Tough Cookie gbcm-9

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Then leave an hour early so you can deal with the roads!” he snarled. So much for sympathy.

  I gripped the phone and glanced out the bay window Tom had installed during our remodeling. An old-fashioned street lamp illuminated fast-falling flakes swirling from a black sky. In the living room, wind whistled ominously down our fireplace flue. I sighed.

  “Sorry I snapped,” Arthur moaned. “I’ve got a blizzard and a crew in revolt. Plus, my boss says our show has to raise money. The annual fund-raiser got canceled, so we’re up.” He moaned again, pitifully. I registered the clink of a bottle tapping glass. “One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We have to do it.”

  I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn’t ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk our lives remembering someone who was already dead.

  “Killdeer’s been dumped big time,” Arthur reported dourly. “We’ve already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn’t open my door this morning.” He stopped to drink something. “Are you getting any?”

  In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. “About a foot today,” I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six-month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer—all ski resorts west of the Divide.

  Arthur groaned. “The snowboarders and skiers? They’re ecstatic! They’ve got an eighty-inch base in December! How’m I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew’s having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast.” I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. “Know what that crew’s thinking, Goldy? I’ll tell you. They’re thinking Donner Pass.”

  Tucking the receiver under my ear, I started heating some milk: It was definitely a night for hot chocolate. “Arthur,” I answered calmly, “why does the show have to be live? Why don’t you just postpone the taping?” I adjusted the flame under the milk. “Better yet, why not tell me exactly what’s going on?”

  “Look.” I heard another gulp. “High winds closed the bistro early tonight. Whenever gusts reach forty miles per hour, Killdeer Corp closes the gondola, so tonight’s telethon was canceled. That’s why the kitchen crew couldn’t do your prep.”

  I tapped the gleaming new Carrara marble counter and glanced at my watch: half past ten. “So we have to raise money during our show?”

  He cleared his throat. “The show was an annual telethon. It brings in about ten thousand bucks each year, and the station uses the money to buy equipment. So tonight, when the telethon got canceled, my boss announced to viewers that instead of seeing our show Saturday morning, viewers could tune in tomorrow morning for a live version of Cooking at the Top!” He took a gulp. “We have to do it tomorrow, Goldy. The professional fund-raiser folks say that if you put people off for long, they’ll stow their checkbooks. Don’t worry, I’ve got phone-bank volunteers.”

  “You said it was a memorial,” I reminded him.

  “Haven’t you ever watched it?”

  “Never. I can’t take telethons. Too much tension.”

  “It’s in memory of Nate Bullock. High Country Hallmarks, you must have watched that.” Arthur took another desperate swig. Nate Bullock, I thought. A pang of regret wormed through my chest. Yes, I had watched High Country Hallmarks. And I’d known Nate. His wife, Rorry, had once been my friend.

  “Wait a minute,” said Arthur. “My other line’s ringing. Probably a supplier telling me he slipped into a ditch with a truckload of champagne. Can you hold?”

  I said yes. I gripped the phone cord, glanced out at the snow, and thought back. Eleven years ago, Nate and Rorry Bullock had been our neighbors in Aspen Meadow. Rorry. She and I had had good times teaching Sunday school at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. But our work and our relationship had ended when the Bullocks moved to Killdeer. High Country Hallmarks, Nate’s hugely popular, locally produced PBS show, had covered exciting aspects of Colorado life, from tracking cougars to evacuating in advance of flash floods. Safe at home, snuggled inside cocoons of comforters and sipping cocoa, Arch and I had watched it together often when he was little.

  Tragically, Nate had been killed in an avalanche three years ago—tracking lynx for one of his own shows, reports said, although the television station denied knowledge of such a dangerous project. The papers had reported that the cause for the avalanche, and the reason for Nate’s being in its path, were a mystery. Investigations had led nowhere, and his death remained shrouded in unanswered questions and pain. Poor Rorry. The thought of my widowed friend brought sadness. Although I’d written to her after Nate’s death, I’d received no response.

  Arthur returned to the line and announced he’d just calmed one of his cameramen. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a burp and went on: “All right. At six, two cameramen, a handful of volunteers, and I will drive up our equipment van on the—plowed, they promised me—back road. Is your van four-wheel drive?”

  “No. And my tires are marginal.” Another side-effect of my cash-flow problem.

  “Then take the gondola up the mountain. Since the bistro staff couldn’t do any of the prep, the owner and her head chef,”—here he sighed—“will be helping you. Now listen, going live is just a bit different. People expect mistakes. Don’t worry, it’s part of the fun.”

  “Oh, gee, Arthur. It doesn’t sound like fun.” Overseeing a close friend who knew nothing about food prep and her chef-cum-boyfriend chopping mountains of scallions in time for a live broadcast? Fun? A wave of queasiness assaulted me.

  “Just be there by seven, Goldy,” Arthur said, ignoring my protests. “Don’t come early. I have too much to do and you’ll be underfoot. When you get there, you can tell Eileen and Jack what you need and I’ll run you through the telethon scenario. We’ll start filming at eight. Ciao!”

  He hung up. The wind wailed around the house. I whisked cream and sugar into a heap of dry Dutch-style cocoa, beat in the steaming milk, and liberally doused the cocoa with whipped cream. Worries about the next morning crowded in as I set two fragrant, filbert-studded fudge cookies on a china plate. I took a bite of cookie and nearly swooned over the combination of life-restoring dark chocolate and crunchy toasted nuts. Forget the show! Consume chocolate! Oh, and get some sleep, I ordered myself. Otherwise, people will call in to complain that the chef looks half dead.

  The phone rang again.

  “Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?” Doug Portman’s obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. “Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Doug.” What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We’d dated unhappily after I’d rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex-husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains-crisis had brought him back in our orbit.

  “Still want to sell those World War Two skis?” Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. “The ones Ike signed?”

  “If the price is right.” Tom’s historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10th Mountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he’d fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half. Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we’d need to replace the drains, I’d called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He’d turned me down.

  “I’ve changed my mind. Eight thousand. Cash.” Doug said triumphantly. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Great,” I said, surprised and pleased.

  “Meet you at your cooking show, then.” Doug lived in Killdeer
. “And hey. If I’m going to buy your skis, I want some of those goodies you’re making.” He paused. “I heard they charge nine bucks for spectators. Suppose you could leave me a free ticket at the restaurant desk? We’ll ski down together afterward. It’ll be fun.”

  Everybody promised fun. I sighed and told him no problem. A free ticket? Eight thousand dollars to spend, and Doug couldn’t spring nine bucks for public television? But this was typical. Doug never paid for what he could scavenge for free. I told him I’d see him the next morning and signed off.

  With my hopefully soporific hot drink in one hand and the second oversized chocolate cookie in the other, I strolled to the kitchen’s back wall. Gusts of wind plastered icy flakes against our new windows. I put down the cocoa and placed my palm on the cold glass. The snow relentlessly batted against the pane, tat-tat-tat-tat. A whirling curtain of snow streamed past our deck light. The deck itself boasted at least eighteen inches of new powder. I prayed for Tom to be safe. He was down in Denver, working a fraud case. His Chrysler’s snow tires were in pretty good shape. Piloting my own rear-wheel-drive van to Killdeer the next morning would be another story.

  I wanted to do the show. I pulled my hand away from the window and sipped my creamy drink. With my catering business shut down, the program’s wide audience still showcased the personal-chef venture, for which I refused to give up hope. Now, with Doug’s offer, I finally had a deal for the skis. Plus, knowing the show was dedicated to remembering dear Rorry Bullock’s husband, I had to get to Killdeer in the morning.

  I bit into the cookie and watched the snow. Christmas was only nine days away, but the Yuletide spirit eluded me. I’d bought a snowboard for Arch—his heart’s desire—and a new revolver for Tom. I was no gun-lover—far from it—but I’d learned a great deal about firearms from Tom. The dangers and risks of his work had convinced me he needed another weapon, even if all he used it for was practice. So: We had some gifts. Our tree sparkled in the living room. We had plans to bake Christmas cookies together, as a family. But without a job after the New Year, I felt a lack of purpose, and Christmas was just one more landmark on a calendar I didn’t want to face.

  Things could be worse, I consoled myself as I drank more cocoa. I could be out in this weather. I could be facing the holidays without a husband, like Rorry Bullock. My heart ached for her.

  Handsome and effervescent, Nate Bullock had always been one to court—and then miraculously escape from—the perils of mountain life. Had he secretly been tracking Canadian lynx, reintroduced to the Front Range after the native lynx habitat had been destroyed by development? Who knew? One fact everyone agreed on was that Nate Bullock had strayed—or hiked intentionally—into Killdeer Valley, an area that was off-limits for all humans, not just skiers, because of the possibility of avalanches. The avalanche, that killer tide of snow that sweeps the unsuspecting to their death, was much to be feared in the Colorado mountain winter.

  That’s why the Valley is out-of-bounds, Killdeer officials had solemnly intoned, ever wary of their liability insurance. Avalanches in the high country happen without warning. Of course, this had not prevented Killdeer Corporation from recently deciding to expand the resort onto the slope adjacent to the Valley. Next season, a new lift would take skiers and snowboarders right over the area where Nate had died. Poor Rorry, I thought again, with guilt. Would she be at the fund-raiser? Would she want to talk to me, when all I’d done was write her a sympathy note? Why hadn’t I been more persistent in checking up on her after Nate’s death?

  I finished the cookie and downed the cocoa. Late at night, problems loom large. I had to crawl to bed and get some beauty sleep. Or, as I checked my pudgy, curly-blond-haired reflection in the frosted window, just some sleep, period.

  Early the next morning, in an impenetrable, windy, predawn darkness, I loaded the historic skis into my van. It was still snowing hard. A torrent of flakes iced my face as I stamped inside. I left a note for Tom, whose large, warm body had finally snuggled in next to mine around two A.M. I packed up my boots and skis, traipsed out to check the tread on my radial tires—barely adequate—and set out for Killdeer.

  As my van negotiated the snow-crusted expanse of Main Street, the wind lashed fresh snow across my windshield. When I pulled over to scrape it off, I was hit in the face with a swag of holiday evergreen and a strand of white lights. Convulsing in the wind, the decorations had torn loose from a storefront. I climbed back into the van, shivered, and started the slow trek to the highway.

  Once the van was headed west on Interstate 70, I cranked the wipers as high as they would go to sweep off the relentlessly falling snow. Traffic was light. Beside the road, a herd of bighorn sheep clustered below a neon sign warning of icy roads on both sides of the Eisenhower Tunnel. When I passed Idaho Springs, a radio announcement brayed the news that an avalanche had come down late the previous afternoon at the Loveland Ski Area. Cars slowing down to watch the cleanup were clogging the road, the announcer solemnly declared.

  “Perfect,” I muttered.

  Twenty minutes later, I braked behind a long line of cars. Through the snowfall, I could just make out dump trucks laboring in the Loveland parking lot as they scooped away a three-story-high heap of snow, rocks, and broken trees. Under the pile was a maintenance building. The radio announcer passionately recited a rumor of a scofflaw skier who’d ducked a boundary rope and precipitated the slide. The avalanche had raced down the hillside, snapped a stand of pines like match-sticks, and buried the vacant building. Passengers riding up the high-speed quad lift had seen the skier schuss to safety—and away from being caught.

  Concentrate on your driving, I warned myself, as I entered the neon-lit purgatory of the tunnel, that deep, dark passageway bored beneath the Continental Divide. After a few minutes, the snowpacked descent from the tunnel loomed ahead in the early morning grayness. When I emerged, a sudden wind whipped the van, rocking it violently. Another thick shower of snow blanketed my windshield.

  I thought: What would it be like to die in an avalanche?

  CHAPTER 2

  At six-twenty, my van crunched into the snowpacked parking lot of the Killdeer resort. To the east, the sky was edged with pewter. My fingers ached from gripping the steering wheel. When I turned off the engine, flakes instantly obscured the windshield. I hopped out onto the snowpack. A frigid breeze bit through my ski jacket and I stumbled to get my footing. Righting myself, I tugged up my hood, cinched it tight, and donned padded mittens.

  I struggled to get my bearings. Through the swirling drapery of flakes, the parking lot’s digital display flashed the happy announcement that the temperature stood at 19°. Windchill –16°. Welcome to ski country!

  Lights from the ski area cast a pall across the imposing face of Killdeer Mountain. Columns of snow spiraled around the lampposts. A lead-colored cloud shrouded the runs. The digital sign went on to proclaim that the mountain now boasted an Eighty-five-inch base topped with Thirty-three inches of new!!!—ski-talk for how much snow we’ve got.

  I pulled out my Rossignols, bought on sale long ago. I’d need them to follow Doug down from the bistro at the end of the show. The other skis, the valuable pair, I would be selling to him in less than three hours. I tossed down my poles and put on my boots. Another blustery breeze stung my eyes. The sign joyously screamed: More SNOW on the way! followed by a smiley face and the words Ski with CAUTION!

  In the back of the van, I pulled out three blankets to hide the precious skis. The carved names glowed briefly: Abetone, Della Vedetta, Corona. They were a glorious find, and I would have loved for Tom to keep them. Arch, who was obsessed with learning about the Second World War, was extremely unhappy with us for thinking of selling them.

  I was supposed to pick up Arch after the show. With his teachers out for a faculty conference yesterday and today, he had stayed overnight with his best friend, Todd Druckman, Eileen’s son, in her gorgeous Killdeer condo. The boys loved to snowboard together. I was dreading one of his adolescent bad
moods when he heard these skis were actually sold.

  It was not something I wanted to think about. I spread out the blankets, threw a tarpaulin over the whole pile, and locked the van.

  I could just hear the muffled jangle and clank of the gondola, half a mile away. Apparently, this morning’s winds had not been strong enough to delay the six o’clock start-up, when the ski patrol ascended the mountain. Resignedly, I shouldered my skis, poles, and backpack, and crunched across the mammoth lot. Buck up! I ordered myself. Doing the show and selling the skis will get you closer to reopening. I breathed in tangy wood smoke and blinked away stinging snowflakes. An arctic breeze whipsawed my scarf, and my boots cracked and slid on the hard-pack. I trudged along in the semidarkness, determined to get out of the cold wind that had whipped to a fury in the lot’s open space. Despite my resolution to be cheerful, I wondered why people thought hell wasn’t frozen over.

  Panting, my thighs and toes numb, I finally arrived at the artfully carved wooden sign welcoming me to Kill-deer. I leaned my skis and poles against the signpost. Under my bundled clothing, my body felt slick with sweat. Ahead, snow tumbled steadily around gold-glowing street lamps lining the walkway to the gondola. Extracting a tissue from my pocket, I wiped my eyes and blinked at Killdeer’s just-like-Dickens row of brightly-lit Victorian- and Bavarian-style shops. The street lamps, I’d learned, stayed on until the sun was completely up. In my month doing the cooking show, the days had become shorter; the pale, cold sun had risen later and later. I’d teased Arthur that by the close of the year we’d be doing the show in the dark. Arthur had sighed glumly and then suggested we could do a champagne breakfast show, bubbly supplied—like all the other vintages we featured—by Wakefield Wines. Now, thinking of my frozen fingertips, I wondered if Arthur had schnapps up at the bistro. If so, did I dare drink some before “going live”?