Stitch In Snow

by Anne McCaffrey

  ‘Breakfast’s served. It’s ten o’clock of a miserable day. Rise and shine!’

  ‘You are impossible!’

  ‘Hungover?’

  ‘No,’ I said after due consideration. ‘But if it’s a miserable day, why do I have to have anything to do with it? I could sleep!’

  ‘Ah, but too much sleep is bad for you. Here you are,’ he said the last to the bellboy, signing the bill and passing out the tip, ‘and besides, I’m awake.’

  ‘Oh, you are all heart.’

  ‘Here!’ He threw my robe at me. ‘Get dressed!’

  ‘I hate you,’ I said, feeling disheveled, face-creased and bad-mouthed. I hate to be discovered in such a state, even by my own son. I fingercombed my hair as I struggled upright and wriggled out from under the blankets. I wove slightly as I made for the bathroom. ‘I hate you.’

  ‘Never at our best in the morning, are we?’

  I seized the first thing I could reach, the literature the hotel laid out for its guests, and flung it at him. He laughed, raising his arms to fend off the paper shower. I tried to slam the bathroom door, but the hinges were stiff and all I did was strain my arm muscles. I turned on the water hard, to cover the sound of his laughter. What gall!

  I tried to avoid my image in the mirror as I wet the facecloth but I felt compelled to survey the damage. My face was, indeed, creased by the pillowslip, my eyes deeply shadowed, I’d no eyebrows on and no lipstick and I really need the color. The lines at my eyes and across my cheeks were definitely age-wrinkles, not laughter lines. About the only presentable feature was my hair, which I had had done in St. Louis. I’m only remotely a red-head: the encroaching white threads have turned my hair into a very soft, muted ginger and I keep it cropped short in curls. It’s very attractive for hair. I brushed it thoroughly and flicked the curls into place. I put on eyebrows and lipstick. Then, fortified, I buttoned up my robe and went out.

  He had seated himself at one of the chairs, reading a newspaper in long folds, his profile outlined against the swirling snow and grey light outside. He had a strong profile but I hadn’t noticed the bump on the bridge of his nose before.

  ‘C’mon, Jenny, your breakfast is getting cold.’

  ‘I appreciate the thought but I deplore the timing.’

  He eyed me critically as I approached but rose, with a grin, and held the chair for me to be seated. As I spread the napkin, (to cover the knees because gown and robe were shorties), he poured me coffee.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know that the entire northern half of the country is socked in by this blizzard.’

  ‘Hmmmm.’ I took a sip of coffee, squinted at the huge glass of orange juice. ‘I trust this is all on the airlines,’ I said, toting up the room service cost against what I had with me in cash. I’d been sending money back to my Dublin bank after every engagement, keeping only enough for current expenses. I sighed.

  ‘You bet. If big birds annoy Snowking, big birds must pay.’

  The orange juice was real, and I sipped appreciatively, beginning to take an interest in details. There was toast, an assortment of danish pastries, marmalade, jelly, a plateful of butter and two covered dishes at each place. I hate eggs first thing in the morning.

  ‘Steak?’ I exclaimed, peeking under the lid.

  ‘This hyar is cow country, ma’am, best steaks in the world.’

  ‘For breakfast? This is not Australia.’ I lifted the lid higher to see if there were eggs on the meat.

  ‘You need feeding up.’

  ‘Christ, I need a diet!’

  ‘You’re an ungrateful wench.’

  ‘I am not. Not really,’ I said, moderating my tone because I really did appreciate his thoughtfulness, even the steak. ‘It’s just that I’m not a big eater, usually.’

  ‘Snacking. That’s what you’ve been doing,’ he said in a carping tone, pursing his lips like an irate father. ‘Never eating properly; then you don’t understand why you’re too tired to enjoy life.’

  ‘Oh, not at breakfast . . . daddy.’

  He laughed and I could see where he’d nicked himself shaving, and even missed a few odd hairs on one side of his jaw. Somehow that little detail softened my attitude towards him. He folded up the paper.

  ‘Look at it this way, Jenny. With a good steak under your belt, you don’t need to mess with lunch.’

  ‘Oh, in that case . . .’ and I took the lid off the steak and lifted my cutlery.

  After the first bite, I began to see the solid sense of a steak for breakfast, particularly good juicy tender tasty steak.

  ‘Feel better?’ he asked when we had both finished.

  ‘Indeed I do and I thank you and apologize for my grembling.’

  ‘Grembling?’

  ‘That’s a combination of greeting and grumbling. Greeting being the Scots for moaning.’

  ‘Grembling. Very descriptive.’ He handed me the paper. ‘Not that there’s much in it.’ He poured more coffee, draining the pot. ‘Shall I order more?’

  I shook my head. I had an overstuffed feeling since my usual breakfast is five or six cups of coffee.

  ‘Say, how did you get in this morning?’

  His eyes danced. ‘You are awake now, aren’t you?’

  I repeated my question.

  He shrugged, avoiding my eyes. ‘I did order breakfast for two.’

  ‘Then the bellboy . . .’

  ‘Unlocked the door to admit your breakfast and . . . me.’ He wore an air of injured innocence. ‘You are too suspicious by far, madame. I was only doing me daily good deed.’

  I gave a heavy sigh. ‘You are gallantry itself, sir. Chivalry is not dead.’

  ‘Not as long as you keep me in my place.’ He cocked his head at me, that devil gleam back in his eyes. He was teasing, wasn’t he?

  The room phone buzzed, startling me, and him. I rose hurriedly, almost knocking the service table over, to answer the phone, feeling oddly guilty. It was the airlines, apologizing for the delay and contritely explaining that the runways were clogged with snow, making take-off or landing impossible. I would be kept advised of any changes. Did I wish them to contact anyone at Portland? No? Then I was to enjoy the facilities of the hotel.

  I heard Dan moving, saw him head towards the door, gesturing at me that he was going to his room, undoubtedly to receive a similar call. I heard the muted burr of his phone and the rumble of his voice as I set about dressing. I’d even put some things in the basin to wash when the phone rang again, and it was Dan on the line.

  ‘So, now what are we going to do with our day?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know about you but I’ve . . .’

  ‘Knitting?’

  ‘I’ll reserve that for later.’

  ‘There’s a swimming pool here. Have a dip with me?’

  ‘After that steak? I’d sink. So would you.’

  ‘In an hour?’

  ‘Well, . . . I’ve no swimming suit.’

  ‘That’s no big problem.’

  ‘Tank suits,’ I said in clear acid tones, ‘are great for the young . . .’ thinking of the sort of emergency equipment likely to be in dressing rooms of hotels.

  ‘You really need to work off that steak, and last night’s brandy,’ he replied with a tolerant, patient chuckle for my evasion. ‘All that standing about yakatting, drinking cocktails, fending off undesirables . . .’

  ‘That can be exercise, too . . .’

  ‘Okay.’ He rang off.

  It struck me that he gave up easily, or maybe I’d been too egregiously disagreeable. He was only being chivalrous. Undoubtedly time would hang heavy in a storm-struck hotel without a pleasant companion, and I had been accessible and considerably more agreeable last night.

  The maid came to do the room so I went downstairs to get some stamps. This would be an ideal time to catch up on thank-you notes and answer the fan letters which had been forwarded from my publishers to St. Louis. And I’d have to tell Tim about being blizzarded. I had, after all, several time
s wished in his presence that I’d see some snow while I was back in the States.

  The lobby was full, mostly of disgruntled travellers. While I could appreciate their positions, and supposed that if my lecture dates were being missed, I’d complain, too, I was glad enough to complete my errand and retire to my room. There was a disquieting unease in the lobby . . .

  The maid was just finishing my room when I returned so I settled dutifully at the desk with my paper work. I’d brought my diary up to date, including the meeting with Dan-man, and got as far as addressing an envelope to Tim and heading his letter before I realized that I did not want to write. I stared out at the swirling snow for inspiration and found none. I was reaching for the knitting bag when I heard a knock on the door.

  I was so glad to see Dan standing there that my face must have mirrored my relief. His eyebrows went up and his eyes twinkled.

  ‘There’s nobody, but nobody in that pool. They’re all . . . what was your word, ah yes, . . . grembling in the lobby and the bars. The atmospbere is intense.’ Then he held up both hands: in one was a woman’s black swimming suit and in the other, a man’s green trunks. ‘As requested, untankstyle. How’s about it?’ He held the suit out to me.

  ‘How’d you know my size?’

  ‘I asked for a fourteen?’ he grimaced against my reaction.

  ‘That should do.’

  He grinned with relief. ‘Thought so. You’re not skinny, you’re not fat but you have . . . ahem . . . broad shoulders. I took a chance. You’re not insulted? Good. Lifeguard says we can change there but bring towels or it’s another buck.’

  The pool was not in the basement, but at the end of one wing of the ground floor. Snow was piled against the glass surrounding the pool and lay heavy on the winter roofing. We were still the only ones taking advantage of the facility. I wondered about swimming because the pool room was chilly, with steam rising from the water.

  I put an exploratory hand in the water and found it suitable.

  ‘To your liking, madam?’ asked Dan, and I was glad I was still in my clothes because I suspected he might have unceremoniously dumped me into the water if I had been changed.

  ‘Passable, passable.’ I retreated with great dignity to the dressing rooms, his chuckle echoing in the empty chamber.

  The fourteen fit but it was only a shade more flattering than a tank suit. There’s no escaping the fact that my figure is thickening in the middle. I turned this way and that, sucking in my guts but Esther Williams I am not, even if my legs are still rather good. Ah, who cares?

  I jammed a cap over my hair. Vanity! Vanity!

  He was cavorting in the water, launching himself up and down, arms extended, bringing them down hard, to splash mightily, the way kids do. It was gratifying to me to notice that he was thickening about the middle, too, though with his breadth of shoulder, his spread wasn’t noticeable when he was clothed. He breaststroked to the side of the pool when he saw me.

  ‘The water’s just great. C’mon in.’ He made a snatch at my ankle and I neatly dove over his head into the water.

  It was cooler than I’d thought but warm after the outside temperature. Still, I wanted to keep moving so I began to swim a lap.

  ‘You in condition?’

  ‘Not for a race,’ I replied.

  ‘Shall we see how many laps we can do?’ He was challenging me.

  ‘Fair enough.’ We’d just see.

  He moderated his stroke to mine so we could swim side by side. The first couple of laps weren’t too bad. Each one was progressively harder to complete: my legs got leaden, my arms, particularly my shoulders, resisted being forced to function. Then his elbow caught and shoved water right into my open mouth so I had an excuse to stop. I half-choked so that he had to tow me to the side of the pool where I could hold on until I got my wind back in the proper pipe.

  ‘Can’t we stop now?’ he asked, blowing very hard through his mouth.

  ‘I’d think we’d better.’ I was heaving as badly as he. ‘I don’t think I’ve swum like that for years . . .’

  ‘Me either!’

  Then we both laughed together at each other.

  ‘Ah, vanity!’ He said, starting to hoist himself out of the pool. He fell back into the water with a loud groan.

  ‘Why do they waste youth on the young!’ I hand-over-handed myself on the pool’s edging to the ladder and found even that hard on my overworked arms.

  I dried off and then wrapped up in the towel for the air was chill.

  ‘I’m absolutely jacked,’ he said, flopping onto one of the sun loungers.

  I lay down, more gracefully I thought, on the adjacent lounger. My body seemed to throb with the exercise.

  ‘You know something, Dan?’

  ‘What?’ His eyes were closed but he turned his head in my direction.

  ‘I’m aware I’ve got blood again.’

  ‘Oh?’ He frowned in brief consideration. ‘Yeah. I have, too.’

  My blood was pounding through leaden limbs, my heart ought to have been audible to him from the sound of it against my rib cage. Then the inner tumult quietened and I was aware of the hiss of the snow against the glass behind me. I slewed around, trying to peer beyond the swirls. I sensed rather than saw buildings beyond, the regular bumps of parked snowcovered cars, the looming pyramids of the evergreens, their snow-burdened branches drooping.

  A groan from Dan roused me and I saw him sitting up on the edge of the sun-lounger. He was flexing his shoulder muscles and stretching his arms out.

  ‘Christ, am I out of condition!’

  ‘Smoking too many cigarettes? No, you don’t smoke.’

  ‘Care for another . . . slow . . . lap to loosen up?’

  I groaned inadvertently as I swayed to an upright position. ‘Will it do any good?’

  ‘Can’t do us any more harm.’

  I could feel the stress in my legs and staggered to the side of the pool. I did manage a graceful dive but then, I hadn’t overdone that. I couldn’t swim overarm so I sort of frogged it down to the further end. He splashed as energetically, if unscientifically, beside me. But the water was relaxing, even if all it did was hold up the muscles. We lay, flat out, flapping our hands to keep flotation, occasionally drifting together.

  ‘This is the daftest way to spend a snow-bound morning,’ said Dan, a ripple of amusement in his voice.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘By rights, we should be out there, snowshoeing, or skating or skiing. Making use of the opportunity. Lord, I haven’t had the time to ski in so long.’

  ‘I haven’t had the opportunity although someone started an artificial snow slope in Dublin.’

  ‘In Dublin?’ He roared at the notion and I wondered if I should look hurt and defend my adopted city. ‘Well, we’re in Denver now, and Aspen is the winter ski capital . . .’

  ‘And I’m not up to any more exercise today!’

  ‘Neither am I.’ He grimaced ruefully. ‘Know any good two-handed card games? Excluding poker!’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I picked up a three volume set of games of patience in Dublin . . .’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed the Irish were noted for their patience!’

  ‘Don’t be snide. Whatever else could the poor women do while waiting for their men to come back from whatever revolution they were fighting?’

  ‘Match point!’ He got to the ladder first but waved me up before him.

  As well we had finished with the pool because a group of children and three adults plowed into the room, their noisy conversation reverberating through the empty, marble-tiled space. Dan and I locked eyes, nodded and made for our towels and respective dressing rooms. He was waiting for me when I emerged and I disliked him. His hair was neatly combed and reasonably dry. Mine was still straggly damp and I did not look my best. I was feeling chilly after all my exercise.

  ‘You’re blue in the lips.’

  ‘You’ve no tact, Dan. Besides, blue is the very latest fashion shade .
. . see my nails?’

  He gave my back a rough rubbing; to restore circulation, he told me as we made our way to the elevator.

  ‘It’s my lips as is blue,’ I reminded him, straightening my back away from his not too gentle knuckles.

  ‘Look, you go up to your room. I’ll meet you there. Wrap yourself in a blanket. I want to get cards.’

  ‘I’ve got a pack.’

  ‘Just go along to your room, will you?’ He gestured me to the elevator.

  I obeyed, almost too cold to move. I had no sweaters in my suitcase: no one had predicted the damned blizzard. I knew the hotel room had felt overly warm to me after years in Irish rooms, but now it didn’t seem warm at all. Swimming during a snowstorm was the daftest notion! I put my cloak on first and then the spare blanket and was still fighting the shivers. The door got knocked on.

  ‘You squaw, me Indian brave,’ Dan said in the doorway. ‘Me got fire-water,’ and he displayed a fifth of bourbon and a six pack of soda.

  ‘I thought it was cards you needed.’

  He jerked his chin at his shirt pocket. ‘Not much choice but at least I know you can’t have marked the deck.’

  ‘I never cheat!’ And then I winced at the coy floral design on the biliously colored decks.

  ‘Pink for you, blue for me,’ said Dan, shoving me back into the room so he could close the door.

  My comment was an unspellable sound.

  He got glasses from the bathroom and splashed bourbon into one.

  ‘Knock this back while I get the ice.’

  The bourbon warmed pleasantly all the way down. I gave a convulsive shudder but immediately felt better.

  ‘Now for a proper drink,’ Dan said, returning with the icebucket.

  We played cards for the rest of the afternoon: Russian bank, Chinese patience, what he insisted on calling Swedish Canfield to keep the games international in flavor and educational in experience, and Brazilian canasta. It was more fun than I’ve had in a long while: genuine, unstrained, relaxing fun.

  Abruptly I folded, what with the bourbon, the exercise and, I suppose, the residual fatigue of my trip.