“Toby Dart. I’m an extreme camper. I do a web broadcast on YouTube. I was snagging some great footage until the lights went out.” He almost smiled.
Hudson shook his head. Opened his mouth to say something and then changed his mind. “Toby, where are your snowshoes?”
“I lost them, man. They unlatched and I fell out of them in the storm and couldn’t find them again. I practically crawled here on my hands and knees. That’s how my gloves got wet. I was pretty weak at that point. Going in circles for hours until I found this place, and then I couldn’t get the fire started—I mean—it was right there, everything I needed to survive and I was going to die anyway.” Toby shook violently as the blood returned to his extremities. “Shit, it hurts, my feet. Shit!”
Hudson peeled off the kid’s boots and socks. His toes were white and hard, like small dead fish. He pinched Toby’s middle toe. “Can you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
The kid’s socks were wet. Snow must have got inside his boot at some point and melted. The wind rose outside the shelter but the day still held. “We have to get him to a hospital. He has frostbite. We can treat it but only as a stop gap measure. He needs medical attention if he’s going to keep his toes. The insides of his boots and his socks are frozen solid. We might was well stick his feet in blocks of ice as put those back on. He can’t make it with or without snowshoes. He can’t walk on frostbitten feet.”
“What?” Toby sat up, clearly afraid. He was a scruffy looking young man of about nineteen or twenty, with a thin sparse beard on his chin. “You can’t let them cut my toes off, man!”
“No one is cutting anything off,” Michael said impatiently and pulled off her boots. “Here.” She removed her socks and carefully pulled them on Toby’s feet. “There. Dry socks. What size do you wear—ah, men’s size seven—okay, I’m a women’s eight—these will be a bit snug but at least they’re dry and they’ll protect your feet from the cold.” Michael slid her new leather boots over Toby’s feet. They fit rather well considering.
“What are you going to do for socks and boots?” Hudson asked. “You can’t wear Toby’s.”
Michael unfurled the cashmere scarf from her neck and using the Swiss Army knife Hudson had clipped to his pack, she cut it in half. She bound her feet in the cashmere and then slipped on Toby’s boots. The lining was cold and damp but the cashmere held the worst of the chill away from her skin. It was a temporary fix until they got back to the truck. Michael reached into her pack found her lipstick and reapplied it. She turned to Hudson. “Ready when you are, Mr. Grace. What do you want me to do?”
Hudson grinned and searched the pack for their headlamp. When he found it, he fixed it to his forehead. He didn’t want to have to dig around for it if they didn’t make it down the mountain before dark. Toby was muffled in Michael’s parka watching both of them like a little boy. “It is critical Toby doesn’t put any weight on his feet. We’ll have to carry him.” Hudson glanced around. The boards on the dais were not nailed down. He pulled one up and laid it on the floor. “Help me get him on and then we’ll lift him.”
Michael zipped Toby into her black parka and fit the hood over his face. She donned his ski jacket, zipped it up and then clipped her snowshoes on her feet. With Toby secured to the board, Hudson clipped his boots into the snowshoes, shouldered his pack and opened the door. The winter day was flat with cold as the sun sunk on the horizon. He flicked on the headlamp and turned to Michael. “Let’s go.”
They bent and lifted Toby on the board to their shoulders.
The last coherent thought Michael could recall having was: thank god Toby Dart isn’t heavy.
Chapter VIII: Eight Maids a-Milking
THE EMERGENCY Room doctor wanted to examine her feet as well. They were fine. She was fine, she told them. But Hudson said they were not fine and Toby Dart’s boots were removed to check her over. The trek out of the park to the truck had taken over two hours and the last forty minutes were the worst. The light had almost completely gone from the sky and in the forest there was none. Hudson’s headlamp was useful for general illumination but they had to stop over and over again to locate trail signs to make sure they were going in the right direction. Michael was profoundly grateful she had cleared it of fallen debris because the rescue was challenging enough with branches to trip over in the near dark.
Twenty minutes before they reached the parking lot, the wind rose and the expected storm hit the region with snow, high winds and poor visibility. She had heard it all like a weather report in her head as she fought to hold onto Toby and keep moving.
Hudson was amazing, encouraging her every step of the way. He told her as long as they knew where they were going they had to keep moving. And they did know because he continually checked trail markers and signs on the way down. She was irritated and impatient with this practice until she remembered they had covered a lot of ground earlier in the day. They had taken many trails, checked out many shelters. She hadn’t paid attention to which trail was which and which would ultimately lead them out of the park. She had followed her supervisor, tossed branches and complained. What if he was the one who was injured? How would she have saved them?
When the truck was in view and Michael knew they were going to live, she almost wept. They had settled Toby between them and through blinding snow, Hudson drove to the hospital.
Michael was exhausted, too exhausted to think or speak. The hospital admitted Toby Dart. He would have to stay for several days. Her feet were given the all clear after the doctor treated the blisters on her heels. She was handed back her new boots and they were told they could go home. Hudson called the daycare from the hospital and explained the situation. He said they would be there in a few minutes.
SIMON FLUNG his small body full-tilt at his uncle. Hudson staggered back, swinging the boy high into the air. Simon screamed his pleasure while Simon’s daycare supervisor looked on ruefully. “It was difficult to contain him for the past thirty minutes. I had to reassure Simon several times that his uncle was coming back. Hi, my name is Helen McNally.” Michael took Helen’s outstretched hand. “I know who you are. Everyone around here does. I never miss an episode of Tomorrow Never Comes. I record it every day. This is quite an honor.”
Michael was flattered and reluctant to break the spell by telling Helen McNally that she was in Mandrake Falls on a court order. “Thank you. I’m enjoying my visit very much.”
“Hudson told me when he dropped Simon off this morning that you’re here researching a new role. An environmental activist who stumbles across an espionage plot, is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Michael said with a completely straight face.
“And the Mandrake Falls Theatrical Society is thrilled with the help you’ve given them on their production. They say celebrities are arrogant but you have certainly proven that wrong in this town.”
Michael dropped her eyes modestly. “I’m just glad to be of service.”
“Mrs. Murdoch tells me you’ve taken an interest in Simon as well. I was wondering ... I know it’s an awful lot to ask and you’re quite busy I’m sure, but this is a co-operative daycare and Simon’s uncle is scheduled to be the duty parent tomorrow. He’s never made it yet and it’s always a scramble to find someone to take his place. There isn’t much to the job, just bring the snack and stick around to help out. Do you think I could impose on you to come tomorrow?”
Half-listening, Michael watched Hudson playing with his little nephew. Cold, wet, and exhausted but Hudson was not in a hurry. Maybe instinct told him that Simon needed his undivided attention for a few minutes. Maybe he was reminded of another Christmas when Simon’s parents didn’t come home. Whatever his reasons, it was very moving watching Hudson Grace converse with the little boy.
The McNally woman was saying something about a snack. God, yes. She could certainly go for a snack right now ... yummy Vermont cheese and a bottle of Shiraz. Lunch was ages ago. “Oh yes, please,” Michael responde
d enthusiastically.
“Wonderful! I’ll expect you at nine tomorrow morning. The children will be so pleased. Oh my, I think we’d all better get home before this snowstorm gets any worse. Good-bye!”
Michael stared after the woman who was now dashing inside the building. What she had just agreed to? “Hudson, what’s a duty parent?”
HUDSON COULD offer very little information on the duties of the duty parent, but he recalled from the daycare’s registration pamphlet that the snack was a big deal. Cheese, fruit, juice and crackers was the expected fare. Opening a box of Oreos was frowned upon.
“Do you even know how to shop for groceries?” he asked.
“Do you?” she barked back. “I know we need a cart.”
A rack of shiny steel shopping carts occupied space to her left and she pulled one free of the stack. The wheel stuck and veered to the right but Michael wrestled it into obedience, directing it down the aisle that ran in front of the cash registers. Hudson took Simon by the hand and followed. Michael felt ridiculously pleased with their success thus far. They had carried a young man down a mountain, possibly saving his life, but shopping with a three-year-old took real nerve.
The Country Barn mall had everything in it a person could possibly need or want to outlast a major snowstorm, which the weather forecast was predicting. Michael was intensely grateful to Hudson for his insistence they get out of the park or they would be in the shelter right now sharing half a bologna sandwich. The store smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. The ambient music streamed classical Christmas carols—a refreshing change from Frosty the Snowman and his ilk. Now if she could only find something to eat....
Michael pushed the cart toward the bakery aisle and selected a plain dinner roll for her and Simon and put six in a bag in the cart. “Do you want one, Mr. Grace?”
Hudson glanced at the windows. “No, I want to hurry up and get home before we lose the roads in this blizzard. Just pick up what you need for the daycare. I’ll cook dinner at home.”
“Unless you want to gnaw on the bones of last night’s roast chicken, there is no dinner to cook. I’ll pick something out. It’ll only take a minute.” Michael removed the parka. She was getting hot wrestling the cart.
“I have to go to de bafroom.” Simon munched his roll unperturbedly.
Michael experienced a flutter of panic. “Now? Can’t you hold it until we’re home? I’ve never taken a child to a public bathroom before. Are they safe?”
“They’re safer than shopping with a kid with wet pants.” Hudson took the boy’s hand, which was covered in mashed bakery bread. “I’ll take him. You get dinner and whatever else you need for tomorrow. You have ten minutes. I’ll wait for you at the cash register.”
Michael pushed the cart, veering wildly from aisle to aisle thanks to the rebellious wheel, filling the metal basket with every fresh pre-assembled meal she could find. The Country Barn Grocery mercifully had plenty in stock for the holidays. A little known fact that Michael had picked up about grocery shopping—one could have an empty pantry, zero cooking skills and still eat very, very well. There were whole schools graduating chefs every day and they were employed by grocery stores! With resources like that to call on, why would anyone cook? She added fresh fruit, cheese and wine to the pile forming in the cart.
Remembering last night’s bedwetting incident, Michael found the diaper aisle and after several harried minutes sorting through the variety of sizes, styles and brands, she selected a package of night-time pants designed for young children and tossed them into the cart. Michael steered to the nearest cash register, feeling irrationally pleased with herself. It was just a shopping cart after all, not a high-performance machine.
A rack of magazines and tabloids caught her eye. Reflexively, Michael scanned the headlines. The tabloids were the bane of her existence at the same time they offered the best inside scoop on the industry. Muck-raking, dumpster-diving reporters would have the real skinny on Tomorrow Never Comes no matter what the publicity department churned out in their press releases. Michael expected to find news of her protest and arrest trumpeted in at least one lurid headline. There was nothing. Just the usual Elvis sightings and monster baby stories.
A neon pink square in the upper right hand corner of Soap Suds Weekly caught her eye. The black letters bounced out at her: “Vickie Webber Recast!” Her heart pounding, Michael snatched the copy from the rack and flipped to the inside page. A box in the right hand column promised to reveal shocking insider details behind Michael Shannon’s sudden departure from Tomorrow Never Comes.
So that was the plan. Contract negotiations weren’t going their way so the producers recast while she was out of commission and unable to fight back. Fuming, Michael snapped the pages to the article and her heart sank. According to the magazine, Michael Shannon had defected from her long-time role of Vickie Webber under a cloud. There was a court-ordered sentence that pointed to a criminal charge (although the allegation couldn’t be confirmed) following a breakdown in contract negotiations. The producers claimed her demands were too high and they were forced to recast. Jennifer Swan, a twenty-something newcomer had been hired to play the role of Vickie Webber. The article concluded with a statement from the producers saying that while they sympathized with the disappointment of Miss Shannon’s fans, Michael Shannon had left them no choice—she had disappeared without a word.
So that was it. She was systematically erased from the show and they’d concocted this story of her disappearance to justify replacing her. Michael hadn’t told the producers where she would be this week because it was none of their business. They didn’t have her under contract and there were no posted shoot dates for Vickie. As far as Michael was concerned, her time was her own. Of course she told her agent where she was going but Barbara Levy had a policy against talking to the press, particularly the tabloids. She wouldn’t give them anything.
Michael glanced at Hudson who had returned from the bathroom and was helping Simon onto a motorized pony. There was a payphone tucked behind a rack of poinsettias. Michael tossed the magazine in the cart and pushed her way to it, the cart’s wheel wobbling and jamming en route to the phone.
She punched in her agent’s number, instructed the operator to reverse the charge and chewed her lip waiting for Joanie to pick up. Joanie would have no idea how to accept a long distance call. She was too young to know that’s how it was done in the pre-cell-phone era. The agency had probably been trying to reach her all day and Michael was in the Country Barn buying wine and cheese while her career went down the toilet! This is why men are dangerous, she thought, recalling Hudson’s kiss last night with hostility. They suck you in and make you forget what’s really important.
A click and the call connected. Joanie responded to the operator smoothly like an old pro.
“Barbara Levy Talent. How may I direct your call?”
“Joanie, for crying out loud, it’s Michael! Didn’t you hear the operator say she had a collect call from Michael Shannon?”
“Michael! OMG! I heard her but I didn’t believe her. This is wild—we were just talking about you and then you called! Where are you? All hell’s breaking loose around here.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Don’t they have the Internet where you are? It’s all over the Twitter-sphere. You’ve been recast! Oh shoot, Barbara is going to kill me. She was going to break the news herself.”
“The news has already been broken. I just read about it and I’m in the middle of nowhere so we can assume it’s in the bloody Cloud by now. Vickie is going to come out of her coma transformed into a bubblehead at least ten years younger than when she went in. What the hell happened?”
“Maybe you should talk to Barbara. You sound upset.”
Michael gritted her teeth. “Absolutely, profoundly, demonically upset. I originated that character. Yes. I would very much like to talk to Barbara.”
“You can’t. She’s not here. She’s meeting with the producers of the show.
A last ditch effort she said. Jennifer is under contract but hasn’t shot any scenes. Barbara thinks the producers are bluffing.”
“They’d better be. Get her to call me the minute she gets in.” Michael gave Joanie the number at the cabin and slammed the phone down.
HUDSON EMPTIED a bag filled with boxes of cereal onto the kitchen table. His eyes swept the still full grocery bags around his feet and on the counters. “Where did you find the energy to buy all this stuff?”
Michael opened the freezer door and piled smooth shiny packages of prepared meals onto the freezer shelves. “At least Simon won’t go hungry after I’ve left. No excuses—I even bought you a Christmas turkey dinner with all the fixings.” She lifted the copy of Soap Suds Weekly out of the bag and glanced at the lurid neon pink square, blinking back tears.
“What are you looking at?” Simon tugged at her leg.
“The end of my career, sweetie. I’m probably out of a job thanks to this community service sentence.”
Hudson glanced over the article, unimpressed. “If you’re out of a job it’s because you broke the law.”
“It’s a stupid law.”
“But it is the law and you can’t go around breaking the ones you don’t like.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Michael said. “It makes me anxious talking about it. I turn my back for a couple of days and my contract goes right out of the window.”
“So, you’ll get another job.”
“Please don’t talk about things you know nothing about. This isn’t a job like I’d find on Craigslist. I’m a star, Mr. Grace—a daytime drama star. I have fan clubs and awards and reporters going through my garbage. I make a half-a-million dollars per year. And I owe it all to Vickie Webber.”
The Way Home: Winter (Mandrake Falls Series Romance Book 3) Page 10