Nobody's Business (Nobody Romances)

by Gina Ardito

  She yanked her hand out of Mrs. Bascomb's reach and tucked her fingers behind her opposing forearm. "I do not live like a hermit."

  "Mmm-hmm." Mrs. Bascomb sat back, resumed her rock ing, gaze now fixed on the rough-hewn crossbeams high overhead. "You know, when you first became involved with this Ski-Hab program, I thought to myself, `Finally. The Mourning Glory's going to start blooming again."'

  Lyn arched a brow. "'The Mourning Glory'?"

  "Yeah." With a grin, the old lady winked. "You don't know it, but that's the locals' nickname for you."

  Acid burned her tongue, and she allowed the sarcasm to drip from her lips. "How complimentary."

  "It isn't meant to be a compliment." Mrs. Bascomb pulled the glasses off her face and chewed on the tip of one side. "It's an observation. Ever since Marc died, you've holed up in this inn like you died too."

  "None of you understand," she snapped. "When Marc died, I lost everything. He wasn't just my husband. He was my best friend, my rock, my whole world."

  Mrs. Bascomb waved her glasses with a dismissive hand. "Don't invite me to your pity party. I lost my husband too. But I managed to continue living."

  "Your husband was seventy and you'd been married for forty-five years when you lost him."

  "Which makes it even more devastating. You think your piddly little four-year marriage can compare to a lifetime?"

  Beeeeeeeeep! Beep-beep! Beeeeeeeeep!

  The sudden eruption of a car horn out front broke the disquiet inside the inn. Relief flooded Lyn's taut skeleton.

  "That'll be April and the brood," she announced, forcing a happy air.

  "I think I'll see if there are any cookies in the kitchen," Mrs. Bascomb said. "Children love cookies." She rose and, leaving her knitting behind, slipped from the parlor with all the finesse of a snake oil salesman.

  Shaking her head to dislodge their conversation, Lyn turned toward the inn's front entrance.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The familiar, rhythmic thud of visitors stomping snow from their boots echoed in Lyn's pounding heart.

  Before she reached the lilac-painted steel door, April flung it open wide, shaking the cranberry wreath hanging outside and allowing a burst of icy air into the overheated room.

  "We're here!" she shouted as she sped into the parlor, arms outstretched to engulf Lyn.

  Holy happiness, Batman! Lyn had never seen her older sister look so good. A nuclear glow seemed to surround April from head to toe. Her eyes glittered with sparks of light, and her blinding smile illuminated the entire first floor.

  "God, Lyn, I'm so happy to see you." She squeezed Lyn tight enough to crack ribs.

  "Well, something's made you happy, that's for sure," Lyn replied as she broke the boa constrictor embrace. "But I don't think I can take the credit."

  April laughed. "Yeah, it's Jeff, I guess. If I'd have known seeing a psychologist would turn my life around, I would have made an appointment years ago."

  "It's not the seeing that's made a difference," a rich baritone said from behind them. "It's the fact the psychologist is crazy in love with you."

  One look told Lyn the truth of Jeff's words. The tall, striking man standing in the doorway flashed silver eyes glowing with adoration in her sister's direction. The heat flowing between these two could set the inn ablaze.

  The serpent of jealousy wound around Lyn's heart. How did April get so danged lucky?

  Shame slammed a spiked heel on the snake's head. Lyn would not begrudge her sister a good, honest, trustworthy man. After all April's trials, she deserved happiness. And thinking of trials ...

  On either side of Jeff stood April's children, Becky and Michael. Luggage surrounded the trio like a fortress.

  "Gag me," nineteen-year-old Becky exclaimed with a smirk. "I think I just threw up in my mouth a little."

  Jeff's smile only deepened. "Then my work here is done." He ruffled fourteen-year-old Michael's hair. "What about you, sport? Your mom and I nauseate you too?"

  "Maybe a little." Michael's gap-toothed grin sent a shiver up Lyn's spine.

  She loved her nephew, but sometimes, facing his disability head-on made her squirm. Michael was a child with Down syndrome. And while April had long ago adjusted to his awkward facial features and physical limitations, the rest of the family tended to avoid direct eye contact for fear of hurting the child's feelings with an involuntary wince or grimace.

  "Jeff." April dragged Lyn toward the door. "This is my sister, Lyn. Lyn, this is Jeff."

  Jeff stepped forward and removed his gloves, tucking them under his arm. "Brooklyn." He extended a bare hand. Big, warm, gentle hold. Familial. "Nice to meet you. I'm a big fan."

  With a broad smile, Lyn clasped his fingers. "Same here. And please call me Lyn. I never use my real name anymore. When I was a teenager, a name like Brooklyn Raine set me apart on the racing circuit. Now..." Sighing, she shook her head. "It's embarrassing. So for the record, I'm just plain Lyn Hill."

  "Hello, hello, nice to meet you too." Becky's sarcastic tone cut in from the doorway. "Can we come inside, please?" She hopped from one foot to the other. "It's freezing out here."

  "Whoops! Sorry. That's my fault." Jeff whirled, and after replacing his gloves, stomped to the door to pick up the largest of the three suitcases. Gesturing to the fireplace with its crackling flames, he told the kids, "Go warm yourselves up over there while I drag these inside."

  The teenagers thundered into Lyn's parlor, dripping gray slush and trailing white wires attached to earbuds.

  "Guys?" April prompted. "Got anything to say to your Aunt Lyn?"

  "Yeah. What's there to do around here?" Apparently, Becky missed her mother's veiled hint.

  "Guess again," Jeff told her.

  When he paired the command with a scathing look, Becky's face flushed.

  "Sorry." She stepped forward and embraced Lyn stiffly. "Hi, Aunt Lyn. How are you?"

  Approval for Jeff rose a hundred degrees in Lyn's mind. Taking on April's ruffians required a lot of guts, a lot of patience, and a little insanity. To her surprise, Jeff seemed to have reined in both teens and earned their respect in the process. No wonder April raved about him the way she did.

  Lyn gave her niece a quick squeeze. "I'm fine, Becs." She released Becky and hugged Michael as well. "I'm glad you guys came. And if you're up for it, I thought we'd hit the slopes while your mom and..." She shot a questioning look at April. How should she address Jeff in front of the kids? She doubted they'd call him Dad.

  "Jeff," he supplied, as if she'd asked the question aloud.

  "While your mom and Jeff are getting everything settled," she finished. "Your gear is in the locker room, all ready for you."

  Michael's slanted eyes widened, and his mouth grew slack with his excitement as he nodded vigorously. Drool spotted the corner of his lip, and Lyn stifled the urge to wipe it away.

  "Sure," Becky said. "Think there'll be any cute guys out there today?"

  April laughed. "It's a ski resort, Becky. There are cute guys there every day." She wagged a finger. "Just be careful. Some of those ski bums can steal your heart if you let them."

  Lyn's gaze swerved from the excited teens to the adults. "Is it okay with you two?"

  "Why not?" April replied. "I'm sure we can find some way to pass the time while you're gone." Another heated look passed between April and Jeff, a look so passionate, the serpent around Lyn's heart squeezed her breathless.

  "Come on," Lyn murmured to the teenagers. "Let's get our gear and hit the snow."

  No one played the guilt card better than Violet Sawyer. Mere days after Ace's visit-or the "gang shanghai," as he liked to call that afternoon-Doug strapped on, for the first time, the prosthetic arm the hospital had created for him.

  According to his doctor, the latex and metal contraption was state of the art. But it still looked like what it was: a robotic arm. He might as well start wearing an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder. At least one day a year he'd look like everyone els
e-on Halloween.

  And how in God's name could he type with this ... this ... claw?

  But his physical therapist didn't expect him to simply type. No, the torture king wouldn't rest until Doug could feel the difference between the ace of hearts and the jack of clubs with his fake fingers.

  Which wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

  Although nerves in his upper chest were rewired to control the apparatus, the simplest actions, like raising his hand, took focus and time he'd never needed before that miserable day in Iraq. Tasks he'd done since toddlerhood-tying his shoes, buttoning his shirt, writing his name-had to be relearned in excruciating therapy sessions.

  And now, he was about to attempt downhill skiing. With the torture king's blessing, of course.

  Mount Elsie, a small ski resort in the middle of Vermont's Green Mountains, catered to local residents, families with small children, and maimed veterans who sought a shot at regaining independence after losing a limb or two. Or three. Or four.

  "All set, Doug?"

  From his seat on the bench at the bottom of the bunny hill's J-bar, Doug glanced up at his ski instructor, then turned a furious gaze toward Ace. "Is this a joke?"

  Kerri-Sue Parker looked exactly the way Doug would expect a Kerri-Sue Parker to look. Perky, blond, blue-eyed, no older than twenty-five, tops. Jeez, he probably owned clothes older than this kid.

  Despite her youth, or maybe because of it, she flashed him a blinding smile. "You've got a problem with me, Doug?"

  "Yeah," Ace replied with an amused snort. "You're not Brooklyn Raine."

  "Who?" Her expression blanked.

  Good God, was she younger than he thought? How could anyone even remotely linked to the skiing industry not know the name Brooklyn Raine? Not that there was any truth to Ace's comment. The kid had harped on Doug's teenage crush since the night he'd first learned about it.

  "Brooklyn Raine was a slalom skier from the eighties and nineties," Ace told Kerri-Sue with an exaggerated sneer. "You know. The old days. When snowboarding was reserved for the far side of the mountain."

  When Ace pointed past the tree line, Kerri-Sue's gaze naturally followed. "Oh. Right." She gave him a thumbs-up. "Got it now."

  Thwap! Thwap! Ace bounced on his purple and green board, a subtle hint he was bored and eager to hit whatever challenging slope he could find far from the beginner's area.

  "You may not believe this, Doug," he said between bounces, "but you got the best instructor in the program. Kerri-Sue gets results from the troops the other guys can't."

  Flashing another dazzling smile, Kerri-Sue shrugged. "It's a gift."

  The dawn of understanding illuminated Doug's brain. Of course Kerri-Sue got results. No red-blooded American male would risk disappointing this beautiful snow angel. Except him.

  "I want someone else." The meanest, ugliest bulldog on the instructional team. Someone who wouldn't giggle every time he lost his balance and fell on his face.

  "Too bad." Kerri-Sue knocked bits of errant snow from her bindings by tapping her pole against her ski. The slow precision in the motion made him think she wished she was pounding his head. "You're stuck with me today. Don't make me knock you on your butt in front of all these Marines."

  He took a look around, at the wounded men and women, all struggling to adapt to a new normal. How in God's name had he arrived here? A year ago, he'd had a successful career, a modicum of celebrity in New York journalistic circles, and two working, matching arms. Now he was just another freak in this snow circus.

  "You're all in the same boat, Doug," Kerri-Sue added, as if she'd read his thoughts. "We tend to group our students by category. So everyone here this week is a two-tracker with upper torso issues."

  "Two-tracker?"

  "Yeah," Ace replied from his left. "That means you'll use two skis." He grinned, no doubt proud to show what he'd learned while serving his public penance here.

  Kerri-Sue shooed Ace toward the main chairlifts. "Go play, Ace. Doug and I will be fine without you."

  Ace turned toward the larger part of the mountain, then back to Doug. "You're sure?"

  "Go," Doug replied. One know-it-all youth watching his every move would be all his cracked pride could take during this debacle.

  Lucky for him, the kid needed no further prodding. With a whoop of delight, he picked up his board and raced to the main lift line.

  Kerri-Sue sighed dramatically. "Alone, at last." She stepped into her skis with a click-click. "Basically, we handle five different types of skiers here: two-trackers like you; three-trackers are one-leg amputees who use one ski but two outriggers. An outrigger's that long-handled thing-kinda looks like a pole with the front piece of a ski tacked on."

  Doug nodded. He'd seen them before in competition use at the Special Olympics and Disabled Sports games.

  "Four-trackers use two skis and two outriggers. Then there's the sit-trackers who work a sit-ski. And visually impaired skiers use a guide. We've got one guy, Max, suffers from some rare vision disorder-he gets, like, tunnel vision and can't see what's on either side of him. He skis with his dog."

  Deep inside his brain, a dormant instinct sparked. His reporter's senses tingled, like Spiderman's. But he shoved the sensation away. His reporting days were over; he couldn't type and no way he'd be seen on television with The Claw. "Yeah, right."

  "No joke. He's got a human guide for racing and stuff, but just for toodling around the easy slopes, he uses his Labrador retriever. The dog's a two-tracker, by the way."

  A smile twitched his lips, and Kerri-Sue beamed brighter than sunshine on fresh snow. "Now that's more like it. You're actually a good-looking guy when you're not growling at me."

  "I'm old enough to be your father." Or, at least, an uncle.

  She gave him the critical once-over. "You think so? You're ... what? Thirty-five?"

  He shrugged. Thirty-five in years, but ninety in experience. And feeling older every minute ...

  "How old do you think I am?"

  A dangerous question. And he had no intention of stepping closer to that ledge. Not with a woman who could push him off a cliff and get away with it.

  "Come on," Kerri-Sue pressed. "You started this. Finish it. "

  He'd lowball her to be on the safe side. "Twenty-one."

  She laughed. "Now you're just making fun of me. Come on, be honest. I can take it. How old do you really think I am?"

  "No more than twenty-six."

  "Which would make you too young to be my father. The fact is, though, I'll be forty this coming August." She must have seen his eyes widen because she nodded like a bobblehead doll. "Really. Good Swedish genes. Great Swedish genes, actually."

  Okay, so maybe he didn't have clothes older than her.

  But maybe she only told him she was almost forty to make him feel better somehow. Some kind of pity-lie for the cripple.

  His doubts must have shown on his face because she leaned closer, eyes crinkled with mirth. "Wanna see my driver's license?"

  Embarrassment crept up his nape, and he quickly looked away, focusing on the J-bar lift as it revolved from the bottom to the top of the slope.

  "I can go back to the locker room and get my wallet," she persisted.

  Leveling a steely gaze her way, he replied, "I'll take your word for it."

  "Good. Then slap on your helmet and let's get started." She picked up the helmet and shoved it at Doug's chest.

  Instinctively, he reached with his right arm, but, of course, nothing happened. He'd left his prosthesis in his slopeside condo. Still not one hundred percent comfortable with the motion of the fake arm, he preferred to relearn skiing without it.

  "Here." With a maternal sigh, Kerri-Sue slipped the helmet over Doug's head, then slid the goggles into place over his face. She bent close to study his field of vision. "Can you see okay?"

  He had to swallow hard to keep his pride from screaming that he could do these tasks himself. Because, the truth of the matter was, he couldn't. Too frustrated t
o speak, he settled for a nod.

  Apparently that was enough acknowledgment for Kerri-Sue. With gentle fingers, she clipped the strap under his chin.

  Once again, he gulped back his resentment. Good God, how many more insults would his ego have to suffer? How on earth could he ever be whole again? Bitterness bubbled like bile in his gut. He couldn't. The best he could hope for was a half-existence. He'd either be stuck fumbling with that phony artifice that masqueraded as a human arm or playing helpless victim so others could tie his shoes for him.

  No. No way. He'd fight this battle. No way did he intend to spend the rest of his life with a hired coddler. Or his mother.

  Kerri-Sue smiled, her cheeks rosy from the cold. "Come on, Doug. Let's hit the slopes!"

  After leaving Becky and Michael under the watchful eyes of the kitchen staff amid steaming cups of cocoa and squares of brownies, Lyn took one of her last runs of the day. At the top of the Snow Blind trail's final hill, she stopped to watch the new Ski-Hab recruits on the bunny slope, Snow Wonder.

  One by one, with their instructors alongside them for guidance, the class of two-trackers eased their way down the graduated hill in the classic S pattern. Nice. Slow. Steady form.

  The good thing about Marines: they knew how to take orders.

  On an inhale of crisp mountain air, she swooped closer to the beginner's area. Years of skiing this mountain had made her all too familiar with the instructors. These days, she could recognize any staff member based on his or her unique motions on the slopes.

  Curiosity riveted her to the student working with Kerri-Sue. The slender, beauty-queen blond, usually the most popular and successful of the instructors, struggled with a hulking, onearmed giant of a man.

  As he attempted the winding slalom downhill, his center of gravity tilted, and he faltered on the skis. Splat! He landed hard on his right side-the side without an arm. Rather than flipping to his left and regaining his stance, he began the wiggle routine, which Lyn usually associated with children and weaker amputees.