The Jeweler

by Anderson, Beck

  Pop’s questioning gray eyes were still trained on Fender, and his sparse mustache twitched with curiosity. “Tell me, Sonny. What’d you do today?”

  “Nothing.” The day had been humiliating enough. He didn’t want to his dad to know on top of it all.

  “Jerry, he was in fine form.” Sam sat across the table from them, out of Fender’s striking distance.

  Fender tilted his head and shot his most withering look at Sam. “I went skiing.”

  “No, no, it’s better than that. We went after this girl, and Fender learned how to ski all over again. He also tried to use two old ladies as bowling pins.” Sam’s shoulders were shaking again.

  As per usual, Pop focused on the woman in the conversation. “Fender went after a girl? Really? Does this mean little Sandy didn’t make you swear off women forever?”

  Sam brightened. “I’d almost forgotten about Sandy. Isn’t she the one that wrote I HATE YOU with weed killer on your front lawn?” Sam sat back and stretched his arms out on the top of the booth, relaxed and apparently prepared for a stroll down Fender’s memory lane of exes.

  Fender shifted uncomfortably. All of this attention was too much. He also felt his back stiffening. I wonder if I can still stand up. The skiing thing had just about killed him.

  Pop waited for a response.

  “Okay. I went up the mountain looking for the girlfriend. Remember the big diamond? And the guy? When I went to the funeral?”

  Pop loved stories. He loved stories he was a part of, especially. “The man I found for you in the obituaries? Yes, yes, I remember. I thought you found her at the funeral.”

  This is why I don’t talk to my father. It always turns into a discussion of what I didn’t do right. Or what I didn’t do, period.

  Sam chimed in. “Yeah, how come you didn’t give it to her then? Or when you saw her at her house?”

  Pop pursed his lips. “You know, don’t you, Fender, that this state has stalking laws?”

  “Both of you stop. I’m not going to discuss this with you if you’re not going to let me finish.” Fender signaled to the waitress. He definitely wanted a Dewar’s. “Neither of you has really seen her.”

  “I saw her. Today. After you almost killed her. Yep, that was definitely her I was apologizing to, if I recall correctly. She’s actually kind of good-looking, if you go for the outdoorsy, crunchy-granola kind of girl.”

  “What the hell did you just call her? Are you calling her cereal? She’s not whatever you just said. You didn’t see her at the funeral. She’s…lost, or something. It’s in her eyes. I have to do this right.”

  Pop and Sam sat back and smiled broadly. Sam spoke first.

  “I’m not sure there’s ever been a documented case of Fender wanting to do something right. Are you aware of one, Jerry?”

  Pop slapped Fender on the back, sloshing the Dewar’s now in Fender’s hand. “Let’s give him a break. I sense something. Call it father’s intuition. Let him do this, Sam. Who knows, maybe the young lady needs a shoulder to cry on in her time of need?”

  “You’re disgusting, Pop. That’s not what I’m talking about. I could just keep the ring, but she deserves it. I don’t know why, but I know she deserves better than what I usually give. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go home and cover myself with Bengay.” Fender tried to make a grand exit, but Pop had to climb out of the booth first. And then he was too sore to really stomp out.

  What am I thinking? This whole ring thing was ridiculous. He was going to go home and toss the thing. Screw the girl. She’d probably forgotten the dead guy anyway. He breezed through the bar toward the front.

  He came out of the door and onto the street. And she stood in front of him. Fender choked at the sight of her. Her hair was down, framing her face and those eyes. She wore a brown jacket over a purplish dress with brown boots. She seemed to recognize him, and he tried to fight the impulse to run. Who was he kidding? He was so sore he could barely walk. He could not flee.

  “Hey, the guy from Lulu. You’re still in one piece?” She stood in front of him as another woman walked up the sidewalk to meet her.

  “Sorry.” He stared at her.

  She dug into her purse and handed him a card. “See you later.” She and her friend walked past him into the Greek restaurant next to the Rendezvous.

  He stood on the sidewalk. Sorry? I see her, and all I can say is sorry? Fender marveled at his stupidity.

  He looked at the card in his hand.

  Ginger Stevens

  Professional Ski Instructor

  Blackwolf Ski Resort

  lessons@blackwolf.com

  888-555-0101

  Ginger. Now he knew her name.

  Chapter Seven

  A FEW DAYS LATER, with a little Dewar’s in his stomach in place of resolve, he’d dialed the number on the card and spoken to the Blackwolf Resort Ski and Snowboard School. He hadn’t been sure of his plan or what he wanted to say, but he’d picked up the phone anyway.

  A nice saleslady had answered. She sold him a private lesson with Ginger Stevens, the girlfriend, she of the green eyes, for later that very day. So here he was, driving up the mountain. This time, he’d brought the ring. It was in its velvety box, tucked in the glove compartment.

  His big plan at this moment was to take the lesson, strike up a conversation, and find a gentle way to give the ring back to her. Maybe she’d mention the dead boyfriend.

  Fender stopped thinking about it. When he explored the train of thought too far, it didn’t make any sense, and he had to stop. I am going to throw up. If I don’t figure this out, I will throw up or drive off the road or something.

  Which is when Fender decided not to think about it anymore.

  Ginger picked up her lesson slips in the office after the morning meeting. It was mid-January, but on Sundays, things had begun to slow down a bit. She had a lesson at nine with the Davises, a brother and sister who’d learned to ski with her last year. But then she had a request for a private lesson with a Fender Barnes at two. This did not ring a bell. Usually requests were people she’d taught in lessons before.

  There was one possibility, and she dismissed it almost as soon as it occurred to her: the Lulu guy. She’d run into him downtown when she and Molly went for Greek food a couple days ago. It was pretty weird, running into him. She’d looked for him and his friend in the lodge, but to see him downtown the same night was quite a coincidence. It had also made for fun dinner conversation with Molly. The story made her smile even now. What a crazy guy.

  And maybe that crazy guy was this Fender Barnes. Her two o’clock. She shrugged and went to boot up for the Davis kids.

  Fender almost felt like an old pro as he made his way through the rental shop. Now when the little kid in front of him tried to put the skis on inside, Fender shared a knowing laugh with the kid’s dad. When Fender stepped outside of the shop, he remembered to step down. He bought a ticket and put it on the right way. It took him two tries to step into his skis, but so what? Maybe this skiing thing isn’t so bad after all.

  The lady on the phone had told him to look for a little bench in front of the lodge, to the right of the ticket window. He saw it now. Above the brown bench was a sign: PRIVATE LESSONS. He shuffled over and plopped down.

  Then Fender looked at his watch. It was one thirty. He had half an hour to wait. The old feelings of panic and inadequacy raced back into his brain. Someone’ll notice me sitting here for that long. Jesus, I’ll probably get arrested for loitering.

  He came up with a plan to look purposeful. If I look like I’m supposed to be sitting here, then I’m fine. Look like you belong on this bench. Own the bench, Fender. Be one with the bench.

  So he sat. At about fifteen till, a red-haired young boy shuffled up to him. He was dragging a pale blue snowboard behind him, tied with black cord to his ankle.

  “Can I sit here?” The boy moved to the end of the bench and began to sit down.

  “No, no, you can’t. I’m waiting f
or someone.” Fender spread his arms out on either side of him, taking up most of the room.

  This didn’t deter the boy. He detached the board from his leg and stood staring at Fender.

  “Didn’t you hear me, Red? I’m waiting for someone. The bench’s taken. Move along.”

  “Let me sit down, mister.”

  “Are you going to take a private lesson?” Fender was on the attack now. I’ve got logic on my side.

  “No.”

  Fender sat up straighter in his righteousness. “If you noticed the sign, this bench’s clearly the meeting spot for private lessons. You’re not in a private lesson, so you cannot sit on this bench. Now move along, mouth-breather.”

  Defeated, the red-haired boy put the cord to his board around his ankle again and scooted off.

  Then Fender saw her. She glided toward him on skis, her hair tucked up in a knitted cap. She had the Blackwolf parka on and a pair of black ski pants. She smiled broadly. In front of the bench, she turned and stopped hockey-style, kicking up a puff of snow.

  “Hi. You’re Fender, right?”

  “Yeah.” He stood and almost fell right over. “That’s me. I have a private lesson with you.”

  “I’m Ginger. Well, let’s go see what you can learn today.”

  She didn’t mention the Lulu incident. Does she recognize me? Of course she does. She’s being polite. She’s a nice person. Nice people don’t remind losers of their humiliating moments.

  Fender followed in an awkward shuffle behind her. She guided him to a flat area in front of a lift and reviewed the wedge turn. She showed him how to get up if he fell. He liked watching her smile and the way the corners of her mouth turned up when she talked.

  “I think we should try the lift.”

  She was talking to him. He nodded. Whatever. He noticed that he felt good around her. He wondered if she was still sad.

  He was still wondering about this when he realized they were in line to go up the mountain. All the horror of the other day came to him at once.

  “Are you ready, Fender? I think we should go up this lift and try the beginner terrain. You’ll find it’s a little more forgiving than where you were the other day.”

  I guess she does recognize me. She’s nice. Of course she’s nice. He thought her eyes were probably very pretty right now, except that she was wearing sunglasses.

  They waited in line for the lift. Another person in a Blackwolf parka skied up. Behind him were three small children. They all had bright yellow vests on over their coats.

  “Hey, Justin.” Ginger waved at him. Justin’s lesson kids slowly shuffled up behind him.

  “Is this your private?” Justin pushed his goggles up on his forehead to get a closer look at Fender. Fender noticed the little kids were eyeing him as well. He suddenly felt very stupid.

  “Yep. Are you guys going up the chair too?”

  “I was waiting for someone else to ride up with one of my guys. I can only ride two on the triple. But no one’s shown up, and we really need to get going. This is the last week, and I want these guys to ride up the chair a lot today.” Justin motioned behind him to the three kids. Fender noticed one had plopped down and was eating snow.

  “We can ride one up to the top.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Thanks, Ginger.” Justin picked the snow-eater up off the ground and shoved him up to where Ginger and Fender were in line. “This is Wylie. Say hi to Ginger.” Wylie chewed on one of his gloves now. He looked up at Ginger and then at Fender.

  “I want to ride next to him.” Wylie pointed directly at Fender.

  Ginger pulled Wylie into line next to her. “Well, Fender’s learning just like you, so you have to sit next to me, Wylie.” She lowered her voice and looked at Fender. “I’m sorry about this. Usually we have chair riders to take the little ones up. They can’t ride alone. We’re just really short-handed today.”

  She’s apologizing to me. She’s sweet. Fender shook himself out of his reverie. “It’s okay. Totally. Don’t worry about it.” He tried to smile as broadly as he could. Totally? What am I now, a Valley Girl? He marveled at how lame he could be.

  Wylie was growing impatient. “I said I want to ride with him!” He again pointed at Fender.

  Ginger picked Wylie up and put him between her and Fender. “How’s that, Wylie? Now you can ride next to both of us.” The little boy grabbed Fender’s hand.

  Getting on the chair was actually okay. Fender just tried with every fiber of his being not to get in the way of the little kid or Ginger. As the chair swung around behind them, Ginger lifted Wylie up and put him on the chair between them.

  It was quiet for a minute. Ginger had an arm looped around Wylie’s waist. She seemed to have a tight grip on him. Wylie turned to look at Fender. He stared. I should say something to the kid. I don’t want to look like a jerk.

  “So, do you have any brothers or sisters?” Seemed like a safe question.

  “I have a sister. She’s a black Lab. I like to kiss her.” Fender tried to keep up with the three-year-old train of thought. “Not here.” Wylie pointed to his nose. “Here.” He lifted up his upper lip and pointed to the gum beneath. “The pink part. You think it’s wet, but it’s not. It’s dry.” Wylie smiled. Fender tried not to shudder. Ginger just shook her head.

  “That’s a pretty nice dog to let you kiss her like that,” Ginger said to Wylie.

  “She’s my favorite friend. And she can catch the Frisbee, too.”

  Ginger was still giggling a little as they neared the top of the lift, but she hazarded a glance over at her student. He wore a yellow coat, and his head was bare. He had a nice head of black hair—a little shaggy—plus a smaller nose, fair skin, blue eyes. And he currently looked like he might throw up.

  At the top of the lift, she delivered Wylie to Justin.

  “Ask Wylie about his sister, Justin.” She turned to Fender and smiled.

  Justin seemed puzzled. “I thought you didn’t have any brothers or sisters, Wylie.”

  “Let him tell you about it. See you later.” Ginger turned around to face her student. He smiled. He had a nice smile.

  “Let’s teach you to ski, Fender. Are you ready?”

  “I guess.”

  He stood next to her at the top of a smooth, curving run. It was broad and open. He’d been brave to come back up here, Ginger knew. Most grown men wouldn’t suffer the embarrassment of the other day and admit to needing a lesson.

  “Look down the run for me, Fender.” He did as he was told. “See how much more gentle this run is? This is where your friend should have taken you the other day.”

  “Yeah, but Sam may or may not be sane. I’d be short a couple of limbs if I left more stuff up to him. When we were eight, he was the one who convinced me that a burning pool of gasoline on the driveway would look awesome.”

  “But you were the one who listened.” Ginger smiled.

  “Point taken. In his defense…” He paused. “I’m amazed I’m defending him—he should be here to witness this. In his defense, the other day on Lulu was my idea, kind of.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Well, I wanted to meet you. I saw you at the bottom of the mountain, and I made him follow you.” He’d been looking at the ground. Now he looked up quickly with a wide grin for her.

  This guy’s downright charming.

  I’m charming her. I think I’m actually acting halfway normal. And I’ve almost maneuvered the conversation to the dead boyfriend ring thing.

  But Fender retreated from it as soon as he had the thought. I don’t want to spoil this. She’s smiling. Hey, I’m smiling. I probably won’t even kill Sam when I get home. He looked at her. She leaned forward on her ski poles, sliding her skis back and forth in a little subconscious dance. She’s really cute. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a cute girl. A nice girl.

  Fender thought about his standard choice in women. Besides their fondness for burning his underwear in effigy, most of his dates were high mainte
nance: hard to please, with expensive tastes and big hair. Oh, face it, Fender told himself, you usually dig bitches. I’m surprised you didn’t try to wrestle Naomi away from Jimmy.

  Well, this girl was not a bitch. Did he dig her? No, that was too predatory a word. And anyway, that wasn’t the point of this whole thing.

  “So, let’s review a little before we head down this run.”

  She was talking to him. Oh, yes. Skiing. Fender tensed up. How could he forget?

  “Fender, don’t panic. You’re going to be fine. Remember to put your weight over the center of the skis. Ease the heels away from each other to make your wedge. Try that right now.”

  Fender obeyed.

  “Good. Now, how do we manage our speed?”

  “By turning.”

  “Yes, by turning. Often.” She smiled a little. “To make those turns, take your wedge and put more weight on one foot than the other. Pressure the ski, and you’ll turn.” She positioned herself to face down the slope. “Let’s do that now. Follow me, and turn when I turn.”

  They made their way down the run in long, deliberate loops. Fender’s brow was wet from concentration. At the bottom, she turned back around and congratulated him.

  “That’s how skiing works. Nice job. I think you’re ready for Cougar Forest.”

  “You know, this is working. I haven’t injured anyone. Why ruin it?” Fender had been thinking more about a celebratory beer in the lodge.

  “You can do this. And besides, you need to see more of the mountain than one run. Cougar Forest is just a cat track through some stands of trees. It’s still gentle. It’s a little narrower, but I think you’re up to the challenge. It’s off of this same lift.”