Remembering You

by Lisa Jackson

  “I don’t love…geez—” Bryan flopped back on the bed. “Nothin’s busted. I don’t see why we just can’t leave.”

  “We will, once the doctor gives you the okay,” Travis said, too relieved to be angry. When he’d split up from his son on the mountain a couple of hours ago, he hadn’t panicked. Bryan was a good skier and they’d planned to meet at the lodge for a snack at two. He’d gotten in early, drunk a cup of coffee and when Bryan was late, Travis wasn’t worried. Hell, the kid still let time slip away from him, but after an hour had passed, Travis had become concerned, and was on his way to the information desk when he’d been paged. His heart had nearly stopped. In his heavy ski boots, he’d sprinted through the carpeted hallways, shouldering past slower-moving people. In terrifying mind-numbing images, he’d imagined his son’s broken and bent body, even his death.

  Fletcher hung up the phone and walked back to Bryan’s bed. “As I was saying, I’m Dr. Fletcher.” Travis yanked off his ski glove and shook the shorter man’s hand. About five-ten, Fletcher had lost a good amount of his hair. What remained was a clipped horseshoe of red blond strands which matched his thick moustache. “Your son’s going to be fine, but I’m afraid he’ll be laid up for a while.” Quietly, while the nurse looked in on the patients in the other beds, Fletcher explained his concerns for Bryan’s knee, the possible torn ligament and cartilage damage, though no bones appeared to be broken. “You might want to have an MRI on the knee and check with your orthopedic surgeon,” he said. “If you don’t have one, I recommend any one of these….” He opened the desk drawer, withdrew three business cards, including one of his own, and offered them to Travis. “I have a clinic in town myself.” Winking at Bryan, he added. “I just moonlight up here.”

  “Thanks.” Travis took the cards, then noticed Ronni stepping away from the bed.

  She patted the top rail. “I’ll see ya, Bryan.” Smiling, she waved to the other people in the room. “Linda…Syd…that’s it for me for the day. Someone else will have to bring you your next victims.” Winding her rope of braided hair onto the crown of her head, she tugged on a ski hat. “See you next weekend.”

  “Not me, Ronni, I’m off, till after Christmas,” the nurse, who was placing a plastic cover on a thermometer, said. “Nancy and Cal are rotating through the holidays, so the only way you’ll see me is if I need help getting down the mountain or medical assistance.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to spend your honeymoon back here?”

  Linda shook her head and for an instant her eyes, behind her oversize glasses, gleamed. “Nope. Ben and I are going to Vegas and then spending a week at Timberline on Mount Hood, in the old lodge.”

  Ronni couldn’t help smiling at the blush of romance in her friend’s cheeks. Linda was forty-five, her children grown, her first husband a man who had walked out on her and the kids when they were still toddlers. Linda hadn’t dated much over the years. All her time and energy had been devoted to her kids. But two years ago, she’d met Ben through a mutual friend. Now they were going to run away and get married. It almost made a person believe in romance again. Almost.

  “So, if you’re patrolling on Hood next weekend and see a downed skier in a hot-pink jumpsuit and a wedding veil—”

  “Don’t even think it,” Ronni said, zipping up her jacket. “I guess I should say merry Christmas, as well as congratulations.” She was tugging on her gloves.

  “You, too. I hope little Amy gets everything she wants.”

  Ronni’s smile faltered slightly before she managed to pin it back into place. “She wants a puppy. I think I’m doomed.”

  “I know someone who’s got a litter. Blue Heeler and spaniel, I think. Call me if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not, but Amy is. Give my best to Ben. Tell him he’s lucky to have you for a bride.”

  “I remind him every day,” Linda assured her before being summoned by the woman who was complaining about snowboarders ruining the runs for the skiers.

  Ronni tossed a look to the boy with the sad eyes. “You, too, Bryan, have a good Christmas, and the next time you’re up here, be sure to check the signs so you know which runs are open and which are closed.” She glanced at the kid’s father, an imposing man if she’d ever seen one. She’d give ten to one odds that he was a corporate big shot—all take-charge energy and impatience. An out-of-towner, coming to the mountain to unwind. Now, with his son injured, he was rattled. “Have a great holiday.”

  “It’s not starting out so great, is it?” he asked, motioning to Bryan.

  “Then it’s bound to get better, right?” She offered him a smile that Linda had once told her could melt ice.

  “Let’s hope.”

  “’Bye.”

  Travis watched her leave. There was something about her that he found damnably fascinating. He, a man who had sworn off women. He, who had been through a gut-wrenching divorce that he still found painful. He, who didn’t trust any female.

  Suddenly hot, he unzipped his jacket and found his son staring up at him. “You want to tell me why you were skiing on a closed run?”

  Bryan lifted a shoulder. “Not really.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  With a grunt, Bryan moved on the bed then winced. “What’s the big deal?”

  “It was unsafe. As you found out. The only reason they close a run is—”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s dangerous. I already heard the lecture. From her.” He jutted his chin toward the empty spot where Ronni had stood only moments before.

  “Fine.” This was no place for an argument. From the corner of his eye, Travis watched Ronni shoulder her way through the double doors that swung slowly closed as she passed through. She didn’t bother looking over her shoulder as she found her skis and poles, which had been propped against the outside of the building. Then the doors swung shut.

  “How are you doing?” Dr. Fletcher, looking harried, was back at Bryan’s bedside.

  Shrugging, Bryan mumbled, “Okay, I guess.”

  “I’ve prescribed some pain pills, just enough for the next couple of days. You might not even need them.” He looked at Travis. “Bryan’s young and strong. This will slow him down for a while, but he’ll be up and around and probably be able to ski by next season.”

  “Next year?” Bryan said, closing his eyes in disappointment. “Oh, man.”

  “And you might be prescribed a special brace to wear when you’re involved in sports.”

  “No way!”

  Fletcher grinned. “They’re not too bad, really. I wear one myself.”

  Glowering, Bryan’s eyes silently accused the doctor of having to resort to such a device because Fletcher was old.

  Fletcher didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s not jump the gun. Wait and see what your orthopedic doctor suggests.”

  Bryan swallowed and blinked.

  “Feelin’ rough?” Travis asked, laying a hand on his son’s head.

  “Like sh—horrible.” Bryan slid away from his touch.

  “It’ll get better.”

  Suddenly, the doors swung open and a woman, dressed in a silky aqua jumpsuit, hurried into the clinic. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the concrete floor and tight quarters. “I’m Wanda Tamarack. Is my daughter, Justice—”

  “Mommy!” The girl nursing her sprained thumb sent up a wail loud enough to wake the dead in another continent.

  “Dear God.” Wanda hurried past the desk and around a curtain to spy her daughter stretched out on one of the beds. “Oh, honey, what happened?” Wanda asked.

  “Sprained thumb,” the nurse replied. “I have some forms you’ll have to—”

  “We’ve got to get you to a specialist. Oh, baby, does it hurt?” The woman went on and on, and her daughter, under control a few minutes before, began to fall apart. Her lower lip quivered and
tears drizzled down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. Mommy’s here and we’ll get you out of this awful place.” The woman’s diamond earrings flashed in the wavering light from the fluorescent tubes mounted high on the ceiling.

  Bryan rolled his eyes at the woman’s flair for the dramatic—so like Sylvia, his mother.

  “See, it could be worse,” Travis whispered into his son’s ear. “Wanda could be taking you home with her.”

  “Ugh!” Bryan almost cracked a smile before he tried to move his leg and sucked in his breath in a hiss of pain.

  “We’ll take care of that,” Travis promised. “You’ll be okay.”

  “You think so?” Bryan retorted. Scowling down at the brace surrounding his knee, Bryan gritted his teeth. “No matter what you say, Travis, this Christmas is going to be the pits!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “WATCH OUT, MOMMY.” Amy gave the toy tugboat a push and it plowed through the high mounds of bubbles surrounding Veronica as she soaked her tired muscles. Amy was standing on tiptoe on the bath mat, leaning over the side of the tub, precariously close to falling face first into the suds and drenching herself all over again.

  “You watch out,” Ronni warned.

  Already bathed, her hair still damp from her recent shampoo, her body snug in red-and-white elf pajamas that Ronni had found on sale, Amy was happily splashing the warm water.

  “You’re getting soaked!”

  Amy giggled.

  “Come on, let’s get out of the bathroom.” So much for the relaxing bath. “How about a hot cup of lemonade?”

  “With strawberries?”

  Ronni plopped a mound of suds onto Amy’s tiny nose. “If that’s what you want.”

  Amy’s impish grin stretched wide. “Hurry, Mommy, get out!” Amy cried, already scampering into the living room, the red-and-blue tugboat forgotten.

  Ronni pulled the plug and reached for a towel. She rubbed the water and suds from her body and called after her daughter, “First the lemonade, then will you read me a bedtime story?”

  Footsteps echoed from the hallway and Amy stuck her head around the corner. “You’re silly, Mommy.”

  “And so are you.” Rotating the kinks from her neck, she dropped her towel into the hamper and stepped into a thick terry-cloth bathrobe. Amy was off again and Ronni heard the distinctive click of the refrigerator door opening.

  “Wait for me,” she called as she cinched the belt of her robe. Barefoot, she followed Amy’s trail of forgotten and dripping toys. Scooping up each sodden piece of plastic, she smiled. Amy was so innocent; such a joy. Ronni couldn’t imagine her growing up and developing into a teenager with an attitude like the boy, Bryan, who’d been injured today. Not that he was all bad. Veronica had seen through his bravado and witnessed the pain in his eyes, the fear contorting his features when she’d helped him off the mountain.

  His father was a different sort, she thought as she lifted her hair away from her neck and tied it with the ribbon she kept in the pocket of her robe. It was clear he’d been torn between anger with Bryan for his rude remarks and relief that the kid was in one piece. There was something about him that nagged at her and it wasn’t just the fact that he was so sensually masculine. Though she’d tried to deny it earlier, she couldn’t lie to herself. He was tall and lean, with wide shoulders, thick neck and blade-thin lips. His hair, unruly from a stocking cap, was a deep brown and straight, his nose slightly crooked, his eyebrows thick and harsh over intense eyes. Handsome, yes. Sexy, undeniably. And trouble of the worst order. He looked like the kind of man who barked out orders to underlings.

  But he did care about his kid. That much was obvious and that won him points with Ronni. Big points. Not that she’d ever see him again. So what was it about him that was so disturbing, so fascinating, if that was the right word? For what had remained of the afternoon, she’d thought about him, unable to shake his image from the corners of her mind. Had she seen him before somewhere? Certainly she would have remembered such a take-charge individual. What was it about him? “Stupid woman,” she muttered. What did she care?

  “Who’s a stupid woman?” Amy asked, her cheeks flushed as she made the drawers into stair steps and climbed onto the counter.

  “Your mama, she’s the stupid woman, but only sometimes. Hey, you know you’re not supposed to do that. I’ll get the lemonade.” She reached for the tin and spooned healthy tablespoons into a couple of mugs before adding water and placing both cups into the microwave.

  Travis Keegan had been all business, worried about his son and seeming a bit lost with this aspect of fathering, as if he was more at home at the head of a boardroom table than dealing with a teenage boy.

  She plucked a couple of last year’s strawberries from a bag in the freezer and, once the lemonade had heated, dropped the frozen berries into the now-steaming cups. “I’ll carry,” she said to her daughter. “You go pick out the book.”

  Amy was off, sorting through a basket of toys and books as Ronni settled into a corner of the couch. She placed the lemonade on the coffee table as Amy returned dragging five of her favorite bedtime stories.

  “We don’t have the tree decorated yet,” Amy complained as she stood on the couch and pressed her nose to the windowpane. The tree they’d picked out from a local stand was propped against the rail of the porch. Amy’s breath fogged the glass as she peered at it.

  “I know. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Now.”

  “Not now. I just got clean from taking care of the horses. If I started fooling around with the tree, I’d probably get pitch all over me, and so would you. Besides, you wanted some strawberry lemonade.”

  Amy wasn’t really listening. Once she got an idea in her head, that particular notion was set in concrete. “Katie Pendergrass’s daddy did theirs after church on Sunday.”

  “Do you think he’d come and help me with ours?” Veronica teased, touching her daughter on her crown of silky curls.

  “Why not?”

  Veronica laughed, then sipped from her cup. “He probably has a dozen reasons.”

  “You could call him.”

  “No way, José. Tomorrow we’ll put up the tree and we’ll manage alone.”

  Amy’s face fell in on itself and a sly look came into her round eyes. Veronica braced herself. Though not yet five, Amy had already learned about feminine wiles and how to wheedle to get what she wanted. It was annoying—being manipulated by a four-year-old. “But I want a tree.”

  “You’ll have one. That one.” Veronica tapped on the window with her fingernail and pointed at the rugged little fir. She couldn’t help noticing that the lights were on in the Johnson place again and she wondered if she had permanent neighbors or people who were just hanging out at the old lodge for the holidays. She still thought they might be trespassers, people camping out and gaining free rent. Or maybe they’re here to stay.

  “I want one today,” Amy insisted, drawing Ronni back to the conversation about the Christmas tree. She picked up her lemonade, took a sip and lost interest again.

  “Tomorrow,” Veronica said firmly. “I’ll tell you what, though, we can put up the stockings tonight.”

  “Can we?” The storm clouds in her daughter’s eyes suddenly disappeared.

  “Mmm. See if you can find them.”

  “In one of the boxes?” Amy said, already squirming from the couch, her feet in motion as they hit the floor.

  “That’s right.”

  Amy started rummaging through the old cardboard crates. Ronni took a final sip from her cup, then stepped into her slippers and cinched the robe a little tighter around her middle. By the time she crossed the room, there were ornaments, tinsel, strings of lights and tissue paper all over the floor.

  “Hey, slow down,” she admonished, eyeing the decorations and frowni
ng. “I know they were in a white box with—”

  “Here they are!” Amy yanked two stockings out of a box and held them up proudly. One was red with felt-and-sequin angels, holly and hearts on it, the other green and decorated with a miniature baseball bat and glove, Santa face and reindeer.

  Veronica’s heart wrenched painfully. Memories assailed her and she remembered Hank had worked overtime for two months each evening that first fall after they had married. While dinner was simmering on the stove and she was waiting up for him, she’d spent her evenings watching television and working on her secret projects, lovingly sewing the felt pieces and sequins together by hand. The red stocking was hers, the green had belonged to Hank. She’d never had the heart to throw his away. “Oh, honey…well, isn’t there another one—white, I think?”

  Amy dropped the first two on the floor and tossed out the Christmas-tree skirt before discovering the third stocking—white felt decorated with a rocking horse, teddy bear and mistletoe. Sequins glittered under the lights. “Here’s mine!” Amy cried, waving the stocking like a banner while Veronica picked up the scattered decorations.

  “Let’s hang yours and mine on the mantel,” Veronica suggested, her voice thick as she placed Hank’s stocking back into the box. She closed the lid and her memories of their first Christmas with Amy, who, barely able to sit up, had stared at the lighted tree with wide, wondrous eyes.

  Together, Veronica and Amy draped the stockings from the nails that were permanently driven into the mortar just below the mantel and Veronica tried not to notice that one nail was vacant, a reminder that their family was no longer three.

  She tucked a damp curl behind her ear. Maybe Amy was right. They could get a puppy this Christmas and in the coming year she could construct the dog’s own stocking so that it wouldn’t be quite so obvious that there was a void in their lives.

  “They’re beautiful, Mommy,” Amy said proudly as she gazed at the glittery socks, their toes nearly touching the curved top of the fireplace screen.

  “And think how nice they’ll look when we put the fir boughs and holly on the mantel. Come on, now, time for bed.”