by Gina Ardito
A Nobody Romance
The Bonds of Matri-money A Run for the Money
The Nobody Romance Series: Nobody's Darling
Gina Ardito
Although Ski-Hab is the product of my imagination, winter sports rehabilitation programs for the disabled have existed since shortly after World War II and are available worldwide. My research has given me new insight into the courage and determination of the individuals involved, and I thank them for their inspiration.
I bet, in your wildest dreams, you never thought you'd be living with your mother at your age."
Douglas Sawyer glowered at the twenty-something-year-old sports star sprawled in the corner of his white leather sectional. "Is that supposed to be funny, Ace?"
Ace Riordan, snowboarding king, flashed the trademark grin that had catapulted him into million-dollar endorsements and worldwide fame. "Well, yeah. You don't see the humor in this situation?"
With a broad sweep of his arm, he indicated the evidence of Violet Sawyer's complete takeover of what had once been a glorious beacon of successful bachelorhood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline were now marred with whimsical suncatchers to prevent the birds from smacking their little beaks into the glass. The scent of pumpkin pie wafted from lit candles in odd-shaped jars on the mantel above Doug's pristine white marble fireplace. Floral arrangements from his recent hospital stay, some with GET WELL SOON balloons still attached, circled the room. A colorful pile of gossip rags-complete with lurid headlines that screamed about adopted babies, cheating spouses, and the latest celebrities to check into rehab-spread across his glass cocktail table. The top tabloid in the pile featured a smiling couple beneath the banner April "Reins" In Her Man: Mom & Doc Will Wed!
The woman in the cover photo caught Doug's attention. Familiarity itched in his brain. Cute, perky-looking, with brownish-red hair and a flashlight-sized diamond sparkling on her finger. Where had he seen that smile before? The crinkled eyes, the dimples, the curve of her lips all tickled some ancient memory from his past.
Mom's laughter trilled from behind the club chair where Doug reclined, his stocking feet on the matching ottoman.
"Will you look at that?" she said, her tone filled with wonder. "Isn't that the most adorable thing you've ever seen?"
When he looked up at her, she pointed to the high-definition television. Doug fought back a groan of impatience. Of all the stupid...
A squirrel rode water skis around a kiddie pool.
Ever since his discharge from the hospital, his mother had slowly wormed her influence back into his life. The painkillers were to blame, of course. That, and the fact he couldn't stir himself up enough to really care. Earlier, Doug had spent the afternoon in a medicine-induced daze while she watched three hours' worth of soap operas. Which was why he'd welcomed Ace's arrival and its inherent distraction.
"Sweet," Ace commented, and Doug suddenly wished for a muzzle for the kid's grinning mouth.
"Wait," Mom said to both men. "Let me rewind this so you can see it from the beginning."
Doug silently cursed the day his cable company added the ability to stop, rewind, and replay any particular scene on any television show at any given moment. At first he'd considered having a DVR a godsend. As a sports journalist, he loved having the ability to fully analyze a layup, determine if a running back's feet had truly landed flat in the end zone, and ascertain if the ump's called strike should have been a ball four.
Now, however, he glowered at the goofy animal program, and then up at his mother, who hovered nearby, one eye on the television while the other kept watch over him-as if he might explode at any second.
"What happened to the mom who taught high school English and insisted on my reading Tolstoy and Hemingway every night?" he grumbled.
His mother blinked, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "She nearly lost her only child in an incident outside of Baghdad." The words, a harsh whisper, grated the air. "And so now she has decided the world doesn't need war to be glamorized quite so much"
"I miss the old mom," he said pointedly.
"And I miss the old son." She bent to ruffle his hair.
Good God, did she think he was still ten years old?
She flexed her wrist to stare at her watch. "Ooh! It's time for your meds. Ace, why don't you pop in that DVD you brought with you while I get Doug his pills?"
"You brought a DVD?" Doug arched a brow at Ace. "What is this? A date? Want me to leave the room and give you two some alone time?"
When Ace shook his head, his golden curls glistened beneath the jarred candlelight as if he were a star in some shampoo commercial. "The DVD's for you, pal o' mine."
The young man rose, picked up a black case near the mess of tabloids, and strode to the smoked-glass and chrome cabinet. A minute later, the water-skiing squirrel blurred and disappeared, replaced with a blue screen and the directive to hit PLAY.
"Oh, goodie," Doug remarked. "What's in store for us now? A psychic cow? A skateboarding dog? Has the Animal Network found a paint-spitting llama that creates copies of original art masterpieces?"
"You'll find out soon enough." Ace turned from the unit and meandered back to the couch. "Whenever you're ready, Mrs. S.," he called into the kitchen as he resettled himself in his seat.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Doug demanded.
"Lighten up, Dougie." His mother bustled back into the den with a tall glass of water and a handful of pills that she pressed into his left palm. "Here you go."
"Yeah, Dougie," Ace repeated in a singsong voice. "Make sure you take your medicine like a good boy so you can be aaaallllll better."
Great. Within an hour of Ace's departure from his apartment, the world would know the age-old nickname that, until now, only his mother dared to use. With sips of water, he swallowed the colorful assortment cupped in his hand. First the blue pill to fight infection. Then the two red caplets to promote healing. And finally, one of the tiny white ones for pain, which was supposed to give his world a rosy glow. Yeah, right. Like anything in his life would ever be rosy again.
"Any time you're ready to leave, Ace," he growled, "you know where the door is."
"Be quiet and watch," his mother snapped. "This is for your own good." Settling in the matching club chair opposite his, she fumbled for the remote control. With the press of her index finger, she sent the television screen hurtling into a blur of moving shapes.
The speed of the fast-forwarded images merged with the effects of too many meds swimming in his blood. The combination overwhelmed his brain, and he closed his eyes to regain equilibrium, tilting his head into the soft pillow propped against the chair back.
When he finally opened his eyes again, no animals with sporting equipment came into view. Instead, humans struggled with sporting equipment. Snowboards and skis.
"... The program was begun several years ago by a group of local skiers when one of their own arrived home without a limb during the first Gulf War," a male voice-over announced. "Since then, over one hundred injured veterans have found new life on the slopes."
On the giant flat screen, at least a dozen skiers slowly traversed a snowy trail. The camera zoomed closer, and Mom paused the action on a lone figure, gliding downhill in a sitski, a quasi-wheelchair mounted on skis.
"It's a rehabilitation program for injured war veterans," Ace elaborated. "I did my community service there."
Ah, yes. His community service. Last year, the snowboarding superstar had been involved in a scuffle at JFK International Airport that resulted in a broken nose for a more virulent member of the press. To help the kid out of what might have been a prison sentence, Doug had written an editorial about the pres
sure of the pro circuit, the stupidity of the young, and how one mistake shouldn't destroy a promising career. His article didn't score any points from the reporter with the broken nose, but public outcry convinced the New York District Attorney to settle the case quietly. Ace agreed to enroll in an anger management program and perform four hundred hours of community service.
"Don't say anything yet, Doug," his mother advised. "Just watch." She pressed the PLAY button again, and the screen burst to life.
"The Ski-Hab program is geared to enhance the well-being of our soldiers emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Many of these brave men and women assumed they'd never again lead a normal life until they arrived here at Mount Elsie."
Mount Elsie? Sounded more like a dairy farm than a ski resort. Doug squinted, studying the chairlifts and tree lines, seeking anything that might give him a clue where this mysterious Mount Elsie might be located. Not much to differentiate this place from any other. Lots of snow, chairs on elevated lines scaling higher and higher, the graceful motion of hips and legs creating slaloms down the trails, a rustic two-tiered deck, and picnic tables crowded with people basking in a lemon sun. No gondolas. No flags. No clues that would help him determine what state or country was home for Mount Elsie. He could ask Ace, but that would only lead to his mother thinking he was interested.
On-screen, the reporter interviewed several veterans. One former Marine who had sustained a spinal cord injury admitted he'd suffered from post-traumatic stress until he'd begun the Ski-Hab program.
"I'd lie in that hospital bed and plan how to get my hands on enough pills to end it all," the Marine said.
Doug's skin itched as both his mother and Ace turned hard gazes on him. He returned their scrutiny with a bland expression. "What?"
His mother frowned. "You know what."
"So. . ." He refused to confirm her silent accusation. "What? You want me to write a story about this place? Too late. It's already been done."
"No, Dougie," Mom replied. "You're going to participate."
Oh no. No way. "This is a program for soldiers. I'm a reporter."
Okay, he used to be a reporter. Before Iraq. Before he'd embedded with Giles Markham's unit. Before an enemy missile hit their Humvee, killing everyone inside-except him.
"Ace pulled some strings and got you enrolled in the SkiHab program."
A shot of pain blazed over one shoulder, and he grimaced. "Forget it."
"Not so fast, my son. You owe me. Big time. Who taught you how to throw a curveball? Who was team mom three years in a row when you played peewee football? Who worked summer school to pay for your time at the ice hockey rink?"
"You." Heat washed his nape, and he skimmed a palm down the back of his neck. "All you."
"That's right," she replied with a satisfied smile. "And may I remind you about your crush on that snow bunny when you were fourteen? What was her name again?"
"Brooklyn Raine," he murmured.
Hoots of laughter erupted from Ace. "You had a crush on Brooklyn Raine? Oh, my God, that's so chill!"
"That was twenty years ago, for God's sake." Beneath his palm, fine hairs prickled with annoyance. "What's so `chill' about it?"
"Dude, you have no idea." Ace squirmed in his chair, rising onto his haunches. "So did you, like, write her fan mail and stuff?"
"No," Doug ground out, conveying with that one syllable his refusal to discuss the topic freely.
He hadn't thought about Brooklyn Raine in aeons. While all his high school buddies obsessed about the Baywatch babes, he had found his dream girl on the slopes at the World Cup games. Brooklyn Raine had it all: looks, a dynamite personality, and a blinding smile. When she raced in the giant slalom, the sexy swerve of her hips compelled an adolescent boy to stand up and take notice.
"What about later?" Ace pressed. "When you grew up? Did you ever interview her?"
"No."
Ace's denim eyes widened like an eager puppy's. "Too bad. I bet she would have gone for you. But then again, maybe not. She was married to that Cheviot guy. Did you know Canada named a holiday after him? It's not a bank holiday or anything, but it gives the ski resorts another day to charge higher-"
"Is there a point to this?"
"Not yet." Ace snickered. "But there will be. Do you know I was in kindergarten when Brooklyn Raine won the gold?"
"You're quickly wearing out your welcome, Ace."
"Too bad. I'm not leaving till I get the deets on your great love affair with Brooklyn Raine."
"There was no great love affair."
Yet, by the time he had turned sixteen, his passion for her had grown so manic, he insisted on spending the entire Christmas holiday at the nearest ski mountain on the off chance Brooklyn might appear. Of course, in those days, the nearest ski mountain to their home was a rinky-dink place in West Virginia. A place that had since become a water park based on famous battle sites of the Civil War. A place that a skier of Brooklyn Raine's caliber would never visit.
But it was the only ski resort nearby that his single mother could afford. And she'd stretched every penny that holiday season to give Doug the opportunity to learn the sport ... just in case he should ever meet his dream girl.
"You owe me, Dougie," Mom repeated. "I didn't care what I had to do to get you to the slopes when you were sixteen. Now you'll use those skills to retake control of the life you so casually want to throw away."
"I'm not throwing anything away," he argued. "I couldn't if I wanted to. I threw right-handed, remember?"
Three months ago, when Doug had told his editor he'd give his right arm for an interview with Giles Markham, he'd meant it as a figure of speech.
Fate, however, took him at his word.
In the kitchen of Snowed Inn Bed-and-Breakfast, Lyn Hill hung up the telephone with an air of defeat.
"T minus ten minutes until their arrival," she told herself with a sigh. "Let the madness begin."
Her sister had come to town, with the entire entourage in tow. Not that she didn't love April and her kids. And April's fiance struck her as a sensible, caring, responsible guy. Unfortunately, ever since that television stunt featuring April and Jeff, the two had become media darlings.
Her stomach pitched. Even after all these years, the idea of microphones shoved into her face and the glare of flashbulbs left her scared stupid.
Outside, wan December sunlight glinted off the freshly fallen snow coating the windows. Of their own volition, Lyn's toes flexed inside her shoes, as if digging skis into packed powder. She hadn't hit the slopes in three days. And the lack of indulging her favorite outlet wreaked havoc with her nerves.
Maybe when the kids got here, if they weren't too tired from the drive, she could take them over to the mountain for a few runs before the lifts closed.
Leaving the kitchen in the capable hands of her cook, she strode into the parlor. A welcome fire crackled in the natural stone hearth. Cinnamon and cloves, wafting from the hot cider on the sideboard, infused the air with spicy warmth.
Click, clack, squeeeek! Click, clack, squeeeek!
In the ancient rocking chair near the fireplace, Mrs. Bascomb sat with her knitting. The long steel needles slipped through the skein of mint green yarn while she rocked. Looking up, she offered Lyn a serene smile before returning her attention to today's baby blanket project.
Each October, when frosty air swept into their Vermont town, the widow next door brought her rainbow of yarns to Snowed Inn and took her place fireside. Throughout the fall and winter, Mrs. Bascomb and the other knitting club members created change purses, layettes for infants, sweaters and ski hats, home linens, tote bags, and other crafts. During the busier spring and summer months, they'd sell those handmade goodies at country fairs and local shops.
"How soon until your sister and her family arrive?" Mrs. Bascomb asked.
"April just called from the Brown Bear. They'll be here in a few minutes."
The old lady dropped her needles in her lap and smiled reassuringly at Lyn
over the top of her square eyeglasses. "Everything's going to be fine, you know."
She offered a grimace as she sank into the matching rocking chair. "I just hope they were able to dodge the paparazzi."
"Honey, I hate to break it to you, but even if some reporter followed them up here, no one's going to care about you."
"Gee, thanks a lot."
Mrs. Bascomb's chortles raised hackles on Lyn's nape. "Well, now, you can't have it both ways, Lyn. You wanted anonymity. You got it. You haven't been seen publicly in almost ten years. So at this stage, no one's going to recognize you. Isn't that what you've tried to gain up here?"
Lyn frowned and palmed the fine hairs dancing on the back of her neck. Only someone who'd lived under the fame microscope could understand her fears, her distaste for the invasion of her privacy, the claustrophobic clamor of crowds.
"Lyn?" Mrs. Bascomb's prompt chased away the ghosts. "That is what you want, isn't it? Anonymity?"
"Of course," she replied, her mind still straddling the past and present. A lump rose in her throat, and a quick cough placed her firmly back in the conversation with Mrs. B. "But now, with April and Jeff in the spotlight, the most rabid reporters are bound to track the lovebirds to my inn. And when they do, they'll put two and two together."
Confusion puckered Mrs. Bascomb's crumpled brow. "Why should they? Your sister's kept mum about you. No one's ever linked her with the once-famous Brooklyn Raine."
Lyn gave her brain a few minutes to process these facts, facts she'd repeated to herself over and over since the day April had told her of the family's vacation plans. "True . . ."
"And I hate to tell you this, but I sincerely doubt those rabid reporters would care any more about you being April's sister except as an interesting side note. You're beyond yesterday's news. You're a dinosaur."
"Once again, thanks a lot."
Dark eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. "I mean it as a compliment, sweetie. You've kept yourself so far below the radar, the public lost interest in you a long time ago." Leaning forward, she patted Lyn's hand in a conciliatory gesture. "Besides, if someone dared to ask nosy questions about you, they'd come up against some mighty high brick walls. The entire town's watching out for you. Your friends and neighbors will make sure to outsiders you're only known as Lyn Hill, proprietor of Snowed Inn, a nice little widow lady who prefers to live like a hermit."