by Gina Ardito
"The situation wouldn't ever reverse," he assured her. "At least not with me. I learned not to push girls when I was five."
"Oh?" She leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "Do tell."
"Jenny Hendrix jumped off the low end of the seesaw while I was on the high side."
She sucked in a sharp breath. "Yowza. Even for a little boy, that must have hurt."
No need for him to elaborate, although he still saw stars when he thought about the pain that day.
"Yeah. Exactly. Anyway, she tried to run away, I chased her, she tripped over her own two feet, told the teacher I pushed her, and my mother was called to the school."
She sipped her soup, looking at him over the rim of the mug. "And that innocent event stayed with you all these years?"
"You've never met my mom. She was a schoolteacher herself, but she taught high school English. The word formidable was created to describe her."
Her eyes grew wide, or at least wider, considering her current dazed condition. "What did she do? She didn't hurt you, did she?"
Every time Lyn showed some minor concern for him, he had more trouble connecting her to the Coyote on the mountain. "She never hurt me. She lectured, she took away things like comic books and television time, but she never laid a hand on me."
"What about your father?" she asked.
"Out of the picture before my second birthday. Went to the store for milk one day and never came back."
"I'm sorry."
He shook off the sympathy. "Don't be. My formidable mom more than made up for the lack of a dad." And Lyn had just handed him the perfect segue. "How about you?"
"How about me what?"
"Your parents."
She turned her gaze toward the fire before answering, "Oh, you know. They're just normal parents, I guess."
"Lucky you," he remarked, but he watched her reaction closely.
She grimaced, a brief moment of pain across her features, then the return to placidity. "Yup. That's me."
Change the subject, keep her off-balance. "How long have you lived here?"
"A little over ten years now, I guess," she replied. "You should have seen this place back then. It was originally a hunting lodge."
"With all that entailed, I assume? Something like a caveman's home away from home?"
"You assume correctly. Indoor plumbing, thank God, but I don't think any room had been thoroughly cleaned since the place was built. Cobwebs everywhere, dust six inches thick, and I don't even want to remember the condition of the bathrooms."
She grimaced, from pain or the memory of what this inn used to be, he didn't know. He opted to believe the latter.
The grandfather clock on the outskirts of the room chimed once, and Doug's attention veered to the time displayed on the golden face with its laughing moon. Ten-thirty. The night was slipping away. How had that happened? He stared at the tea cart, the empty plates and drained mugs. Two hours had flown by in the blink of an eye. Time to knuckle under and get some real info out of the pretty innkeeper.
"It's a nice town," he remarked. "From what I've seen so far, anyway. Did you grow up near here originally?"
"No, I came from"-she yawned-"somewhere else."
A guarded response. Push forward or hang back? Oh, who was he kidding? He'd never been a hang back kinda guy. "Yeah? I went there once on vacation."
She offered a tight-lipped smile, and he pushed again. "So did `somewhere else' have a name?"
Before she could answer, the front door swung open and slammed against the wall. On that thunderous sound, a pair of heavily layered demons rushed inside, shouting accusations about what he surmised was a broken pair of earbuds.
"There's no sound at all coming from the right side," a female complained as she swung the thin white wires in her gloved hand. "And they both worked fine before you got your grubby hands on them."
"I didn't break them," her pint-sized male companion retorted. "I didn't even use them. You probably stepped on them in the car, and now you want to blame me."
On Doug's right, Lyn sighed heavily. "And they're back."
"That's enough," another feminine voice said from the open front door. "Take off your coats and boots and put them in the closet. Then go upstairs. Quietly. Don't wake Aunt Lyn."
"It's okay, April," Lyn called. "I'm awake. We're in the parlor." As if in reply to Doug's unspoken question, she offered an apologetic smile and whispered, "My sister and her family are here for the week. Normally, the kids aren't such monsters, but I'm guessing a full day of togetherness took its toll."
In other words, reinforcements had arrived. Interview over for tonight. He rose. "I should probably go. Would you mind calling me a cab? Meanwhile, I'll get the kitchen whipped into shape so Gerta doesn't fillet me for your guests tomorrow."
He turned the tea cart around to more easily push it into the kitchen but was nearly bowled over by a woman racing into the parlor.
"Lyn? What are you doing up at this hour?"
The woman wore a bright turquoise ski jacket, unzipped to reveal a thick sweater in a softer powder blue shade, and dark denim jeans. She'd apparently paused long enough to remove her shoes because she slipped inside on stocking feet. Well, sort of stockings, anyway. They were more like gloves for feet, with each toe in its own separate compartment and each compartment a different color. His gaze took in the wearer of these bizarre but childish socks. She was petite, even smaller than Lyn. A pixie really, with reddish-brown flyaway hair, and glossy brown eyes like a teddy bear's. She looked nothing like Lyn, and yet, he could easily peg them as sisters. Their speech patterns, postures, and take-control attitudes all indicated some shared DNA.
The woman strode past Doug and aimed straight for the chair where Lyn sat huddled in her fluffy pink robe. Once she reached her sister's side, she crouched. "Are you okay? What happened?"
Lyn waved a dismissive hand. "I took a tumble on the slopes. Pulled my hamstring. No biggie. I'll be fine in a couple of weeks."
"It's my fault," Doug said. "I dared her to race me"
On a gasp, the woman swerved to face him, lost her balance, and fell on her bottom. Slowly, she rose, rubbing a hand over her disgraced posterior. "And you are ... ?"
"Exaggerating," Lyn answered with an emphatic head shake. "April, this is Doug Sawyer. Doug, my sister, April."
"Nice to meet you." Quickly, he thrust out his left hand.
"Same here" April blinked several times, and then clasped his left hand in hers.
Doug had learned early the best way to head off the embarrassed reactions from those unaware of his prosthetic hand was to beat them to the awkward.
"April?" A man's voice came from the foyer.
"In the parlor, Jeff," April called back.
Within seconds, they were joined by a dark-haired man who'd not only removed his shoes but his coat as well. He too wore a sweater and jeans-in coordinating shades of gray and black, respectively. His socks, however, were normal lightweight ski socks. With all five toes on each foot sharing the same woolen compartment. Thank God. Doug didn't think he'd be able to keep his mouth shut after seeing a man in multicolored, multitoed socks.
Once again, Lyn made the introductions, but this time, Jeff beat Doug to the handshake stage, and Doug was forced to use his prosthesis. If Jeff noticed anything bizarre about the false hand, he made no visible reaction. Which meant he was either oblivious or super-polite. Either way, Doug exhaled a sigh of relief.
With the pleasantries out of the way, the room grew silent and strained. The only sounds came from the Mozart concerto playing subtly in the background and the tick of the pendulum in the grandfather clock.
Finally, Doug ventured into the stillness. "I should see about these dishes."
April's gaze swept the contents of the tea cart, then swerved to Lyn. "Did we come back at a bad time?"
"Of course not," Lyn replied. "Doug was with me when I fell. And knowing I'd spent the evening in the emergency room, he brought me a late dinner
."
Both April and Jeff swerved their attention to Doug. Recognition tickled Doug's memory. Something about them, the way they stood, Jeff with his hand possessively placed on April's shoulder, seemed so familiar. Where had he seen these two before?
Nope. Not a clue. For now, he shook off the wispy images.
"I've overstayed my welcome, anyway," he said, "and your sister was too polite to throw me out."
"Not true," Lyn said. "Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly the most scintillating companion tonight. I'm surprised I didn't put him to sleep."
Now Doug shook his head. "Not possible. But for tonight, our date has come to an end. I wanted to ask you-no pressure, mind you-but since you won't be able to ski for a few weeks, maybe you'll drop by the Ski-Hab area Friday afternoon? Say ... after four? We could try for something more closely resembling a real date? Where I take you out to a nice restaurant? For a better meal than soup and a sandwich? If you're feeling well enough, that is."
Lyn hesitated. "I don't-"
"She'll be there," April jumped in. "I'll drive her to the mountain myself."
Doug didn't know how he'd managed to win over the sister so quickly, but he wasn't about to question his luck. "Great. So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the kitchen to clean up the mess, and then I'll hit the road."
"April, do me a favor?" Lyn pointed at Doug and the cart. "Could you help him with the dishes? You know where everything goes."
God, no. He'd rather fumble alone, thankyouverymuch. "Don't be silly. I have everything under control."
"But ... with your arm ... I mean, the prosthesis..."
Instantly two pairs of eyes veered to stare at his right arm. Great. Thanks for bringing my infirmity to their attention, Lyn. All the more reason to avoid an audience in the kitchen. Last thing he needed was someone gawking at how the cripple managed to wash dishes.
"I've had hundreds of hours of occupational therapy," he insisted, "which included dishwashing and general housekeeping. You just take care of the cab, and I'll take care of the kitchen. Deal?"
"No deal." Lyn folded her arms over the wide lapels of her fuzzy robe. "You're at a disadvantage, not knowing where Gerta keeps everything."
"Lyn has a point," her sister announced. "Gerta's a tyrant about her kitchen. I'll just come along to make sure everything's in the right spot. Trust me. If you don't place the saltshaker at the proper angle with the pepper shaker, of Gert will skin you alive."
"Surrender, Doug," Jeff said with a grin. "You can't win against these two."
Before Doug could form any additional argument, April took the tea cart by the handle. "Come on. It won't take long." Once he'd followed her out of the parlor and toward the kitchen, she craned her neck to add sotto voce, "Date, huh? And a follow-up on Friday? How'd you manage that?"
When Doug stepped into his slopeside condo an hour later, Ace Riordan's head popped up over the back of the sofa. "Where have you been?" Every sharp word sliced the air.
"Gee whiz, Mom, you didn't have to wait up for me." He unzipped his jacket and opened the closet door.
Ace's icy glare could turn the condo into the Arctic Circle. "And you're not answering my question. Where were you?"
He offered the kid a smug grin. "I had a date."
Blue eyes narrowed to cobra slits. "With whom?"
"The proprietor of a certain bed-and-breakfast." While Ace swallowed that horse pill, Doug hung his jacket in the closet.
"You didn't."
He leaned out, the picture of innocence. "Didn't what?"
"Dude." Ace slammed a fist into the sofa's top. "I told you to leave Lyn alone."
"Since when do I take orders from you?" Doug headed for the kitchen, where the package from Jake lay waiting on the counter, silently beckoning to him.
"Since I pulled a lot of strings to get you into the Ski-Hab program. Now you're gonna screw up everything by pursuing a story no one cares about except you."
"Oh, I don't know about that." He found a steak knife in the kitchen drawer and carefully split the packing tape along the top of the box. "I spoke to Jake Hardwick, and he agrees with me that this could be the story of the year."
"So you'll ruin a woman's life for `the story of the year.' Great."
"Lighten up, Ace. You know me better than that. Since when have I ever ruined anyone's life? I've already told you. I'll make her look like the patron saint of amputees."
Ace unfolded his body from the couch and clucked his tongue. "Wow. You still don't get it, do you? It doesn't matter that you're not one of those hacks from some gossip rag. For Lyn, no publicity is good publicity. All she wants is to be left alone. Why can't you respect that?"
"Because it's stupid." He flipped open the flaps.
"Says you."
Doug pointed a finger in Ace's direction. "Good comeback. You got me there. But guess what? You haven't changed my mind."
He pulled out the sleek black laptop and wireless device sitting inside. Time to power up this sucker. He wanted to start recording his perceptions and the details of today's events while they were still fresh in his mind.
"Oh, now I get it," Ace retorted. "You didn't just lose your arm in that Humvee accident. You lost your soul too."
Doug looked up from his new box of toys and offered a joyless grin. "I'm a reporter, Ace. We have no souls."
"You did. Before Iraq. The Doug Sawyer I used to know wouldn't sell out like this."
"I'm not selling out. I'm writing a great story about a great woman. It'll put this little mountain and Ski-Hab on the public's radar. Let everyone know about what goes on here, which in turn could mean lots of donations to keep the program running. What's so horrible about that?"
"Because it's not what she wants. It's her life, her story. Don't you think she should be the one to decide whether or not you share it with the world?"
With the laptop plugged in and the Wi-Fi signal strong, Doug pecked the name Brooklyn Raine into the search engine. A list containing dozens of pages of information popped up. He started with images: Brooklyn on the medal podium at the Olympics, on a Disney castle float with Marc Cheviot at her side, on a cereal box. All familiar to his memory, but very different from the woman who ran Snowed Inn. The last image he found was taken outdoors, where she stood beneath a heavy black awning. The caption read, "Brooklyn Raine leaving the funeral of her father and coach, Alan Raine." The headline above the corresponding article screamed, DADDY'S GIRL NO MORE.
Ouch.
Wincing, he scanned the byline. Lorenzo Akers. Doug should have known. Akers was the muckiest of the muckrakers. An oily snake who played to the lowest common denominator. Without reading it, Doug knew how the article would slant. Akers loved to breathe life into nasty gossip and innuendo. If Lorenzo Akers was indicative of the type of reporter Brooklyn Raine had come up against in the past, Doug couldn't blame her for shying away from the press.
"You're not even listening to me, are you?" Ace's accusation brought him out of his reverie.
"Of course I am," he lied. "I'm just not heeding you. There's a difference."
Ace yanked the cordless phone off the wall mount and turned his back to keep it out of Doug's reach. "You know what? Fine. Let's see how much access you'll get to her when she knows who you are and how you came to be here."
Doug leveled a steely gaze at the kid. Time to lay down the cards. "You're going to admit your culpability in that? And Richie Armstrong's? Which do you think will hurt her more? My intention to write a positive story about her and her program or the betrayal of two men she's always considered friends?"
Ace's complexion turned candy apple red.
"Go to Canada, Ace," Doug ordered softly. "You've got a competition to prepare for."
Lips drawn into a tight line, the kid shook his head. "I'm not leaving as long as you plan to write this article."
"I'll tell you what. I'll let you read the article before I send it to Jake. You can have first approval."
"Give Lyn first approval," Ace said.
"Before you turn the article over to Jake or anyone else at The Sportsman, let Lyn read the article and give you her approval."
"Okay, fine. I'll let her read it first."
`And give her approval to the publication," Ace reminded him.
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Whatever you say."
"No, not whatever I say. I won't let you weasel out of this later due to some stupid technicality you dreamed up. I want you to repeat after me, `Before I allow The Sportsman to print any information about Brooklyn Raine or Lyn Hill, I will tell her personally who I am, what I've done, and allow her to have final approval on the article.'"
Doug smirked. "Cute."
"Say it. "
"It's really not necessary-"
"Say it!" Ace's shout nearly rattled the windows.
"I've already said-"
"'Before I allow ...' Say it right now." Ace waved the phone overhead as if he'd just discovered the Holy Grail. "Say it, or I'll call her and tell her everything."
So Doug did.
For the first time in aeons, Lyn slept until late morning. When she finally left her bedroom and hobbled into the dining room, she found the sideboard already cleared, except for a beautiful spray of a dozen bloodred roses interspersed with bright purple irises in a cut crystal vase. The soft floral scent filled the air with more appeal than her normal heated cider redolent of pungent spices.
Near the glass and golden-oak hutch filled with bone china, April sat at the head of the table. In her hand, she held a ceramic mug with the phrase BLACK DIAMONDS ARE A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND in bold black script. She smiled over the rim and nodded toward the colorful bouquet. "Nice, aren't they?"
"Beautiful." She flashed a knowing grin. "What'd Jeff do or say to compel such a grand gesture?"
"They're not from Jeff, and they're not for me. They're for you. There's a card attached, if you care to look."
She stared at the arrangement again. For her? Who on earth ... ?
Doug. Of course. They were for her. From Doug.
Turning the vase, she found the small yellow envelope sticking out from the plastic spear sign holder among the blooms.
