Snowfire

by Phyllis A. Whitney

  I’m afraid I contributed little to the luncheon conversation, and that sometimes I was not even attentive. My fingers touched the heavy English silver, that was an heirloom, the blue and white Staffordshire china that must have been in the family for generations. I ate my food—and nothing registered acutely. Once or twice Shan expressed regret that Julian had no one else in training to put into Stuart Parrish’s place. Stuart had been scheduled for, the amateur competition at Kitzbühel in Austria, and Garmisch, Germany, both in January. Then the Wild West Classic at Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in February—all just as a start for the season.

  In his day Julian had been an amateur turned pro, and now he began to speak of his interest in professional skiing. He felt there had to be more places where the champion skier could go from amateur racing. It was only right that he should be able to earn an income and not be required to depend forever on the donations that were needed to keep his amateur standing.

  I knew a little about this, since it was Julian who had sponsored Stuart for the amateur circuit and furnished the support which enabled him to ski instead of working for a living. Sometimes I had worried about Stuart’s future in such a life.

  “Television’s the goal,” Julian said. “Once we get advertising money coming in—the money that follows the crowds—professional skiing can be assured of its future.”

  “At least a good beginning’s been made,” Shan said. “The television presentation of the last professional racing was terrific, and the audience response was good.”

  Julian nodded. “Now we have to carry on. It’s a bit dreary when our best skiers have to wind up on ski patrol or running a shop or teaching, because there’s nothing else they’re trained for. Often it’s the older skier who has the stamina and muscular endurance, if only he could keep on. To say nothing of the experience that backs one up on the slopes. Yet there’s been no place for him if he wants to earn a living using his skills.”

  Without meaning to, I started to yawn and managed to swallow with difficulty. That was reflex action. My instinctive reaction when it came to talk about skiing was to go to sleep—as I’d sometimes done with Stuart.

  “We’re boring Miss Earle,” Shan said, slyly prodding at me.

  Julian apologized. “Skiers go overboard on shop talk, and I imagine you’ll get more than enough of that at the lodge. Tell us something about yourself, Linda.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t sleep too well last night. All this country quiet—I’m not used to it. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything exciting to tell about me.” The last thing I wanted was to talk about Linda Earle, lest giveaway comparisons be made with Stuart’s life. “Yesterday I had a curious encounter with your caretaker on the way back to the lodge. He seemed quite disturbed to find me on Graystones grounds.”

  “I’ll speak to him about you,” Julian said, and I realized at once that I’d made the wrong comment I wanted no discussions about me with Emory Ault, who for some reason I didn’t understand had held his tongue about me so far.

  “Perhaps he senses the same thing in you that I sense,” Shan put in, her eyes turning dreamy. “People have auras about them, you know. Yours troubles me. It’s wrong for Graystones.”

  “What color is her aura?” Adria broke in eagerly.

  But Julian forestalled any answer. “Never mind, Shan. Let’s not go down that road. If Linda has any sort of aura I’d say it’s a healthy one.”

  I’m not sure how I got through the remainder of that luncheon. I found myself moving as if along some dangerous ridge, from which a steep hill sloped away on either side—descents which I lacked the skill and knowledge to traverse. At the foot of each lay a crevasse and complete disaster. It was like experiencing a waking nightmare, and I was glad when we finished dessert and coffee and could rise from the table.

  “Let’s get ready to go skiing right away,” Adria pleaded. “By the time we’re dressed and we drive around the mountain to the base lodge, it will be at least an hour from now. So let’s hurry. Shan, are you coming with us?”

  Shan fluttered her green chiffon. “No thank you, dear. We’ll ski another time—you and I alone.”

  “I’ll go back to the lodge and change my clothes,” I said to Julian.

  He nodded. “Fine. We’ll pick you up there.”

  I could look forward to the afternoon with no pleasure, but at least we would be free of Shan. Surely on the slopes the only dangers to beset me would be physical ones which would include a few tumbles in the snow.

  VI

  I did not hurry on my way back to the lodge. Let them wait for me, if necessary. I needed time to relax, to let my tensions unwind, and to think about the things I had learned in the last few hours at Graystones.

  The first disturbing point was that Julian had definitely turned against Stuart. But still I didn’t know why he half believed Emory Ault’s wild claims, or why he had deserted his protégé without even a hearing. Opposing this formidable fact was Shan’s unexpected championship of Stuart. He had never said much about her, except to indicate that she might be a bit wacky and far out. Certainly he’d never claimed any friendship with her. None of this furthered what I needed to know, but at least it was some small progress.

  Superimposed upon my questioning and seeking was the distress I felt about Adria, and my increasing sense of disquiet when it came to Julian. Last night there had been a strange enchantment upon me when I’d looked into his mirrored eyes across the room. I had found myself disturbingly open to the appeal of a man I did not even like, and this had upset me. It had been a relief to find nothing of this pull in effect today. Yet I’d found myself engaged by pity for him, by a wish to help him if I could when it came to Adria. Strangely, almost by chance, Adria seemed drawn to me, curious about me—perhaps because I fitted no pattern of that indulging affection she’d known too much of in her young life. There had been a time when I had indulged Stuart too readily in just this way. I had protected him as Shan was trying to protect Adria, so that he now found it difficult to come to grips with reality.

  This was a flash of uncomfortable self-recognition and I shied away from it. I had never tied Stuart to me. He had cut his bonds easily in growing up, and had begun to slip away from me with his first meeting with Julian. This was as it should be, even though it hurt me. All this I saw quite clearly, but there was, nevertheless, an aching in me for the young brother I had lost. It had been satisfying to be needed.

  The sound of something flying sharply through the air past my ear brought me back to my surroundings. A heavy object had crashed through overhead branches, whizzed by my head, and fallen heavily to the path before me. I walked toward the knife-edge stone that lay on the path. There was nowhere it could have come from unless it had been thrown at me. I was more angry than frightened, and I whirled about on the path.

  Evergreens closed in behind me around the last turn. Because of low-crowding hemlock branches and thick layers of blue spruce, I could see nothing. There was no wind, no movement among the trees. A deep stillness pressed around me. I turned toward the lodge and began to walk more quickly, hardly believing what had happened, and more troubled by the silence than by the fact that I could see no one in the woods around me.

  When the second stone was hurled, it grazed my shoulder and this time I was frightened. I ran toward the lodge, slipping on the icy path, but managing to keep my feet. No third stone followed me, and I burst through the back door, to find one of the maids in the small vestibule watching me in surprise.

  “What are you running away from—bears?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to explain. “Where is Mr. Davidson?”

  “He’s somewhere around, I guess. I haven’t seen him for a while.” She shrugged and went on with her mopping.

  I hurried into Clay’s office and found it empty. My breathing had begun to quiet and I gave up searching and went upstairs. This time no orange cat waited in my room, and it seemed a haven of safety. Who could be trying to fright
en me? Because it must be that. Surely the stone thrower would have had sufficient opportunity to hit me, if he’d wanted to. I needed to consult Clay, but that would have to wait.

  Now it was necessary to get into my ski clothes and I changed rapidly, pulling on long johns, which fortunately came in two pieces these days. Since it wasn’t very cold, I left off the tops. I put on heavy socks and over-the-boots stretch pants. Ski styles changed faster than everyday styles, stretch pants were supposed to be out this season. But it was really up to everyone to do his own thing, so I didn’t worry. My clothes were good and too expensive to be put in the rag bag because of styles. While Stuart never cared what he wore on the slopes, he agreed that it was fine for a girl to feel attractive. Especially if she didn’t ski very well. So he’d helped me choose my clothes. I liked the dark brown pants with a tiny white pin stripe running down them, and the beige parka that had cost enough and was very well cut. Now the styles were matching parka and pants, but again I wasn’t going to worry. I’d bought a yellow turtleneck sweater to wear under it, and Stuart had given me a lovely Ullr medallion on a silver chain to wear against the sweater. Ullr was the Norse god of the skier, and “Ullrs” were often worn or carried by skiers in one form or another for luck.

  Mine was particularly beautiful—a round of silver with the small figure of Ullr etched upon one side. This version showed him as a little old man with a long beard, a stocking cap, wind-tossed scarf, carrying a Norwegian crossbow in one hand and a ski pole in the other. He was on skis, of course, his knees bent as he schussed along. On the back, nearly filling the circle, was etched a filled-in diamond—the symbol of that black diamond which warned skiers of the most difficult slope. I’d laughed over that, since I was not likely to be found on even a moderately difficult slope. But Stuart said it was to encourage me. I’d loved his present and I certainly needed anything I could wear for luck.

  I put my after-ski boots on last. They were gray reindeer hide, comfortable, a protection against puddles and slush, and good-looking for walking-around purposes. Except when it was very cold, I let the parka hood hang down my back and went bareheaded, my hair held with a brown grosgrain ribbon band that also kept my ears warm. Stuart had said that I made a charming snow bunny—which was a term applied to beginners, usually female, who haunted the slopes, and did not flatter me. It was not, he explained, the feminine counterpart of “ski bum,” since the bums were real skiers who had simply become hooked on skiing.

  When I was ready, I went down to my parked car and took out my black ski boots and got my skis from the carrier, shouldered them, and walked toward the driveway to wait for Julian and Adria.

  Clay must have seen me there, for he came outdoors, having slipped on a jacket. “Hello, Linda, how did it go at Graystones?”

  “All right,” I said without enthusiasm. “I’m full of information. For instance, I’ve learned that Shan has been married before, that Julian doesn’t mean to help Stuart, and that Shan is making Adria believe in reincarnation.”

  “Reincarnation?” Clay echoed, letting the rest go. “What are you talking about?”

  “Margot,” I said dryly. “She is supposed to be coming back in the shape of that cat—Cinnabar,”

  Clay looked shocked, when I’d have expected him to be derisive. I hurried on to the main thing I wanted to tell him.

  “On the way back from the house someone threw stones at me. Twice. They missed, but they came awfully close. Why would anyone do such a thing? Do you think it’s Emory Ault?”

  Clay stared at me. “That’s going pretty far, even for Emory.”

  “But there’s no one else it could be. Only Shan and Adria. I don’t think Shan likes me, but I can’t see her throwing rocks. And I don’t believe Adria wants to frighten me off.”

  “You’d better tell Julian,” Clay said. “I’ve warned him before this that the old man is getting out of hand. Julian’s too fond of him to listen. I think Emory’s a bit crazy—and that may be important in Stuart’s defense. If he’s really taken to throwing stones it may help you out.”

  “But why would he? Why should he try to frighten me, even if I am Stuart’s sister?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want anyone around attempting to find out the real truth about Margot’s death.”

  I thought about that soberly. There was a big question in my mind about Emory, but for the moment it took me nowhere, and I went down another road.

  “I think Shan’s a bit crazy too. I don’t think she’s good for Adria.”

  Clay startled me by reaching out to grasp my arm, squeezing through the parka sleeve. “Don’t ever say that. Not around here. Shan may be close to nature, but she’s probably more sane than any of us.”

  I stared at his hand where it had closed about my arm, and after a moment he loosened the pressure and withdrew it, his face flushed and dark.

  “I saw the way you looked at her last night,” I said gently.

  There was no liking for me in his eyes. “Shan is my wife,” he said.

  I gasped, staring at him, trying to grasp this revelation.

  “But—but Stuart never told me—!” I found myself floundering. “And Shan said her marriage had been dissolved, whatever that means.”

  “In this case it means that there’s no legal divorce. It’s her term, not mine. She simply doesn’t recognize that we’re married, and no point of it is ever made, since she took back her maiden name. It all happened years ago. Before Julian’s accident. Before your brother came on the scene. I used to live at the house then. But no one talks about it, so Stuart wouldn’t know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and I was truly sorry. I liked Clay. He was not looking at me now, but was staring off through the trees, his expression remote. What I had seen last night had been a betrayal he had not meant to make, and he probably found it distasteful that I had noticed.

  “Here comes Julian,” he said curtly and walked away from me, disappearing across the front porch of the lodge.

  I was doubly upset—not only because of the stone throwing, but because Clay had been my only ally, and was now offended with me. Julian braked the car and got out, a tall figure in dark forest green, bareheaded as always. I think he sensed something wrong, for he gave me a sharp look. However, he said nothing as he dropped my ski boots into the trunk, and took my poles and skis from me. I got into the front seat beside an Adria who was bright in scarlet from head to toe.

  “Nobody is going to lose you on the slopes in that outfit,” I said.

  She looked off into the woods, not meeting my eyes. “Margot always used to wear red.”

  Her father made no comment as he got behind the wheel. We followed the narrow road that wound around the foot of the mountain away from Graystones and the lodge. Adria sat silently between us. Now that we were on our way to the ski area, she seemed to have lost all interest in the trip. When she did speak, it was only to sound a warning.

  “There hasn’t been much snow for a few days. The trails may not be any good.”

  Her father glanced at her soberly, perhaps sensing her loss of interest in the afternoon she had presumably looked forward to.

  “What’s wrong, Adria? You wanted to go skiing, didn’t you? You know the snow machines were out all night making powder and the grooming crew has been at work.”

  She offered no response and I was aware of her small, delicate face in profile, blue eyes staring straight ahead, her body all too tense beneath the bright outfit.

  “What slopes would you like to try today?” Julian asked.

  Adria turned a quick, sly glance upon me. “Let’s go down Devil’s Drop.”

  “I doubt that Linda’s ready for that,” Julian said dryly, “and you’re certainly not.”

  “Oh, I am! I am!” She was suddenly urgent in her entreaty. “I told Cinnabar I was coming down it today.”

  “Well, you’re not.” Julian gave me a look over Adria’s head, and I saw in it his helplessness and entreaty, his rising anger against forc
es he could not counter.

  “I hope you’ll stay with me for a while on the easy slopes,” I said. “Remember—you promised to teach me. What slopes do you think are right for me?”

  At least she had roused herself from lethargy and was back in our world as she began to consider possible trails.

  “Encore’s too easy. Maybe you can try Nordic or Hemlock. Do you think so, Daddy?”

  “Nothing’s too easy for me,” I hastened to put in. “I’ll be happy to start with Encore.”

  We drove through more stands of hemlock, pine and spruce as the road began to climb toward the base lodge. We passed cars coming down from the ski area, and there were others behind us climbing toward it.

  The base lodge was long and low, with two A-frame redwood sections walled with glass. The sloping roofs wore a frosting of snow, and beyond them rose the mountain with ski trails plainly marked and small figures gliding down them. Julian found a parking space among rows of cars, and we got into our ski boots. I buckled mine as Stuart had taught me, fastening them in the middle notches. Thanks to him, I had boots that were right for me. Leather, because they were more yielding than the stiff plastic boots the experts could use, with enough space to wiggle my toes, but not too much, and with heels that fit snugly below the ankle bone without pinching, yet held my foot rigid. The wrong boots could be agony and they could mean accidents too. I whacked my heel down smartly to get it well into the boot, and show I knew what I was doing. When I’d clipped the buckles shut and stood up, I felt, as usual, rather like a clumping elephant. Both Julian and Adria were ready before I was, and they walked with more grace than I managed as we plodded across broken snow to the lodge, taking care not to hit anyone with our skis or poles. I could almost hear Stuart’s voice: “Whether you’re carrying your skis or wearing them, you have to keep an eye out for the other fellow. Don’t go about behaving as though you were the only skier on the slopes. Maybe you’re a snow bunny, but don’t be a dumb bunny.”