might grow to be giants, only Bob’s sons had inherited his height.
He bent down to kiss her cheek. “Happy second Thanksgiving, sweetheart. Mmm, sweet potatoes.”
“Matthew, Michael, get off your duff and help your Auntie Jo carry that stuff,” Fran snapped from behind a big box of ornaments.
Immediately, seventeen-year-old Matthew was at Jo’s side. “I’ll take that for you, Aunt Jo.” His gravelly voice belied his boyish face. He handed the cookie tin to his brother, Michael, and took on the heavier tray.
“Aunt Jo, we’re doing white lights on the tree this year,” thirteen-year-old Laura announced. “Dad says it looks classy.”
“That and Costco was having a sale on white lights,” Dave said as he plugged in a set to test them, and a hundred white diamonds sparkled to life.
Tommy and James, Jo’s other brothers, entered the room carrying boxes.
“These are the last of the ornaments in the attic,” James said.
“And we have extra hooks here.” Dave’s wife, Chloe, held up the box of hooks, a schoolteacher all the way. “Now as soon as the lights are on, you kids get to take over. It’s up to you teenagers to help the little ones.”
“We will,” James’s daughter Katie promised.
“We can get a boost from Matthew to reach the high branches,” little Tommy Junior said. He was on all fours on the oriental rug, stretching like a cat.
Ava bunched the hem of her dress in one hand. “I want a boost from Matthew.”
Matthew swooped down and lifted Ava as if she were a doll. “You’re supposed to wait till we start decorating,” he teased, and she giggled as at something hysterically funny.
Jo smiled, her heart warmed at the exchange. Molly could chase her dreams to the big city, but Jo was set and content right here, in the heart of her big, loving family. She shrugged off her down jacket and hung it on a peg in the little nook by the door, where enough boots were lined up to outfit an army.
“Easy on the appetizers there,” Irene Truman told her grandchildren. “Smell that turkey? It’s been roasting all day, and it’d be a crime if you lost your appetite.”
“But we’re really hungry, Nanna,” Laura said. “I was supposed to have hot lunch at school, but they ran out of pizza.”
“Just stick to the veggies,” Irene advised, offering a platter to Jo and Fran. “Cheese puffs?”
Jo grabbed two. “Thanks, Mum. Molly will be here as soon as her friend Meg shows up to take over the store.”
“Good. Your Uncle Ted and Aunt Lisa are driving in from Haverhill. They should be here soon.” A few years ago, Molly’s parents had moved south, to Massachusetts, in pursuit of jobs, but they never missed a holiday or family event.
Jo and Fran went into the kitchen to help James’s wife, Brittany, chop vegetables. They were joined by Tommy’s wife, who came straight from the clinic in her scrubs.
Within the hour, the men had the lights strung and the ritual of family decorating began. Jo and her sister sank onto the sofa as the teenagers set up the open boxes and bins.
“I can’t see! I can’t see!” Chrissy, Tommy’s youngest, shrieked. “What if I don’t get to hang one?”
“You’ll get a chance, Chrissy. Look at all these ornaments!” As the oldest grandchild of Irene and Bob, Matthew had become the unofficial facilitator, and over the years he’d begun to grow into the role. “In fact, everyone will get a chance to hang at least one of their favorites. And you can definitely hang any ornament with your name on it.”
“I want to hang the blue snowflake!” someone cried.
“I want the Mickey Santa.”
“You always get the Mickey Santa.”
“Do not ...”
“Don’t you love the sights and sounds of Christmas?” Jo said.
“I love that the kids are old enough to decorate the tree on their own, but then you should
really
love it. You decorate all day long.”
really
love it. You decorate all day long.”
“But it doesn’t feel like work.” Working in the Christmas shop was a labor of love for Jo. “We have fun with it.”
“Molly told me you had a weird encounter up on Dare Mountain.”
Word traveled fast in the Truman family; Jo had known the story would get around when she told Molly early Saturday morning, but she hadn’t been able to keep it to herself. The encounter had haunted her thoughts and disturbed her sleep.
“You know, it was my first time back on skis on Dare Mountain, and here comes an ace skier who reminds me of Shane. What are the chances of that?”
“You thought he was Shane?” Fran’s eyes grew round. “Did he look like Shane?”
“I couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a mask, but something about his style reminded me of him.”
“That’s scary.”
Jo nodded and told her sister about how the skier had insisted on going down the closed trail, how she’d tried to get him to stop, but failed.
Fran smacked her forehead. “A raving lunatic. Did he break his neck?”
“By some miracle he made it down the mountain safely. Carla and Les checked the recordings from the camera at the base of Heartbreak Ridge, and they saw him skiing like a pro. Somehow my masked man made it down in one piece.” It still bothered Jo to think about it, partly because it had to be someone she knew. He’d called her Jo, right?
What she hadn’t shared with her sister or with Molly was the emotion that gummed up inside her when she remembered tackling him to the ground. There’d been a jolt of connection, like a flash of electricity, and, though it didn’t make sense, she’d liked being tangled up with him in the snow. Probably just her own depraved desires. Things tended to get all bottled up when you kept them tamped down for a few years.
“Well, sounds like it was a harrowing experience for you,” Fran said. “But I gotta say, he’s lucky to be alive.” She lowered her voice, adding, “Guys can be such assholes.”
“I heard that,” her husband, Keith, called from behind the tree, where he was checking a string of lights.
“But I love
you,
honey,” Fran said.
you,
honey,” Fran said.
“Ma, you owe a dollar to the swear jar.” Fran’s son Alex grinned from behind a box.
Fran waved him off. “I’ll pay you later, and mind your business. You’ve still got a couple of bare spots on that tree.”
Jo and her sister joined their mother in the kitchen, where meal preparations were in full swing and savory smells of roasted turkey, sage, and rosemary filled the warm air.
“Is that a wicked gorgeous turkey, or what?” Irene lifted the turkey from the oven, with a satisfied grunt.
“That’s a big one, Mum. You sure you want to parade it around?” Jo asked.
“Of course. It’s tradition.” Armed in oven mitts, Irene hoisted the pan and walked carefully, passing through the dining room to the activity of the great room. “Hey! Look at this magnificent turkey!”
Peeking out of the kitchen, Jo smiled at the chorus of oohs and aahs, even from the little ones.
“If this family gets much bigger, we’re going to need a shopping cart to tote that thing around,” Fran said from the fridge.
“But it’s a great tradition.” When Jo was a child, she’d taken all these rituals for granted. Now, with a child of her own, she embraced them, longing to pass down the full joy of family holidays to Ava.
Their mother returned and gratefully eased the pan back onto the counter. “Your father will start carving in a few minutes. I’ll put you on the gravy, Jo. Fran, let’s get this stuffing out of the bird.”
Jo popped her sweet potatoes into the oven for one last warming, then set to work making gravy from the drippings while Fran spooned stuffing into a casserole dish.
Molly and her parents arrived just as the green beans were coming out of the steamer. Aunt Lisa took over mashing the potatoes, and soon Irene was calling everyone to dinner.
The family assembled around two tables, with some negotiation and shuffling of teenagers who’d been deemed ready to move from the “kids’ table” to the main table.
Irene clanged a spoon against a glass to get everyone’s attention, and her husband rose at the head of the big table, a glass of sparkling cider raised. Jo’s brother Dave had joined Alcoholics Anonymous two years ago when he finally realized his drinking was out of control, and the entire family had joined him in refraining from drinking alcohol, in a move of solidarity.
“Let’s raise our glasses in thanks,” Pops said. “A wonderful family, a fine meal. We have so much to be thankful for. I’m grateful to be employed during these times. And I’m very happy to live in this beautiful neck of the woods. A nook of heaven.” He turned to his wife. “Irene?”
“I’m thankful to have my health and all of you. Very thankful that the teenagers will be helping me with the cleanup in the kitchen.”
There was laughter at the adults’ table and then the gauntlet was passed to Jo. She let her eyes sweep the room, landing on Ava, whose blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight of the kids’ table. “I’m thankful to be here with my family. I’m so glad to live in this beautiful town that gives us all jobs. Sometimes I think they should call it Truman instead of Woodstock.”
There were a few chuckles, and then Molly talked about how she was grateful that Cousins’ Christmas Shop was doing stellar business. “And, by the way, how’s the sign coming, Tommy?” she asked.
“I got it out in the garage,” he said. “And let me say, I’m grateful that the auto repair business is going well. And happy for family and good food and all that.”
Jo’s stomach growled at the sumptuous food aromas, but no one ate until everyone spoke a word or two about what they were grateful for. Most of the kids said they were grateful that Santa was coming. Ava said she was grateful for Mommy and Santa.
After everyone added their two cents, Pops said a short prayer of thanks. “Lord, the kids are all excited about Santa coming, but we know the true celebration of Christmas is about you sending your son to save the world. As the scripture says, ‘Today in the town of David, a Savior has been born to you. He is Christ the Lord.’ Help us remember that that’s what Christmas is about. And thank you, God, for the start of this joyous season. Amen.”
Jo held back a grin. Leave it to Pops to tuck in a lesson when he had a captive audience.
“Amen!” came the chorus from hungry diners around the two tables, and Jo’s sentiments gave way to the clatter of dishes and the buzz of conversation.
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