“Okay. So here’s the plan. We go into Summit Lodge and wait until it stops raining. And if anyone questions you, tell them I insisted. I’m well-known for being a first-class jackass, so it’ll be believable.”
“First class, huh?”
“Ask anyone. I am Grade A jack.” The chair deposited them at the top of the lift, and they turned toward the lodge.
After checking their equipment, they found a table inside. The Summit Lodge was big, with bare log beams, antler chandeliers, and high ceilings. But today it was quiet and even seemed cozy. Fender plunked down at a table by the fireplace.
“I’m going to have an Irish coffee. What do you want?” He waved to a waitress at the bar.
“I’m still on the job. I’ll have a regular coffee, though. With lots of cream.” She stood. “Will you order that for me? I’m going to go towel off. I’m drenched through. You may have witnessed a record, Fender. I don’t remember it ever pouring this badly.” She excused herself to the bathroom.
In the ladies’ room, she peeled off successive sopping layers. She ran the hand dryer and stuck her head under it. Every time she looked in the mirror, she caught herself grinning. Perma-grin. God, I haven’t smiled this way about a man in a long time. She didn’t stop herself this time; she let herself go there. Not even with Brad did I smile like this. Not even with Brad. She paused for a moment and took stock: how did admitting that feel? She wrung out her fleece. It felt okay. She hadn’t been struck down for thinking it.
Fender sipped his coffee when she returned. He had his boots and socks off. “Because you are a nice girl, I’ll only have one drink.”
“Do you usually have more?”
“Well, you see, I have really bad judgment when it comes to women. They usually warrant drinking until I can’t hear the screeching. Or I hear it, but I don’t care.”
“Tell me a bad judgment story.” Ginger sipped her coffee and felt her body warm up.
“Well, there was Sandy. And Sandy’s parakeet. I don’t know if I should tell you that one. It makes me out to be a bird killer. Oh, but there’s Emilia. She was a hoot. I don’t know if she thought I was much fun, but oh well. See, I own a jewelry shop—”
Ginger interrupted. “You do? That’s really cool. Which one?”
“It’s not so cool. Barnes and Son, downtown. I’m the son. The prodigal son to boot. But we don’t have time for that sad tale. So, Emilia was from Massachusetts. I think she was even a debutante at one point in her life. I don’t remember how she found her way out west. I think she was a programmer or something.
“I met her down at the Rendezvous one day when I was hanging out with Pop. She was gorgeous, so I asked her out. I think I suggested something original like dinner and a movie. So, we go out, and we talk about our jobs. When I said I was a jeweler, her eyes lit up. I don’t know what it is with chicks and shiny stuff. They’re as bad as crows with aluminum foil, I tell you what.” He paused and looked at her. “Except you. I’m sure you’re not that way. Oh, Jesus. If I say anything that offends you, just ignore me. Chalk it up to hypothermic insanity or something.”
Ginger looked across the table at him and smiled. “I like your stories. You’re fine.”
“You could hit me when I start to say something that pisses you off. Wouldn’t be the first time a girl decked me, either.”
“Your track record sounds amazing.”
“You know, my charms are boundless. But have you ever had a student as entertaining?” He sat back and looked straight at her.
I like his eyes. I like his smile. Ginger felt warm. I don’t feel cold anymore.
“Hello?” He touched her fingertips, and she jumped, almost knocked over her coffee.
“What were we talking about?”
He looked at her, and Ginger realized he was on to her. He can tell, can’t he, that I was thinking about him? He raised an eyebrow. “I think we were talking about how much you like me.”
She wasn’t ready. She changed the direction of the conversation.
“No, I’m pretty sure we were talking about other crazy students I’ve had. I’ll tell you about Rocket. He gives you a run for your money.”
He nodded, giving her the point. “Okay. Tell me about Rocket.”
They chatted and laughed, and Ginger watched his eyes and face and just generally enjoyed him, forgetting herself.
Until she saw the clock on the wall behind him. “Our lesson time’s about up. I need to go check in at the ski school pretty soon. I’ve got about fifteen minutes to get down the front side to the office.”
He sat up in alarm. “I don’t want to get you in trouble. Just leave me here. I’m not going out again.”
“Thanks for the coffee. If you want, call me. We’ll schedule a make-up time to ski on our own. No charge, just to make up for the lousy weather today.”
He stood up and handed Ginger her scarf. “Actually, I’m not entirely thrilled about the whole skiing thing anyway. I do want to ask you something, though.”
“What?”
“Would you have dinner with me one night? Maybe go see a movie?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Ginger skied back down to the office, but she didn’t notice the rain. All she could feel was the wide grin on her face.
Only when he was in the car, driving down the mountain, did Fender realize he had set a date for the same old thing: dinner and a movie.
Who am I to be inventive at this point? Of course, there was a reason for this kind of date. It limited the amount of talking he’d be doing, which was never a bad thing. Talking was usually how he got into trouble.
Actually, as he thought about it, it seemed that as soon as women got to know him a little better…well, that was usually the thing that ended the relationship for him. Hell, the more I know myself, the less I like me.
Oh, but there were so many other ways to screw this one up. Like, for instance, the fact that he was already keeping secrets from her. He hadn’t even slept with her yet, and he was already lying. I may have broken my own record on that one.
He was sure there’d be a time to tell her Dead Boyfriend had wanted to give the ring to her and propose. That he, Fender, had been given the opportunity to tell her all about it months ago and didn’t. That her new date now was trying to sell the ring again to get rid of it. Oh, and that he still had the check Brad had written him for it in the top drawer of the desk in the back office of the shop.
Yes, this was a recipe for success if he knew one. But he didn’t care. He loved the way she made him feel. She made him feel like he could even figure a way out of all of this, eventually. She made him feel handsome and clever. And a little less like a total asshole.
So, one night the next week, he found himself standing in front of the display cases, looking at his reflection. He was going to the house to pick her up for their first date.
He’d been smart enough to remember to ask for directions, even though he already knew where she lived. Stalkers never get a second date, he reminded himself. The bells above the front door tinkled.
He didn’t turn around. “We just closed. Come back tomorrow.”
The customer responded by slapping him on the back, hard. “God love you, quality is job zero around here.” It was Sam. “What’re you doing? I came to see if you wanted to go have a beer.” Sam was always up for a beer.
“I’ve got plans.” This isn’t going to be easy. Sam is the Jedi Master of secrets. He could always tell when Fender had one.
“No, no, no, you’re not getting off that easy.” Sam closed in on Fender, circling like a buzzard in the desert. “You even smell good. Who is she? What’s up with the CIA action?”
“It’s no big deal.”
“It must be a big deal; I think you’re even wearing clean socks!” Sam leaned back against the counter.
“I just don’t want to jinx it. And you’re getting huge palm prints on the case.” Fender started looking for his keys. Sam took a step away from the
counter and smoothed the glass with the hem of his T-shirt. Fender could practically see the little gears turning in his brain.
“You haven’t met anybody lately—oh my God!” Sam chased Fender behind the counter. “I know exactly who it is. You haven’t met any chicks lately except one: the ski girl! Dead Boyfriend’s girl! You asked her out? You dog! Well, how’d she take the news about roadkill and the ring?”
The jig was up. He couldn’t lie to Sam. Fender just looked at him.
Sam’s smile was as wide as the Rio Grande. “You didn’t tell her. I knew the new-and-improved Fender would be short-lived. You didn’t tell her, and now you’re hornin’ in on the dead guy’s territory.”
Fender tried to be sanctimonious. “You almost look pleased that I haven’t told her.”
Sam laughed. “I am pleased! You’re a never-ending source of entertainment for me, Fender. I love you, but God, you do stupid things sometimes. So, how’s this going to work? Will you bed her and slip the ring into the eggs the morning after? Or with a note tucked under the pillow?”
Fender really did feel a little hurt. “It’s not like that, Sam. I know I usually don’t go for the long-term thing with women…” He paused because Sam was clearly trying not to laugh. “I know it usually doesn’t work out after a while, but I want it to be different with her. Don’t tell me another thing because I’ve already thought about all of it.”
“All right, studmuffin. You know what? If you think this is a chance for happiness, I’m not going to lecture you. I just don’t remember big fatty lies being the cornerstone of a great relationship.”
“Excuse me, oh Honest Sam. I recall someone in this room calling the cable company to bitch about the cable being out before remembering that he’d hot-wired the cable from his neighbor’s cable box in the first place. Ring any bells?”
“Well, go on your date and have fun. I’m proud of you, too, for bathing. That lets a girl know she’s special.” Sam got out of the shop door before Fender could retaliate.
Ginger cried in the car all the way down the mountain.
It’d just been a horrific day. She’d had lessons back to back on a miserable, wet March Tuesday. All morning long she’d looked forward to changing her socks at lunch and having a warm cup of soup. When she’d trudged back to the instructors’ room, however, she’d found another slip of paper for her, pegged with a golf tee on the big assignment board. Another lesson. A lunch lesson. She could’ve cried. But she’d turned around and marched out to the flats again, wet socks, cold toes, and all.
She never said no. She wanted the work, and she worried that if she turned one lesson down, no others would come her way.
So, she’d gone to teach another lesson. Followed by another, and then another. At the end of the day, she’d been bone tired and cold.
Her last lesson had been a kid of nine or ten. Colby was his name. The mother had wanted to stand on the snow next to them and watch. That’d been Ginger’s first hint of trouble.
Colby was a brat. A spoiled mama’s boy. He was also hopelessly uncoordinated. By the end of the hour, Ginger had been ready to strangle him. But she’d kept at it, trying to get him to wedge turn, or stop, or even just get up by himself.
When they had ten minutes left in the lesson, Colby had fallen and wouldn’t get up. Ginger had tried everything, but he was planted. So, she’d sat down in the snow next to him, resolved to wait until he decided he wanted to get up.
Which was when the mother had stormed up to them.
“What’s going on here?” Colby had seen his mother’s approach and began to wail.
Before Ginger could utter any kind of explanation, the mother had scooped her son up off the snow and lit into Ginger with relish.
“I’ll see to it that your boss knows about this negligence. I’m appalled. I left my son in your care, and this is what I come back to find? You obviously can think of no one but yourself. You aren’t competent. Do you know that?” The mother had actually seemed to expect a reply.
Now Ginger couldn’t even remember what she’d said to the woman, but it had been apologetic. Ginger was furious with herself. She hadn’t said one word in her own defense. What was worse, a tiny nagging part of her said the woman was right.
She wiped her nose on the cuff of her jacket. This sucked. It made her want to eat lots of brownies and curl up under the covers. It made her miss Brad.
Brad had fallen in love with her when she hadn’t even been trying her hardest. She’d really loved that about him, because inside somewhere she realized someone could love her just as she was, not only on her best behavior.
She’d been so thrilled to have someone, someone who loved her. She’d cleaned the house and done his laundry even before they were living together. She’d bought him presents. She was uber-woman, hear her roar.
But when she began teaching again the following season, she’d discovered—actually Brad had discovered—she couldn’t keep up the pace of super-housekeeper and also work at the resort. One Monday, she remembered, she’d been in bed, waiting for Brad to finish in the bathroom so she could get up.
Brad had gotten up before six, showering and getting ready to go in for an early surgery at the vet clinic. He came out of the bathroom and began to open and close all of his drawers, open and close the closet door.
She shook herself out of sleep. “What’s up? You can’t find something?”
She knew the answer before he even said it. “Where’s that one shirt? The one with the blue collar and the white stripes?”
She fought the urge to throw something at him. “You wore it Saturday.”
“It’s not clean?” He opened and closed another drawer for effect.
“I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t get to the washing. I was so beat when I got off the mountain yesterday.”
“It’s fine. I’ll wear whatever.” And he stomped out of the room.
Of course, he’d known exactly where the shirt was: in the dirty laundry, right where he’d tossed it. But he wanted her admission, as if it were a piece of ammunition he would save for later arguments.
Little things like that, she let slide. But she’d let other stuff slide, too, that maybe she shouldn’t have. Like asking for what she wanted.
She’d wanted things she hadn’t had the guts to ask for. She liked compliments; she liked flowers. But he never did these things for her because she’d never asked. And more than that, they never occurred to him on his own.
When the little things started to seem not so little, that was when Ginger had begun to watch the Frisbee players in the park. And then it didn’t matter.
This thought launched Ginger into another sob. “We never got to see what was next. I never got to see if it would have worked.”
She realized she was talking to herself. The car filled with her voice above the turning of the tires on the road. It soothed her to hear herself talk, even though it was the first sign of insanity. “You know what else would be soothing? A long bath and a plate of brownies.”
And then she remembered: Oh my God, I have a date! She didn’t want to go. This made her want to sob all over again. It was with Fender, her student. This was a full-scale emergency.
She drove down the rest of the road as quickly as she could. Maybe he’d forget. She didn’t know what to do, but she knew she didn’t want to go. She just wanted to crawl into bed, warm up, and sleep. Or try to sleep. She tried to remember where she’d put his phone number.
She parked in front of her house, leaving her skis in the back of her car. She got the door open and walked inside, already scanning the living room for the scrap of paper with his number on it.
It was no use. She looked high and low and couldn’t find it anywhere. Zoë followed her from room to room and whined with concern. Ginger spouted a long string of curses and self-pitying remarks, which seemed to disturb the big dog.
She plopped down on the couch. Giving up, she peeled off her jacket and fleece and stooped down to unlace her boots. It
was six forty-five. He’d be here in fifteen minutes. Screw it. I’m going to take off my wet socks and make a cup of hot chocolate. When he comes to the door, I’ll tell him the truth: I’m having a nervous breakdown, and you’ll have to come back another day to take me out. That’s what I’ll do.
And then Zoë puked. It was a sudden, all-at-once kind of hurl. The dog bent her fluffy head down in an arch, splayed her front paws, and let go in the middle of the living room rug. And then the doorbell rang. Ginger let out a cry of pain; it’s official. I have entered the first level of hell. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, and the doorbell rang again.
Fender heard a kind of strangled cry when he rang the doorbell. Well, that’s always a sign of a good date to come. He rang the doorbell again. For a moment, nothing happened. He was going to look pretty silly if she didn’t open the door soon.
Then the door swung open, slowly, like in a horror movie. Ginger stood a few steps back from the threshold. She was a sight to behold.
And not in a good way. Between her legs was a large Husky dog who’d apparently just vomited all over the carpet. This was evidenced by a pile of partially digested Alpo chunks, smack in the middle of the living room rug, not far behind the woman and dog. Ginger’s hair was falling out of a ponytail, and her eyes and nose were red.
“Um, hi.” This was the best he could do.
“Hi.” Ginger said this in a wavering voice. He noticed she was biting her lip, and he realized she was on the verge of crying. He hated it when women cried.
“You know, this doesn’t look like a good time, maybe I’ll call you.” This is what he usually would’ve said. Instead, he heard this come out of his mouth: “Why don’t you sit down on the couch? I’ll find something to clean up the puke.” He came inside and walked toward the back of the house, careful to avoid the toxic dog vomit.
He liked her kitchen. It had old white wooden cabinets, a comfortable feel. He grabbed a dishrag.
As he came back into the living room, Ginger tried to say something. “I just want…It’s been…She ate…” She plopped down on the couch with the most defeated look on her face Fender had ever seen.
The Jeweler Page 8
