Snow Baby

by Brenda Novak

  “I gather the accident was my sister’s fault,” Stacy said, studying him.

  Dillon rubbed his neck. “Not really. It was the storm more than anything. Where should I put my stuff?”

  “You can room with Bill and Tony, if that’s okay. There’re four bunks in the back.”

  “Fine.” Dillon let Stacy lead him down the hall. The high-pitched whir of a blow-dryer came from behind one of the doors they passed, tempting him to barge in and try to explain his relationship with Stacy to Chantel. But he told himself there’d be a better time and kept moving until they came to a small square room with two sets of bunk beds pushed against the walls. Cheap comic-strip curtains hung over one window, and a few well-worn rugs covered the wooden floor—standard furnishings for a rental cabin.

  “How come you never mentioned having a sister?” he asked Stacy as he dropped his duffel on a wrinkle-free bed.

  “Because, for a long time, I didn’t,” she replied.

  WAS SHE IMAGINING IT or had Dillon’s eyes really lit up the moment he saw Chantel? Stacy stood in the hall outside Dillon’s room, chewing her upper lip. He was just surprised, she told herself. Not every man she met was going to throw her over for her sister. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding that had shot through her veins when she’d introduced the two of them a few minutes ago.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have invited Chantel to join her this weekend. She simply wasn’t up to living in her sister’s shadow again.

  Closing her eyes, Stacy took a deep breath, remembering Chantel’s apology when she’d returned to California. The way she’d offered it, humbly and without hope, had melted Stacy’s heart, reminding her how much Chantel had meant to her while they were growing up. Life was okay back then, better than okay, until one incredible year—when the tall gangly Chantel had suddenly become a stunningly beautiful woman.

  Then things began to change. Stacy and her sister couldn’t go to the mall anymore without boys falling all over themselves in their eagerness to get close to Chantel. They couldn’t go dancing together without Stacy playing the wallflower while Chantel was swept onto the floor by one boy after another.

  And now Chantel was back, and Stacy feared she’d find herself right where she used to be, playing second fiddle to the golden girl of the family. Life was almost easier when she and Chantel weren’t speaking. If not for seeing Chantel’s face plastered on the front of countless magazines, Stacy could almost convince herself that she didn’t have a sister. And after what Chantel had done, she felt perfectly justified in doing so.

  And yet…sometimes Stacy longed for the old days. The Christmas Eves they’d whispered together in one big bed, too excited to sleep. The Halloweens they’d poured all their candy into one common pot. The summers they’d spent together—the trees they’d climbed, the lemonade stands they’d run, the games they’d played.

  They’d lost so much since then. Where had it gone?

  Pushing away from the wall, Stacy crossed to her sister’s door. The blow-dryer was quiet now, but she could hear Chantel moving around the room. She knocked softly. “It’s me.”

  At her sister’s invitation, Stacy slipped inside and sank onto the bed. “So what do you think?” she asked.

  Chantel stood in front of the dresser, brushing her hair. “About Dillon?”

  “No, about the price of eggs in China. Of course about Dillon.”

  Her sister smiled at her in the mirror. “He seems pretty special. I think you’ve chosen a great guy this time.”

  Stacy waited, sensing something more in her sister’s voice, but Chantel didn’t elaborate. “Are you going to tell me what happened last night? About the accident?”

  “Oh, that.” Chantel set the brush down and turned to face her. “Unfortunately I rear-ended him. It was so snowy and slick, I just couldn’t stop in time.”

  “And then?”

  Chantel cleared her throat. “And then I gave him my insurance information.”

  “But you said you got stuck.”

  “That was after the accident.”

  “What happened to Dillon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Chantel had spoken so quietly, Stacy could barely hear her. “What?”

  “I said I don’t know. Maybe the Highway Patrol closed the freeway. I’ve heard they do that sometimes.

  “Yeah, they do.” Stacy toyed with the fringe on one of the throw pillows that decorated the bed. “So, do you want to go skiing with us today?”

  “Actually I think I’ll stay here and read, or just take it easy. Last night was pretty traumatic.”

  “Okay.” Stacy tossed the pillow aside and stood to go, feeling instantly relieved—and hating herself for it.

  CHANTEL COULDN’T STOP shaking. Long after Dillon and Stacy had left, she sat in the living room, staring out the window at the crumpled fender of her car and wondering how much more could go wrong before something finally went right. She’d almost died last night. If not for Dillon, she would have fallen asleep and never awoken. But he’d come for her, risked his own life to save hers, and his sacrifice and all they’d shared afterward had forged a bond so quick and sure Chantel wasn’t sure how to sever it. She only knew that she had to. For Stacy.

  How ironic that it would come to this, she thought. Or maybe it was simply justice.

  The telephone rang, and Chantel glanced at the Formica counter where it sat on top of a narrow phone book. She had no desire to talk to anyone. She had even less energy. But the ringing wouldn’t stop.

  After several minutes she climbed to her feet and walked slowly across the room to answer it. “Hello?”

  “Chantel?”

  It was Dillon. Chantel’s breath caught at the sound of his voice, and the memories of last night crowded closer. Memories of a rough jaw against her temple, words of passion in her ear. “I thought you were skiing.”

  “I’m in the lodge. I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Where’s Stacy?”

  “She took the lift up with the others.”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “Listen, Chantel, I just want to say that I was sincere last night, that it was real. I didn’t mention Stacy because she and I have only dated a few times. And nothing’s ever happened. I mean, we haven’t had sex or anything, in case you’re worried about that.”

  Part of Chantel was relieved to think he hadn’t slept with Stacy. A bigger part of her cringed to imagine what her sister would do if she found out about the two of them. “She cares about you, Dillon.”

  “I care about her, too. We’ve been friends for almost two years.”

  “So you wouldn’t want to hurt her.”

  “Of course not.”

  Chantel took a deep breath. “Then you understand why this—whatever it is that sprang up between us—can’t go on.”

  Silence. Then, “I’m not sure I understand at all.”

  “Stacy’s my sister, Dillon.”

  “A fact I’m not likely to forget and one I wasn’t very happy to discover. But I’m not sure I’m willing to give up a relationship that could work for one that wasn’t going anywhere to begin with.”

  Chantel blinked against the tears welling in her eyes. She thought they’d shared something special; it was gratifying that Dillon felt the same way. But it made no difference in the end. Because nothing mattered except regaining Stacy’s trust and proving herself a true friend and sister at last. She needed to do that for herself as much as her sister. “I just…can’t.”

  “Why? I’m not saying we have to do anything right now. We can give it some time, let things cool off—”

  “No. I don’t want to be responsible for you backing away from Stacy. Last night was a mistake. I’m sorry, Dillon.”

  Chantel hung up while she still had the mental fortitude to do so. She didn’t want him aware of the turmoil inside her. If he sensed her doubt, he’d push, and she couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to be tempted into forgetting all her new
goals and desires. Especially her desire to be the type of sister she should have been in the first place.

  The phone rang again, but Chantel refused to answer it. She wouldn’t open the door between her and Dillon, not even a crack. She was going to be bigger than she’d been before. Stronger and better. Safer.

  “It’s too complicated, Dillon,” she whispered, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

  The phone kept ringing, on and on. Finally she covered her ears and wept.

  HOW SHE MADE IT through the weekend, Chantel didn’t know. They were some of the hardest days she’d ever spent, and she’d had her share of hard days in the past year. But she’d managed to keep Dillon at arm’s length. He’d tried to talk to her several times and had watched her closely, his confusion and desire showing clearly in his eyes.

  She’d turned a cold shoulder to him, refusing to entertain memories of their time together or to consider any contact in the future. He was Stacy’s. Off-limits. Period. There was no margin for error in that.

  Kicking off her shoes in the middle of her own living room on Monday evening, Chantel turned on the television before going into the kitchen to root through the refrigerator. At least work was getting easier. Today she’d forwarded several letters to Congressman Brown from constituents who needed help on federal issues. There wasn’t much a state senator could do to assist someone with the IRS, except to pass on the request. She’d responded to myriad letters on child-support reform, somehow managing to figure out how to do a mail merge on her computer. And she’d learned how to handle the scheduling for the congressman so she could fill in if Nan, in the capitol office, was ever away.

  She was beginning to think there was life after modeling. But she still regretted that she had no education. Stacy was a nurse, with a good job in the maternity ward at the hospital. Chantel envied her the pay but knew she could never work so closely with newborns. Always seeing someone else go home with what she wanted most would cause her constant pain.

  A knock at the door interrupted her consideration of a frozen burrito. “Who is it?”

  No answer.

  Frowning, Chantel shut the freezer door and went to peek through the peephole. Whoever it was was standing too far to the right. She could make out nothing more than part of one denim-clad leg. Another solicitor for some worthy cause? They always seemed to come at dinnertime.

  Chantel opened the door as far as the chain would allow. “Who is it?”

  Wade shifted so she could see him. “It’s me. Can I come in?”

  Chantel’s stomach dropped. Oh, no. Not now. It had only been six months since she’d left him in New York, but already he looked different. His hair was bleached blond, an earring dangled from his left ear, and he’d obviously been hitting the weights again. “No. How’d you find me?”

  He gave her the grin that had won her heart when she was only nineteen. “We’re both from this town. Where else would you be?”

  “So what do you want?” she asked warily.

  “Just to see you. We didn’t part on the best of terms, and…” He ran a hand through his short thickly gelled hair. “I owe you an apology for not being there for you when you were in the hospital.”

  “I didn’t want you with me in the hospital. I told you that.”

  “I know. You said it was something you had to do for yourself, but that’s crazy. For all intents and purposes, you’re still my wife, Chantel.”

  “I was never your wife, Wade.”

  He jammed one hand into the pocket of his Tommy Hilfiger jeans. “My folks would like to see you.”

  “I’ll try and stop by,” she replied, but she said it only to placate him. Visiting the people she’d once considered her in-laws would prove too awkward. She liked them, but they’d never spent much time together, and she needed her break with Wade to be as clean as possible.

  “Steve wants to know if you’re coming back. He says he could put you to work right away.”

  Steve Morgan had been her agent, was still Wade’s, evidently, and one of the few people Chantel actually missed. “Tell him I appreciate the thought, but I don’t want to model anymore. You both know that.”

  “Well, I’ve gotten a few covers. Have you seen them?”

  Chantel shook her head. She purposely stayed well away from the magazine racks at the grocery store. The allure of New York was strong enough without reminding herself of the life she’d led there. The easy money. The glamour and the parties. The attention. In those respects, the Big Apple had more than its share of appeal, but that kind of life was lethal to her. She couldn’t keep herself well when everything depended on her looks. And when she was there, she couldn’t stay away from Wade. He was an addiction as dangerous as any drug, because he thrived on her destruction.

  “Are you going to keep me standing outside all day?” he asked. “Can’t we at least be civil about this?”

  A voice in Chantel’s head urged her to refuse him. She supposed that was the voice of wisdom. Instead, she listened to her heart, which told her they’d been together for ten years and should be able to speak kindly to each other now. Closing the door just long enough to slide back the chain, she opened it again, and Wade stepped in.

  “I thought you liked contemporary decor,” he said, studying her living room, which could have been featured in the magazine Country Living.

  “You like contemporary,” she said simply, which pretty much summed up their problems. Wade had to have everything his way. No one else mattered.

  “Well, what you’ve done here is nice. You look great, by the way.”

  Chantel had no intention of returning the compliment, even though he did look good. He’d always looked good. And he smelled even better. The Givenchy that was his favorite cologne invaded her senses, bringing back memories she would rather forget.

  “Where are you working now?” he asked.

  She perched on the edge of a plaid wing-back chair, wishing he’d say whatever he’d come to say and then just go. “I work for a state senator.”

  “Wow. How’d you get that?”

  He thought she wasn’t smart enough to do a real job. That hurt her, as always, but she kept her shoulders straight and her head high. “I applied.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “If it’s to talk me into coming back, you can save your breath.” Chantel knew she sounded much tougher than she felt and hoped he couldn’t see through her.

  “How come you never answered any of my letters?”

  “Because I never even opened them.” She didn’t add that she’d saved them, though. They were all lurking in a drawer in her bedroom.

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “You think this whole thing is my fault, don’t you?” He propped his hands on his narrow hips. “What did I ever do but love you and take care of you?”

  And criticize and punish me. “I don’t want to go into it anymore.”

  A fleeting look of fear crossed his face, but he quickly masked it. He’d probably thought she’d come crawling back to him eventually, unable to function without him. Well, she was functioning, perhaps not well but adequately, and she was going to continue to stand on her own two feet if it killed her. Even though, after what had happened with Dillon, she felt weaker now than ever. More alone…

  “It’s Stacy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s you. It’s me. It’s us. We just don’t work. I wish I’d seen it years ago.”

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Grateful for the reprieve, Chantel ducked around Wade to answer it.

  “Hi.” Dillon stood on her front stoop, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a chambray shirt, the wind ruffling his hair. The sight of him made Chantel’s heart skip a beat and then go into triple time, even though her head warned her he was as dangerous to her peace of mind as Wade.

  “Dillon.”

  He slanted her
a crooked smile. “Can we talk?”

  Chantel threw a glance over her shoulder, wondering what to do. Wade, always the jealous type, might say something to embarrass her, even though private punishment was more his style. When they were a couple, he’d withhold his affection and pout if he thought she’d paid too much attention to another man. Or, more times than not, he’d just get back at her by being obvious about the petite dark-haired groupies he sometimes slept with.

  But none of that mattered anymore, she reminded herself. Opening the door, she let Dillon in.

  “Dillon, this is…an old friend, Wade Bennett. He just got here from New York and stopped by to say hello.”

  Dillon’s face grew shuttered, speculative, telling her he recognized Wade’s name, but he nodded.

  “Wade, this is Dillon Broderick.”

  Wade didn’t bother to smile. Instead, he eyed Dillon from the top of his dark head down to his leather Top-Siders. Just over six feet, Wade wasn’t exactly a small man, but Dillon had a few inches on him, broader shoulders and a more powerful build. He also looked far less groomed. While Wade had no doubt checked the mirror only moments before to make sure every hair was in place, Dillon had probably come after a long day at work without bothering to fuss about his appearance. His hair was unruly, as though he’d been running his fingers through it, and a five-o’clock shadow covered his jaw. His “take me as I am” air made him all the more appealing, in Chantel’s opinion.

  “What’s he doing here?” Wade demanded.

  “Wade, don’t,” Chantel said, placing a hand on the doorknob. “You were on your way out. Don’t let Dillon stop you.”

  “I just want to know what’s going on. Is this guy trying to move in on my turf?”

  “You have no turf, at least not here,” she responded.

  “So what? You think he just wants to be friends?” Wade chuckled. “Then you don’t know guys. He’s just trying to get in your pants.” Wade spoke to Chantel, but his stare was a challenge, directed at Dillon. And Dillon seemed more than ready to answer it. His jaw tightened and his right hand curled into a fist.