Opposite of Frozen

by Jan O'Hara

  Despite her wariness and the shock of hearing a man, Page fought back a smile. He hadn’t said darlin’, but the endearment was implied all the same, and she’d have bet a thousand dollars he wanted to.

  If she had a lick of sense, she’d halt this conversation now and go straight to asking for help, but after days of thinking Oliver’s stalker was female, it was disorienting to be confronted with a male.

  “Gentleman first,” she countered.

  “So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” His sigh was pure theater. “Bartholomew Nathaniel Cuthbert, at your service. But you’ve probably heard Oliver refer to me as Bart.”

  Page held her tongue. If she said nothing, the silence might invite further confidences. Plus, she couldn’t be accused of consorting with the enemy.

  Was Bart an enemy?

  Evidently Bart knew that tactic, too, because he let the silence drag out for an uncivil length of time. They were playing a passive-aggressive form of silent chicken, and Page broke first. “Should he have talked about you?”

  “I expect so, seeing as I’m the one who blinded him.”

  She sucked in a breath and closed her eyes. There was a story here—a big one—and more than anything in the world she wanted to hear it. More than Oliver’s physical injuries, she knew in her bones that this man was the source of his hurt. She also knew the telling had to come from Oliver.

  “And who am I speaking to?” Bart said.

  Page jumped to her feet and tried the door again. Before she said another word, for Oliver’s sake, she needed to be sure she’d done all she could to escape on her own.

  The door remained as uncooperative as ever. She gave it a kick and connected too well, so that she had to stifle a swear and hop back to the armchair. She peeled off her boot and massaged the offended toe.

  “I’m a woman who needs your help,” she said.

  “Well, I ain’t nothing if I ain’t chivalrous. Just ask the ladies.”

  Page smiled. She’d bet there was a long line of double-X chromosomes, stretching from Bart’s cradle to the present, willing to vouch for his gallantry.

  “How may I be of service?” he asked.

  She chose her words carefully, but if he was any kind of a decent stalker, she’d be giving him more than she wanted. “If I give you a phone number, would you call it in five minutes and relay a message?”

  “That don’t sound too demanding. What would I say?”

  “There’s trouble in Mrs. A’s room. Send someone immediately.”

  “Is this gonna end with an adolescent-type joke?” he said. “Something ’bout running refrigerators?”

  She laughed. “Not a chance.”

  “Good, because I’m not keen on ruinin’ my reputation.”

  She took a deep breath. “So you’ll do it for me?”

  “A’ight.”

  She said a brief prayer she was doing the right thing and gave him the number of the Thurston’s front desk, which he dutifully repeated back to her.

  “What if they want more info?” Bart asked.

  “They won’t.”

  “What if I want more info.”

  “To quote my late Nan, get used to disappointment.”

  He laughed. “I get the picture. That son-of-a-gun’s given you orders not to talk to me. Guess I give him points for being consistent. So I tell you what—I’ll call this number and do my level best so’s they don’t believe I’m punking them. In return, will you do me a favor?”

  “If I can.”

  “Tell Oliver the team misses him. I miss him. Spring training ain’t the same without him short-sheeting my bed.”

  His tone was light enough, but something told Page that if she’d been standing in the room next to him, his expression would be every bit as haunted as Oliver’s in his bad moments. “Goodbye, Bart.”

  “Bye, mysterious and loyal Canadian lady.”

  Page hung up and stared at the phone. Dang. Canadian. Had he nailed her on the accent or had he already looked up the phone number?

  Either way, she had to get moving. He could be calling the front desk right now.

  By the time Wendy knocked on the door and entered, Page had her boot back on and the throw blanket folded and put away. She had turned off the bedside lamp and restored the bedside table to its normal position. She stood inside the closet, brushing against the mink as she watched from a crack in the door.

  Miraculously, Betty Jo remained in her sit-stay position outside the bathroom, where Page had placed her. Page was hoping the sign of canine devotion, when coupled with the sounds of running water, would cause Wendy to assume she was dealing with a bathroom emergency.

  The plan worked like a charm. By the time Wendy knocked and fought her way through the steam to discover an empty tub, Page was long gone, the lock having yielded to her efforts on the very first try.

  Chapter 18

  As he held the bus for an extra ten minutes, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that Mr. Lee would join them, Oliver concluded he had blown it with Page the night before.

  Upon returning to the hotel from Mountain Jewel Sports, they had been immediately pulled into a dispute over card game rules, and hadn’t been given a moment of privacy since. But Oliver hadn’t been dissuaded from his goal of pursuing Page. In fact, the decision made, he’d slept remarkably well and awoken without a headache, which had happened on only a handful of occasions in the last year.

  Page, on the other hand, had been unusually reserved all morning. Had he spooked her in that moment on the hillside, when the sexual tension crackled between them?

  Oliver took a final look around the parking lot. Since there was no sign of an Asian man in a hooded black down jacket—confirmed as Mr. Lee’s de facto outdoor clothing choice—Oliver knocked on the side of the bus. He ran lightly up the stairs.

  “Stop being such a slacker, Buck,” he said to the long-suffering driver. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Buck, who had been ready a half-hour early, gave Oliver a look and took a last sip from his giant travel mug of coffee. He pulled the lever to close the door and with a hiss of brakes, they were off.

  Oliver slid into the seat he’d reserved beside Page. Under the cover of the bus’s rumbling, he touched a finger lightly to her knee. She jumped like she’d been stung, and when she turned to him, he knew he wasn’t imagining things. “What’s wrong?”

  For a moment he thought she would issue a denial, but she said, “Later, when we won’t be interrupted.”

  His heart lifted when she laid a hand briefly over his and gave a quick squeeze. Then Mavis reached between the seats, tapped Page’s shoulder, and Page was pulled away.

  Oliver stared out the window. He didn’t have a clue what could be causing her distress. In many ways, Page was as much of an enigma as Mr. Lee.

  Which reminded Oliver he needed to tell Page about his phone call. During his wait in the parking lot, Oliver had dialed Mr. Lee’s contact number, hoping to enlist the family’s help in prodding Mr. Lee from cover. It had been another dead end—a recording in another language, with no opportunity to leave voicemail.

  The bus pulled into the parking lot behind the sports store, where Teague stood guard over what looked to be a ridiculous amount of equipment for a half-day outing. No wonder Teague had hesitated about his ability to pull the trip off on short notice.

  For the nineteen people who had decided to participate, there were backpacks, snow pants, snowshoes, ski poles, camping chairs, a portable table—even an insulated container of hot chocolate for the seniors who’d decided to enjoy the fresh air while remaining at the bus with Buck.

  “Did you pack for Armageddon?” Oliver said to Teague.

  Teague hefted the beverage container over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “And how much do you know about winter survival, Mr. Arizona Man?” He grinned good-naturedly at Oliver’s shrug. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

  Between Buck, Oliver, and Teague, they made short w
ork of loading the supplies into the cargo hold. When they took their places in the bus, Page had been pulled into an exuberant group of senior women.

  Oliver smiled. Whatever was bothering her, she looked better.

  The bus trundled past the Thurston, past streets clogged with tourists, past the residential area of town, and onto a gravel road, beginning a slow, gradual climb which raised the pitch of the bus’s engine.

  To the left were granite cliffs dotted with the occasional frozen waterfall. To the right, through periodic breaks in the trees, you could catch glimpses of Harmony Creek, and beyond that, a cargo train puffing lazily toward Banff National Park.

  Avis let out a sudden gasp. “Look.” She pointed off into a stand of poplars. “A deer.” Buck slowed the bus as happy chatter filled the air.

  The sun shone brightly, sparkling on the snow, the scenery grew increasingly spectacular, and Mr. Lee or no Mr. Lee, Oliver decided, this outing had been the right decision. Judging by the laughter behind him, the seniors were going to get an unforgettable experience.

  Maybe Shawn should make a Harmony detour a regular part of his tour, especially in the summer when the seniors could fish or kayak or float down the creek on a lazy raft.

  When he wasn’t standing to point out the local attractions, Teague sat beside Oliver and talked sports. He was a likable guy. In common with many of the outdoorsmen Oliver had known over the years, Teague was tan, fit, and conveyed an uncomplicated can-do spirit.

  He was also curious about Oliver’s time with the Stingers and asked a lot of questions, though he seemed to sense Oliver’s disinterest in talking about how it all had ended.

  “You miss being a pro?” Teague asked at one point in their conversation.

  “Nah,” Oliver heard himself say, and was startled to discover he meant it.

  The pro part of being an athlete had never meant much to him. He’d been smart with his money and never really got off on the public adulation.

  What he did miss was the feeling of invincibility, like he could do anything, physical-wise, provided he was willing to work hard enough.

  He missed the feeling of waking up in the morning with a sense of purpose and direction.

  Most of all, he missed being part of a team.

  In a sense, though, the rag-tag group assembled here on the bus and back at the hotel had become a reasonable substitute, albeit a temporary one. Shawn functioned as owner and manager. The seniors were the players. And Oliver and Page, while admittedly both conscripts, worked darn well together as a coaching team.

  One of the coaching staff even had fantastic breasts.

  He turned and grinned at Page, waiting until she felt the weight of his gaze and turned her head, as he knew she would. Her eyebrows rose and she mouthed, “What?” as her cheeks filled with color.

  Oliver shook his head and faced forward again, his heart light. While they drove on, he let himself savor the feeling.

  The bus passed a slope teaming with tobogganers and people on tire tubes. A few minutes later, it pulled into a small parking lot cleared of all but a skiff of snow. A trail marker indicated they’d be walking to Tall Grass Lake and a frozen waterfall that Teague assured him was world-class.

  A half-hour later, they had their home base set up. Mrs. Horton and Buck would stay back with three other seniors, who had decided at the last minute they weren’t feeling up to an adventure.

  Teague was issuing everyone whistles and going over safety procedures when they heard the whining of a machine that sounded like a hoarse chainsaw. As the sound drew nearer, a black snowmobile came into view. The driver spent a few minutes hot-dogging around the clearing before gliding up to them. When he cut the engine, he stopped close enough to kick snow up onto the carpet.

  “Teague, my man!” the driver said into the silence, which now seemed deafening. He removed his goggles and helmet and stepped off.

  It was the a-hole from the Wobbly Dog—the one who’d been trying to pick up Page before her performance, and running his mouth non-stop during her time on stage. Oliver recalled a particular piece of shouted advice and clenched his fists.

  “Curtis.” Teague’s nod was just this side of polite.

  “Luscious Lurlene,” Curtis directed toward Page, who was kneeling on the ground, checking the bindings on Mrs. Patel’s snowshoes.

  She pulled a Mrs. Horton and ignored him completely, which didn’t seem to faze the guy.

  “Where are you off to?” Curtis asked.

  Paul Dubois, standing next to the trailhead, rapped the sign with his knuckles. A twanging sound echoed through the trees.

  Roy Bell, who stood next to Oliver, leaned in and spoke under his breath. “The stupid is strong with this one.”

  “He’s thicker than a sack of used jockstraps,” Oliver said, and they high-fived one another and exchanged grins. Maybe it was the height of juvenile behavior, but it made Oliver feel better.

  Curtis eyed them suspiciously but turned his attention to Teague. “Got extra snowshoes? I’m free until the late shift.”

  “Sorry,” Teague said. While not an outright lie, it was a clever evasion of the truth, since Oliver happened to know the bus held several backup pairs. In fact, if Curtis were to crane his neck to the left, he would spot them.

  Presumably aware of that fact, Mavis and Avis strolled over to Mrs. Horton and stood chatting, hip to hip in their matching pink coats, blocking Curtis’s line of sight.

  Oliver held in a laugh and gave the ladies thumbs-up behind Curtis’s back. They were a team, all right. An intergenerational, multinational team which had closed ranks against an outsider without need of a spoken word.

  “Just as well,” Curtis said, finally taking the hint. He straddled his snowmobile. “Geezers move too slow, anyway. I like my exercise on the challenging side.”

  Without a trace of irony, he started the snowmobile and roared away. When he reached the stop sign, he swung onto the main road without yielding, causing a passing vehicle to swerve and honk.

  “Drive much?” Oliver said.

  “You think that’s bad.” Teague shook his head. “He works for the railroad.”

  “Not your favorite person?” Oliver asked. He was curious if Teague’s animosity was rooted in Curtis’s use of the snowmobile, the sound and fury of which seemed an abomination in the unspoiled wilderness, or whether it was something more personal.

  Teague gazed into the distance. He seemed to be thinking over whether to break the no-gossip man-code. “Let’s just say I don’t share his sense of moral flexibility. Word of advice?”

  “Sure.”

  Teague shrugged into a sizable backpack Oliver had watched him pack with approval. It was full of a first aid kit and survival supplies in case of a sudden change in the weather. “Keep your lady away from him.”

  Oliver slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the plan, Teague. That’s the plan.”

  * * *

  ✽

  Oliver decided he had one mission for the afternoon, and nothing looked to be standing in his way. They weren’t in avalanche country and the forecast promised clear skies. Nor were they expected to encounter wildlife any more threatening than a squirrel.

  Teague led the way, setting a pace that would be sufficiently challenging for the fittest seniors, who in turn would help break the trail for those requiring more time and assistance. Oliver and Page were to bring up the rear, behind one of the two married couples on the trip.

  Oliver waited until the Shevchenkos paused to catch their breath, and held Page a little back to make his pitch.

  “Uh, no,” she said flatly. “I’m not going to LA.”

  He refused to feel hurt. Like her dismissal of weddings in Sleek Chic, her response held the flavor of reflex, not reflection.

  “We could see the oldsters off on their cruise,” he said, “then take a trip to my house. I need to pick up a few things.” He’d left in such a hurry to get to Shawn, he wasn’t even sure he’d set the alarm. “Ever been
to Phoenix?” He had a feeling she’d like the desert. Heck, he’d be happy if she liked the desert view from his bedroom.

  She turned her head and gave her first genuine smile of the morning. “You said oldsters.”

  “Enjoy,” he said dryly. “It’s a one-time slip-up.”

  “So I get it,” he said when she marched on as if she was going to ignore the preceding conversation. “You have a felony conviction. No?” he said cheerfully, when she gave him a glare that could have melted the edge of the frozen waterfall coming into view. “Well, if that’s not it, then it’s your ID. Or lack thereof. Which by now you should know is not a problem when you’re traveling with me.”

  “Right.” She gave him a sidelong glance.

  “I’m serious. This is one of the few advantages of fame. I know a guy who knows a girl who knows a guy. Given a few days and enough financial incentive, they can work miracles.”

  “Like they did for you after the avalanche?”

  “They would have come through,” Oliver said. “Eventually. Besides, there was someone lined up two days ago. I happened to prefer you.” He was a little freaked by how that had come out. He could have diluted it by adding that the seniors were attached to her, too, but he let it stand. He did want Page.

  She slowed down, as if absorbing the implications of what he’d said, but wouldn’t look at him.

  For a few minutes, Oliver let it be. He took deep breaths of air that smelled of juniper, admired the contrast between sky and mountains, and unzipped his jacket to let the breeze cool him off. Snowshoeing was a surprisingly good workout.

  Eventually, he judged it time to try again. “Your plans won’t let you leave Vancouver?” He’d already noticed Page didn’t lie. She might avoid a conversation or change the subject, or be completely wrong, like she had been about the so-called thief, but if she didn’t believe it, she wouldn’t say it.