Precious Moments

by Suzanne Roberts

  PRECIOUS MOMENTS

  Suzanne Roberts

  Pretty young Jamie Eden had always thought of the beautiful people in the glittering ski resort of Aspen as a race apart from her. But now, as secretary to bestselling novelist David Saunders, Jamie suddenly was in the center of their dazzling social whirl, and able to see behind their glamorous masks. There was David himself, so attractive and charming, reaching out to Jamie to replace his late wife. There was gorgeous Rhonda Miles, who saw Jamie as a rival to be removed from the scene. Above all, there was incredibly handsome Thorne Gundersen, the world-famous skier, who was gentle and passionate, yet seemed determined to destroy himself in acts of reckless daring and riotous living. Jamie knew she loved him, but was love enough to stop him on his race to self-destruction?

  ONE

  Jamie had walked to the Lodge from the town of Aspen. She walked through the bright winter sunshine, past couples strolling down the winding streets of the picturesque old town, some of them shopping, busily buying equipment for a ski holiday.

  And as always, no matter where one went or what one did, it only took a slight turn of the head one way, or perhaps only the lifting of one’s eyes from the business of the day toward the horizon, and then, then, there was the mountain, looming, forever there: the great Ajax.

  She felt its presence as she walked that morning. The shuttle bus came by finally, and she climbed aboard, along with a dozen or so other people, all rosy-cheeked from the crisp November air, all on holiday.

  There was no way at all to determine, here in this most sophisticated of all American ski resorts, if a girl was the daughter of a wealthy banker or if, like Jamie, she was from the Midwest, here working in a bakery or shop. Most of the young people, when not on the slopes, wore jeans and sweaters, and only a fashion expert could tell if they were from an expensive boutique or a chain store. Today, jostling alone with the merry bunch in the shuttle bus, heading toward the huge redwood and glass Lodge, Jamie looked as much like a rich, spoiled young playgirl as the rest of them.

  Only her eyes said differently. There was a certain look of awe in their hazel depths, a certain wistfulness, that look of the proverbial urchin looking into the candy store window.

  The life led by the jet-setters who came here seemed to Jamie to be very much like some sort of lovely fairy tale. She had seen these “Beautiful People,” spoken to them sometimes, when some of them were shopping in town and stopped in her aunt’s bakery, lured by the delicious aroma of the hot fruit bread baked there. They were usually very good-looking, charming, gay and, it seemed to Jamie, always on the verge of doing something exciting. As she wrapped up the sweet rolls, the hot breads, they would gossip about various people, parties, social events, all of which sounded exciting and fun-filled.

  They were, in short, fascinating, as their life seemed to be. Until the previous night, however, Jamie had not even considered staying on here, since her aunt and uncle had put their shop up for sale and departed for Wisconsin. But sitting alone in the abandoned bakery, with its cold ovens and its sad memories, she had somehow decided to stay on in Aspen, instead of going back to her parents’ home.

  The bus stopped near the Lodge, and along with the others, Jamie got out. At once she felt warmed and cheered by the sight of people sitting around on the wide front porch, wearing ski clothes, drinking coffee or spiced tea or perhaps a toddy. It was refreshing to her; there were no tears among them. She’d had her fill of misery, and now that most of her grief for her younger cousin had subsided into calm acceptance, she longed with all her young heart to be a part of what she now saw spread before her like some kind of banquet—smiling young men, beautifully tanned and teasing, lovely, chic women, flirting, talking, healthy and vibrant. Some of them sat close together at tables, holding hands, even kissing, leaning across cups or glasses to do so. The sun shone steadily on them all, if not warmly, at least with what seemed to be a kind of benevolence.

  With this before her, how could she possibly ever go back to Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, to take some humdrum job, marry a dairy farmer and settle into the solid kind of life her mother and two older sisters had?

  Someone, a young man wearing a wide grin and an expensive-looking ski sweater, reached out and caught her arm as she walked across the porch toward the main door of the Lodge.

  “Didn’t I see you on the south run this morning?”

  “No,” Jamie said, smiling, “I’m afraid not.”

  “Didn’t I meet you at a house party in Newport last summer?”

  “No,” she told him. “Excuse me.”

  Would it make any difference to any of these people if they knew she’d worked in a bakery and came from a farm back East, instead of a finishing school or perhaps an estate someplace in California or New York? Of course it didn’t matter; Jamie felt certain that nothing mattered here but the happy pursuit of good times, friendships and marvelous parties and pleasure.

  She had been in Aspen since August, three months, and this was her first time at the Lodge. It was proving to be a little like a walk through Wonderland.

  “I know you,” another young man said, stopping her as she headed for the information desk. “Aren’t you—”

  “No,” Jamie said pleasantly, “I’m not.”

  She moved on, through the crowd of young people who nearly filled that huge room. At one end of the room there was a long mahogany bar; people sat at it and behind them, others stood. It seemed to be the most popular place in the room, although other people, couples mostly, gathered around the roaring fire in the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace.

  “Help you, miss?” The girl behind the information desk looked up. She, lucky thing, was secure in her job—and, apparently, in her social life. A handsome young man stood nearby; he’d been about to ask her to go out with him. The girl had that look, Jamie noticed, that so many of these jet-setters had—long hair, carefully bleached, cut to perfection so that it looked breezily ruffled.

  “I hope so,” Jamie told her, “I’m looking for a job.”

  “You have to be kidding,” the blond girl said, her eyes on the broad back of the man as he ambled back toward the bar. “All the seasonal jobs around here have been filled for months. I applied here two years ago and I wouldn’t have been hired last month except that the other girl got married to one of the ski instructors.”

  “I knew that jobs were hard to get,” Jamie said, “but I—I had this feeling that I—” Her voice began to falter. She had very definitely felt that a job was waiting for her here in Aspen. She had felt that her decision to stay was right, and if it was, surely the right job would materialize.

  “Everybody wants to work here,” the girl said flatly, her manner not too friendly. “Sorry, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. Unless you want to be the hundredth or so applicant for a job that’s probably already taken.”

  “Those odds don’t sound too good.” Jamie took a small, determined breath. “But tell me where it is and I’ll go apply.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s—Wait a minute.” She reached into a drawer and took out a small piece of yellow paper with typing on it. “Here, you take it. But don’t get your hopes up because this sounds like a dream job and I’m sure it’s filled. I’d have had a go of it myself except that the work only lasts six months.”

  “Six months!”

  The blond girl shrugged. “He’s a writer. You’ve heard of David Saunders, haven’t you? They made a movie of his last—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him. Thank you very much.”

  She took the yellow slip of paper, made her way through the crowd and with the scent of expensive perfume, simmering food and damp wool still with her, caught the shuttle outside for town.

  David Saunders’ leased house
in old Aspen was only, as it turned out, a few blocks from the bakery. It was Victorian, as many of the older houses there were, a big, roomy, gingerbread-with-pomp kind of house, with a circular porch and a heavy, carved front door.

  Most of the tourists who rented or leased these houses had a maid or housekeeper, so when the tall man with the beard opened the door, Jamie assumed he was the houseman.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’d like to see Mr. Saunders, please.”

  “Sorry, he’s busy.”

  “It’s about a job,” she said quickly, afraid the door might be shut in her face. “Please—if he hasn’t filled it, tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d interview me.”

  The eyes, cool to the point of being almost icy, regarded her. “Okay,” he said, after a few seconds, “come on in.”

  The interior of the house was dim, and there was a certain feeling of chill inside, not so much from lack of heat but from the cold fireplace, the faint dust on furniture and the clear feeling Jamie had that this room, the “sitting room,” was seldom, if ever, used.

  “I prefer interviewing in the kitchen,” he said, turning on lamps in the friendless room, “but something’s wrong with the heat out there. You can sit over there.”

  She felt a mild sense of shock. She hadn’t thought about the kind of man David Saunders might be, that author of the glittering, sometimes bawdy books that usually dealt with jet-set places and people. Now, confronted by this tall, somewhat untidy-looking man with the brown beard, she suddenly felt a bit awed.

  “It’s mostly a matter of leaving your name and phone number,” he told her, tossing himself into a nearby chair. He wore battered-looking slacks, a T-shirt and sneakers. He was perhaps thirty-eight; the edges of his brown hair showed some silver.

  “Yes,” Jamie said, “of course.” Then, suddenly, she decided to be more open with him. “You don’t really seem anxious to hire someone, Mr. Saunders. It might be better if you told me what my chances are.”

  He seemed surprised by her honesty. He had been busily going through drawers, looking for a pencil, but Jamie’s words caused him to turn and give her a quick, interested look.

  “I suppose you could say your chances are as good as anybody’s,” he told her. “The fact is, I haven’t yet begun my book. But I’ll be starting it any day now. Any day.”

  “I see. Well,” Jamie said, deciding not to get upset if she didn’t get this or any other job, “if you hire me, I’m afraid it’s going to have to be fairly soon. If I can’t find something, I’m not going to be able to stay. But,” she said quickly, “I’m not trying to ask for special consideration. A lot of girls need work around here. Everybody isn’t rich.”

  “No,” he said, “and thank God for it. Here, put down your name.”

  She did, and as she handed him the slip of paper, their eyes met and they smiled. It was surprising to Jamie, the way she felt a liking for this man almost instantly.

  “To be perfectly frank with you,” David told her, “the kindest thing I can do for you is not to hire you.”

  “Not hire me?”

  “That way,” he said, a trace of a smile on his mouth, “you won’t be swallowed up in the daily debauchery of Aspen and its millionaire lowbrows.” He got out of his chair restlessly. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen? It’s cold out there, but I’ll light the oven or something. I want some tea.”

  So she followed him through the house, through the austere dining room complete with ancestral portraits (not his, thank God, he told her), then to a large, chilly kitchen where a solitary coffeepot perched on the old stove. David looked inside, made a face and began looking for tea.

  “But I like it here,” she said, settling herself at the table.

  He turned on the gas jet under a small pan of water. “What, I’d like to know, is so terrible about one’s going back home? I’ve written books about women who didn’t want to go back home, but to be perfectly honest, I’ve never fully understood why.” He sat across from her at the small table. “Maybe you can clear that up for me. You see, I believe I long to go home, only with me, home is forever gone. The people who—made it home are dead. But you can still go back. You’ve a lifetime to hang around a place like this.”

  “If you hate it so,” she asked softly, “why do you stay?”

  He shrugged. “Memories, I guess. And it’s a good place to think about my next book.”

  Jamie nodded. Her decision to try to stay on here had surprised even herself. It was not that she didn’t love them all back there, and it wasn’t that the greenness of Wisconsin’s hills had stopped charming her. It was—something else—

  “I think it’s because of the people here,” she said suddenly. “I think it’s the glamour. I know that’s a trite word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind.”

  “You’re right,” he said dryly, “it is trite. But then, so are they.” He looked at her. “You seem to be a very nice young lady. I usually don’t give advice but within the past three weeks, during the time I’ve been interviewing, I’d say I’ve said these same words at least ninety-seven times. No, ninety-eight, counting now.” He took out a pack of British cigarettes and offered her one. “Go home.”

  Suddenly, Jamie felt a kind of anger sweep over her. This man was rude, rude, and in some very subtle way, overbearing. Charming, yes, but he had no right to march her out here and order her to leave Aspen!

  “Good-bye,” she said abruptly, picking up her purse. “Thank you very much anyway.”

  “Wait—” He stood up, smiling through his beard, his eyes suddenly mischievous. “Who knows—you might be the lucky girl to get to type my next best-seller.”

  “I don’t think so. You’re much too anxious to get me to leave town, Mr. Saunders.” She started for the door but she suddenly turned to face him again. “Are you sure you want to hire somebody, or is it only that you like to tell people to go home?”

  He suddenly laughed, throwing back his head. When he walked toward her, he put out his hand and caught hers in apology.

  “I’ve been very rude,” he said, making a little mock bow. “Please forgive me and stay for lunch. I’m afraid I’ve nothing very tasty—since the bakery down the street closed, I haven’t been able to get—”

  He stopped suddenly, midway to the refrigerator. “The bakery. That’s where it was. I knew I’d seen you someplace, and at first I thought it must have been at one of the local parties, or maybe in the bar at the Lodge. But it wasn’t, thank God.” He came over and smiled down at her. “It was the bakery.”

  “My aunt and uncle own it. Or did, rather. They’ve just sold it. I worked there since August.” She suddenly remembered him. He always came in when they were the most crowded, midmorning, when people came off the ski slopes wanting coffee and something warm and sweet to sustain them until lunch.

  “Kindly tell them I’m planning to take up a petition to have them come back. I’m not sure I can live without that hot fruit bread they used to make.” There didn’t seem to be much in the refrigerator, but he finally pulled out four eggs, and with a kind of flourish, began to scramble them.

  “They’ll never come back here,” Jamie said softly. “Their son was killed last winter, on the mountain.”

  David turned from the stove to look at her. “You mean your cousin was Kurt Carnot, the kid who was killed on Ajax last year?”

  Jamie nodded. “His mom and mine are sisters. Kurt was two years younger than I am. We were friends as well as cousins.”

  “Terrible thing,” David said, his manner suddenly kind, not so flippant. “That’s a part of Aspen I’ve grown to hate. And so his parents closed up shop and went home after the accident?”

  “They hung on as long as they could. Kurt was killed last March and they left last month. That’s eight months. They tried very hard but it was just too much for them, staying on here.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “You see—I couldn’t quite remember when it happened, when that boy was killed. I read about
it, of course, but I suppose I felt it was just more proof that life can be cruel to some, kind to others. At any rate, I’m very sorry. What’s your name again?”

  “Jamie Eden.”

  He was looking at her with interest in his brown eyes.

  “You’re French, aren’t you?”

  She smiled. People often asked her that; she was petite, with very dark brown hair and eyes that were sometimes dark, sometimes colored with gold and green.

  “My grandmother used to work in a bakery in Paris. That was before she was swept off her feet and whisked off to Wisconsin. I come from a place called Fond du Lac.”

  He handed her salt for her eggs. A kind of warmth seemed to come from this man; she felt it now, encircling her like some kind of cloak. Inside her, the familiar feeling of tears, deep down and bitter, began to form. It surprised her, this sudden, almost overwhelming feeling she had for her dead young cousin. She realized that her aunt and uncle had not spoken of Kurt after she came there to stay with them. It was as if they felt that by shutting off their words, they could shut off the agony of their loss.

  So until she had mentioned Kurt just now to this man, her feelings had been very much bottled up inside. Even her own parents had apparently decided to grieve in a very solitary way, not speaking of what had happened.

  “Fond du Lac. The End of the Lake. Very pretty.” His brown eyes were warm with interest. “Did your cousin learn to ski there?”

  “No, not there. We’ve a lovely lake but no hills. But there are hills around, some of them five hundred feet or more.” The mention of Kurt once again made her eyes turn sad. “Kurt always wanted to ski the highest one. He heard about Ajax when he was very small—he used to talk about it to me.”

  They were silent for a moment. The feeling that Jamie got from him in that moment was so real, so kind and tender that she realized she wanted to talk about Kurt, about her thus-far pent-up feelings.

  “Let me make you some tea,” he told her. “Tea is much better than coffee for making people feel better.” He was obviously trying to cheer her up. “When I was a child, we used to winter here, in a house they’ve torn down now. But it was just over there, across the street.” He finally found the teapot in a cupboard and began heating water. “My mother was a writer, you know. Poetry, very lovely stuff. She used to let me come in at teatime and sit near her.” He smiled at her. “So you see, a lot of people come to Aspen for reasons other than the skiing. Or the wild parties. Have you been to any of those yet?”