by Tish Cohen
If only she could restart this day. Play the music she’d originally chosen for her program, will her flight to take off before she could get the news about Indie’s refusal to board. Having to drive north by herself, get to the cabin, and tell Matt that (a) she’d officially blown the entire year and (b) she’d possibly destroyed her reputation in the sport . . . She couldn’t bear to think what his reaction would be.
Ronnie appeared from the mouth of the plane to stare at her, phone in hand. His head shook from side to side as if he was trying to clear an annoying song.
“What?” she said. “The judges? What’d they say?”
A pair of polo ponies being led toward the ramp rushed the aisle and got into a tussle for the lead. Ronnie and Elise moved out of the way as, nearby, another horse kicked a stall divider in excitement. The grooms shouted, the ponies were separated, and order was restored.
Ronnie took her shoulders and searched the plane’s walls and ceiling before focusing on Elise’s face. His words came out slowly. “Seventy-five point nine.”
“Wait. What?”
“You heard me.”
She blinked stupidly. “But . . . I thought they hated—”
“You’ve just become a contender for Rio, kid.” He pulled her into his peeling T-shirt and squeezed.
Her face mashed into his chest, she let this sink in. Over the years, she’d done all the things one did when trying to achieve the barely achievable. She’d begged the universe. She’d drawn the Olympic rings on a scrap of paper and slept with it beneath her pillow. She’d imagined getting the phone call. It had been her dream ever since her mother died. Over twenty years to get to this moment, to have her name in any way connected to the Olympics.
He kissed her forehead and pushed her away. “Go see your family. Tell them it’s all been worth it. This is the news you’ve been waiting for.”
Chapter 4
Lake Placid, New York
The black velvet slither of Highway 86 morphed into Main Street, and there they were. Matt lowered his window and drank in the heady, gnashing scent of clean air and pine that once defined his summers. He rolled slowly past the bowling alley, neon sign still flashing NORTH COUNTRY OWL. The “B” in “Bowl” had gone dark decades ago, and locals had called it “the Owl” ever since. Then the gas stations and the nostalgic alpine signs of postwar motels for urban folks who couldn’t afford the rustic splendor of Lake Placid Lodge or Whiteface but still wanted to vacate sticky, airless cities. He loved that the best nod to modern times these places had going was a boast about color TV and free Wi-Fi.
He passed the skating oval and the timber-framed architectural majesty of the Olympic Center, flanked as it was by world flags hanging in the dark like sleeping bats. Then the village proper, which, ironically, sat on bustling Mirror Lake, not Lake Placid, a quarter mile to the north. The once-important post office and the old stone church on the water, the tiny white library with its Norman Rockwell front porch. Then the shops with their cheery awnings and window displays. And Starbucks, of course. The coffee chain had moved into the old video store a few years back, replaced the seedy, peeling white paint with river rock cladding.
Every hundred feet or so, wooden benches invited tourists to sit long enough to unwrap a block of fudge for a wide-eyed child. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the last bench on the strip. It was dedicated to Nate—Matt had arranged for the brass plaque himself. It seemed the least he could do to commemorate a man who had done so much for the area.
Headlights flashed from behind and Matt started to pull over to let a rusted pickup truck roar by. Before he was even halfway out of the lane, the driver—a heavily freckled girl in a plaid shirt—whooshed past, swerving dangerously close to Gracie’s head, pressed against the window as she slept. He drew in a sharp breath, reminded of his parents. Reminded that everything you hold dear can disappear in a flash. Not until his heart stopped hammering did he drive on.
Lake Placid peaked early—way back in 1932, when it hosted the Winter Olympics the first time. That kind of global recognition had set the expectations of the village on a certain course. Trouble was, nothing really came next, not for decades. A local council—headed by Matt’s grandfather until about ten years back—worked on bids for many Winter Games, but wasn’t successful again until landing the 1980 games.
Now, often considered the venue of the last small-town Winter Olympics, it seemed to Matt that Lake Placid had settled into a place content to live in its glory days.
The car started the slow, narrow climb up Mirror Lake Drive. Past the enormous, and storied, white clapboard Interlaken Inn. Then the sprawling cottages and pines lining the winding road, until, finally, up on the left, blackened stone gates and a brown-and-ocher sign announcing SELDOM SEEN ROAD, aptly named because you don’t see roads this breathtaking every day. And didn’t the Lake Placid tourism folks know it—and feature it heavily in their promotions.
Densely forested, this unfurling ribbon of packed earth and gravel wasn’t a road to navigate with any speed at night if you didn’t know it like Matt did. There were a few open stretches where you could pick up speed, but many of the bends were so narrow you reversed if a car came from the other direction, and a few of the homes sat so tight to the road you could almost reach an arm out the window and touch them. Seldom Seen boasted a pleasing lakeside mix of humble cabins, as well as some of the most breath-stopping multimillion-dollar homes, or “great camps,” in the Adirondacks. The families that lived here, be they locals or weekenders, differed enormously in wealth. But they had this in common: they were lucky to share a tiny piece of heaven and they knew it.
The Sorenson cabin, about a third of the way up the east side of Lake Placid, sat tucked behind a screen of pines, nearly out of view from the road. It was one of the last homes before the road pulled away from the water’s edge and curled inland. Matt pulled the car onto the cabin’s crunchy stone driveway, weeds and grasses now blurring its edges.
It had been two years since they’d been here. They drove up that spring to help Nate turn over the gardens and found him fetal and lifeless in the grass. Not a vision that was simple to erase. It had taken this long for Matt to steel himself enough to return, and even so the visit was propelled by necessity.
It had seemed Nate would never die. It couldn’t possibly happen. The man avoided doctors and made it to ninety-six. Matt was fairly sure his grandfather died only because he’d had to put down his beloved German shepherd at the almost unheard-of age of twenty-one. Gunner never left the old man’s side, even accompanying him to the office.
As the car’s headlights slid across the face of the big house, the wear and tear was hard to miss. One shutter had torn loose and hung upside down from its lower hinge. The chinking between the logs was starting to crumble, and one of the cedar posts that supported the porch had begun to split. Dead center between the windows on the second floor, however, the Sorenson family crest endured: a large, blocky “S” constructed of peeling birch logs, mounted on a slate shield—a badge on the face of the cabin for generations.
Between house and garage was his grandfather’s Range Rover. For the briefest of moments, he imagined the old man would be waiting inside. Ridiculous—of course the car would still be here. It had been Matt’s job to sell it and he hadn’t been able to contemplate the task. Anyway, it might bring in a decent buck. He made a mental note to get the word out. It was inanimate, after all.
Rubber, glass, and metal.
When his parents had announced they were going to the Dominican Republic for their fifteen-year anniversary and Nate was coming to stay, the only thing eleven-year-old Matt worried about was whether or not they’d bring him back any sharks’ teeth. But he would look up from a M*A*S*H rerun one afternoon in their Upper East Side apartment to learn that his entire world had imploded.
On the screen behind Nate, Hot Lips Houlihan strode through the camp toward the shower tent in her robe, a sight that would usually have Matt sitting up tal
ler and hoping for a gust of wind. But Major Houlihan ceased to exist the moment Nate started to speak. He explained that the roads in the Dominican were narrow and precarious, that it had been raining and his dad had had a bit of champagne, that it happened quickly, and even though forty is far too young to die, you had to be thankful for the instantaneousness of a car meeting a speeding farm truck head-on.
Rubber, glass, and metal. And, in this case, blood.
When Matt’s grandfather moved his suits and his electric shaver and his shoe-shining kit into the apartment on East 74th, between First and Second, Matt realized the man was far more eccentric than he’d once believed. Nate scrubbed his white hair with Ajax to ward off a jaundiced cigar halo. Once a week he soaked his feet in apple cider vinegar to prevent fungus. But Matt knew he’d gotten lucky with Nate, who’d always doted on him and that spring became father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother in one. He’d taught his grandson invaluable life lessons.
In seventh grade, Matt partnered with Howie Stueck on a geography project worth 20 percent of the term mark. Matt’s talents lay squarely in writing, while Howie was a gifted artist. The deadline for the project was fast approaching and, for some reason, Howie refused to do drawings after school or on weekends. Matt was livid—his end of the project was not only the tougher part, but he’d spent at least a dozen hours researching the gold rush, California’s political history, earthquakes and water shortages, and the Pacific coastline.
Two nights before it was due, Matt complained to Nate over spaghetti and meatballs at the kitchen table. “All he’s done so far is the geographical map and a drawing of the state flag. We’re going to fail.”
Nate twirled pasta around his fork and popped it into his mouth. He chewed for a long time before he spoke. “Why’d you pick him, then?”
“I didn’t know he was lazy.”
“You’ve been in school with him for years. How did you miss it?”
“Because he’s a really good artist. And he gets all A’s.”
“Uh-huh.” Nate took another mouthful. “And you think this Howie wants to keep all the A’s for himself, is that it? He doesn’t want to share them with you, even if it means he gets an F?”
Matt put down his fork, pushed his plate away. Nate’s meatballs were always pink and wet in the middle. He was starting to feel sick. “No.”
“Then what gives?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where does this Howie Stueck live?”
“The Bronx.”
“These works of art Howie makes—does he usually do them in school or at home?”
Matt thought about this. Howie was always drawing at school. Even at recess. And if he wasn’t drawing on school paper or bristol board, he was drawing on a ratty little pad he kept in his pocket. “School, I guess.”
Nate wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood up. Without a word, he motioned for Matt to put on his shoes and grab his coat.
This was how observant and caring his grandfather was. He’d figured out that the Stuecks were short on cash. That on the family’s hierarchy of needs, art supplies came in far lower than basic life necessities like housing, heat, and food. So Nate and Matt went to the drugstore to purchase a forty-eight-pack of colored pencils with the plan that Matt would get to school early the next day and sneak them into Howie’s desk. Whether or not he left a note was up to Matt.
When the morning bell rang, Matt watched Howie slide into his seat, open his desk to search for a pencil stub, and freeze. The kid picked up the colored pencils and looked around, confused. When he could find no obvious gift-giver, he pulled open the flap and ran a finger along the crisp, sharpened tips. He selected what might have been his favorite color—bright orange—and started to doodle in his scruffy little pad.
Howie brought the remaining seven California drawings to school the next morning, and they turned the project in on time. They got an A.
Matt switched off the engine and climbed out to stretch his arms over his head, shake out his legs after the long drive. They’d made good time, considering the traffic. It was just past eleven o’clock. A barely there new moon allowed the stars to shine brighter, sharpening the serrated topline of the mountains, some still snow-covered. A pair of bats cut across the sky overhead and darted back up to the trees. He stood there a moment and allowed the soft, downy memories of childhood to pad him once again. Make him feel the way he used to—sure of who he was. Confident the slightest weight wouldn’t sink him. This visit would be good. They would reconnect as a family, and the cabin sale would set the three of them on solid ground.
He opened the rear door and reached down to unbuckle his daughter’s seat belt. “Wake up, princess. We’re here.”
Chapter 5
Matt switched on a lamp made of deer antlers, and the amber glow brought his entire childhood to life. Thick log walls, bulging stone fireplace, plank ceiling, the head of a lifeless buck Nate found at the side of Highway 86 some thirty years back. Heavy paisley curtains edged with navy velvet cloaked the windows and a threadbare rug stretched across floorboards worn down by generations of Sorenson triumphs and heartaches, worries and joy.
The same puzzles and games lined the built-in shelves of the dining room. The same ashy fireplace tongs. Same basket of logs. Same stack of creamy wool blankets with multicolored stripes his parents used to buy on weekend trips to Quebec City before he was born. “Iconically Canadian,” his mother used to say. The Hudson Bay Company’s point blankets were prized by fur traders, miners, and First Nations people, and were traded for beaver pelts, buffalo robes, and moccasins.
“You coming?” Matt called back to Gracie on the front porch. She made her careful, clickety-swish way inside with the crutches she’d attempted to camouflage last summer with stickers that were now gauzy, grayed, and torn. It was something he and his wife battled over—whether or not to push her to walk without them. It was Matt’s belief that they should allow Gracie to take the lead. Her ability to walk unaided was precarious. She could sustain a serious injury from a fall.
As he tugged sheets off sofas and armchairs, he inhaled decades of dust, old birch logs, fireplace ashes, and the smell of wet dogs that had been invited to sleep on the sofas and beds.
Gracie was on the hearth now, comparing her height to the firebox. “I can almost walk into the fireplace.”
“Remember the rules here.”
She sighed. “No grown-ups around means no lake, no forest, no road. No fun.”
“Boom.” Matt stopped at the kitchen, its deep ceramic farmhouse sink and banged-up camping kettle as familiar as the fine hairs on the back of his hand. He loved that nothing had ever changed in the house. The linen tea towels his grandmother had monogrammed with the Sorenson “S.” The dancing mice salt and pepper shakers on the shelf—the pepper mouse still boasting a jagged raised scar from Elise having accidentally knocked it to the floor. She’d panicked that Nate would hate her for it. Which he had.
The first time Matt brought Elise up to the cabin to meet his grandfather, the old man, wearing a deep green Christmas sweater over shirt and tie, had waved Matt into his office while Elise was upstairs getting ready for bed.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” he said, as Vince Guaraldi’s “Christ-mastime Is Here” wafted in from the other room. “Striking. She’s smart and driven. That ambition—it’s admirable. Aspirational, even. If someone figured out how to liquefy it, pour it into our coffees every morning, we’d all be drunk on it and running the world. But I’ll tell you and I want you to listen. Really listen. She’s from a very different world. That girl is not like us.”
“Come on, lots of couples come from different ends of the social spectrum. It’s not a big deal.” Matt was well aware of who Elise was, where she came from. It didn’t bother him in the slightest. His girlfriend, with her platinum bob and intoxicating smile and natural effervescence, was shiny and new. He adored her passion and focus. He’d even go so far as to say it inspired him to reach further h
imself. Muster up the confidence to apply to a big firm, rather than plod along in his own practice. Certainly, that was where the big money was—at least for a guy like Matt, who was uncomfortable pushing people for business. Elise didn’t let anything stop her. Which was what it took to get to the top of any field, right? For the first time in as long as Matt could remember, he was truly happy. He’d found love.
“That hunger—you can smell it a mile away. And it’s going to make your life miserable.”
“So I’m better off attached to someone without direction?”
“That’s not what I said. This one is grasping. She’s always going to put herself first. It’s going to be trouble.” Nate wrapped his lips around the cigar and held the smoke in his mouth. When he exhaled, he pointed the cigar at Matt. “Listen to your grandfather. Don’t marry Elise. And if you’re stubborn enough to do it in spite of what I say, don’t have kids. I’ve practiced family law my entire life. Do not have children with a woman who sees you as a stepping stone.” A creak from the landing caused Nate to stand. He licked his fingers and extinguished the tip of his cigar. “You lost your parents far too young. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But look at you. You’re handsome. Smart. A lawyer. I didn’t do such a bad job raising you, huh?” He chuckled to himself and reached out to squeeze his grandson’s shoulder. His tone grew somber. “You found your way. But you’re the exception, Matthew. Believe me when I say that an absent mother can destroy a family.”
Even then a tiny spark of truth, of recognition, had charged the air with clarity.
Matt did want what he himself hadn’t had for nearly long enough. A real mother for his children. Someone who valued family like he did. Elise was completely disconnected from what remained of her family. Her interest in her own blood relatives was almost recreational. As if they were something she’d heard about, like green apple pilsner, and might be game to try one day when she wasn’t in training.