by P. Dangelico
All I know about hockey is that most players are large, bearded, and have missing teeth. In other words, nothing that interests me.
“I was alright.” He goes back to cleaning his brushes.
“We can’t all be superstars, right?”
“Right,” he answers, and if my eyes don’t deceive me, tightly.
A full two minutes pass without a word exchanged. Conversation is akin to waterboarding for this guy, and I’m losing the will to try.
“What do you do?” he finally says and part of me feels a tickle of pride. Getting him to engage is no small feat, and I accomplished it.
This is how low my standards have sunk. That I get a thrill out of this guy reluctantly asking me a question.
I watch him arrange tubes of color, his fingers smeared in bright blue, red, a rich royal purple. He dips a rag in a clear solution and wipes his fingers clean with it.
“I’m a reporter,” I automatically answer. Because I still am––regardless of what Ben or his overlord think of me.
Standing upright, Turner’s head whips around, his speculative gaze meeting mine. “A reporter?” His face takes on a peculiar expression.
“Uh-huh, yep. A reporter.” I’m not about to explain all the failings of my life to a stranger. I can barely explain them to myself.
“You’re a reporter?” he repeats, expression morphing into borderline disbelief with a side of simmering anger.
This is weird.
For a second I question whether he recognizes me from my profile picture. Heck, maybe the guy is an NFL fan and was following the story. “Umm, yeah,” I reply with less confidence. Lord help me if he’s on Twitter. I really don’t want to hear all the things he would do to the holes in my body. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it.
His eyes narrow as he silently stares at me. This is probably the worst glare he’s leveled at me thus far and it’s beginning to worry me. He finishes cleaning his paint-stained hands with the rag and slaps it down on the cart. Then he squares up, turning to face me, hands on his hips, his sweatpants dropping below his hipbones. And I can say with absolute certainty that having this man’s undivided attention is not something anyone would want.
“Who sent you?” he growls, his voice raspy to the power of ten.
That’s a curveball I wasn’t expecting. I’m not sure what to make of this question. Or his demeanor. “What do you mean?”
He takes one step closer and my back goes stiff. Slowly, I push off the stool and stand, fight or flight kicking in. I’ll go with flight.
“Who sent you? Who do you work for?”
This is starting to get seriously scary. The Uni-Bomber gag was only a gag until this very minute. “No one. No one sent me,” I answer, head shaking, my heart thumping loudly under my breastbone. Without thought, I carefully throw a sideways glance over my shoulder to the wide open door and calculate how far I can get in my Pumas in multiple feet of snow should the need arise.
“Bullshit––” He takes another step forward and stops, every muscle in his body taut. This is not looking good for me. “Tell me right now who sent you or I’ll throw you out.”
WTF?? In the middle of a snowstorm? At night? Most chilling is the deadly quiet tone he’s using. I’m vacillating between disbelief and outright pants-crapping fear. This guy is unhinged. I knew there was something wrong with him.
And yet something has happened in the last 72 hrs that has altered my genetic makeup. Because a growing sense of anger at the injustice of it all is trying to shove the fear aside. I refuse to shrink from this. I’ve done a lot of shrinking lately and this is where it stops. He may do his worst, but he will not see me cower.
“Look, pal, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so let’s calm down––”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he snipes back. “I am so sick of you people. I want to know who sent you.”
“I swear, no one sent me.”
His eyes narrow into two indigo slits. “Tell me or I’ll toss your ass out.”
Huh? My jaw is hanging. This guy is certifiable. A real nut job. Another wave of anger hits me. “No one sent me, you psycho! Who would send me anyway? No one!”
He balks at my calling him a psycho. As if I’m the first person to ever do that. Yeah, right. And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.
He regroups quickly, however, and shakes off the surprise. “You’re lying.”
That’s when I lose it. “The FBI sent me! Okay? That’s who. And if you hurt me, if you harm a single hair on my head, they’ll put you in jail for life! ”
I’ve scored another direct hit. He rocks back on his fluffy socks, and doubt flashes on his face. “The FBI?”
“That’s right, they’re onto you. They’re probably searching your social media as we speak. I’m sure you’ll be very popular with the rest of your ilk in jail.”
Now he looks baffled with a side of annoyed. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The glare is back as he quietly studies me. And even though there’s a stillness to him that is meant to make him appear relaxed, I don’t buy it one bit. The only reason why I haven’t sprinted out of the room yet is because he hasn’t moved from his spot in the middle of it.
“Let me see your press creds.”
Press credentials…I turned those in when they fired me. And if he realizes I no longer have the protection of an important employer, he may take liberties. “No.”
That forbidding face registers my answer. “Let me see ’um.”
My pulse is racing like a runaway horse, but I will not shrink. I shake my head. “No. That’s none of your business.”
“Let me see them or I will put you out right now.”
I’ve had just about enough. “It is snooowwwwing, crazy man! You know, the white stuff that almost killed me. Is that what you’ve been planning all along? To kill me and turn me into beef jerky? Freezings my meat for later use! My family is expecting me so don’t think for a minute you’re going to get away with it!”
He blinks. Other than that, he doesn’t move a muscle. “Jesus fucking Christ, no one is…”––he makes a face––“ going to turn you into”––he snorts––“beef jerky. You said you’re a reporter.” His voice has fallen a few decibels, softer, less accusatory. “What’s the problem with you showing me your credentials?”
He’s not luring me into his trap. I’m not the dumb girl in this story. “You have no right to demand my credentials.”
“Listen up…” He exhales loudly and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I saved your life, I fed you, I nearly lost a pinky to frostbite trying to get your damn tampons from the car. You’re my guest and I’m asking to see your credentials. Cough ’um up.”
All those things are true. Also true, there is no reason for him to see them.
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I can’t,” I say, thinking quickly. “They’re in the glove compartment of the rental.”
The vein running up his forehead looks ready to explode. “Are you kidding?”
“No.” That’s partly the truth. I’m not kidding––I’m lying.
His head drops and he takes a deep breath.
Although the snow is falling more gently and the worst of the storm has passed, the conditions outside are still far from safe. In fact, it looks like there’s a solid five feet of snow banked up to the window. Wading through it to get to the car is no easier now than it was this afternoon.
“Fine. I’ll get them.” He starts for the door, brushing past me, and alarm bells start ringing in my head––a five alarm fire drill.
“You can’t go out there!” I shout, running after him.
“Done it two times already.”
He makes it to the front door and shoves his feet in the Timberlands sitting on the mat. If he gets out there and finds the glove compartment empty, he may very well tear me limb from limb. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk angering him any
more than he already is.
The stress has me on the verge of tears as I watch him throw on his heavy Northface coat.
“Wait!” He freezes, not glancing my way at first. “You can’t go out there.”
Now he faces me and rolls his eyes.
“It’s too dangerous,” I implore, my voice high and tight with anxiety. “I can get the creds after it stops snowing. After you plow us out tomorrow. Before my father comes to get me.”
A strategic drop––the mention of my dad. To let him know that I have family who will be looking for me. Always humanize the victim. That is to say, if I play this right, I won’t be a victim.
He doesn’t buy it though. Grabbing the handle, he’s about to open the door when the stress of the last three days catches up to me.
“I don’t have any creds!”
Turning away for the door, he searches my face and the dam breaks. Tears start running down my face and I can do nothing to stop them.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any?”
“I mean, I don’t have any…I was laid off…last month.”
That earns me a glare-lite. “And you expect me to believe that?”
“Turner, seriously, I was fired. I don’t have any.”
I feel like I’m being fired all over again. How humiliating, having to explain myself to this guy. Walking back to the couch, I sit and wipe my face off with the sleeve of my sister’s ruined pink cashmere sweater. When the quiet gets too much to bear, I glance up again.
He watches me for one, two, three excruciating silent moments. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why were you fired?” His tone does not evoke warm fuzzies or the desire to pour my heart out. In fact, he sounds more annoyed and inconvenienced than ever.
“Oh…uh…” I’m too emotionally drained to come up with a plausible excuse on the fly. “A tweet. I was fired over a tweet.”
Turner slips out of his coat and hangs it back up on the row of hooks on the wall. He kicks off his boots. “What did you tweet?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m still deciding whether to believe you,” he barks. “Now, what was it?”
It’s my turn to sigh tiredly. “A story I broke years ago…on the quarterback of the Dallas Stars, Halpern. He––”
“––died a month ago. I know.” Crossing his arms, he studies me. “You broke the story on him four years ago?”
For the first time since we’ve met, Turner looks less than pissed off and more than curious. I nod, dry my eyes again.
“And?”
“And management didn’t approve of the tweet I sent out on the day of his accident.” I look away, at my knuckles, red from the cold. “They got a lot of blowback…I’m sorry if that upsets you.” Frustrations bubbles up again. I’m not ready to surrender to this sour, high-handed, possibly-violent jerk. “I’m sorry he beat the shit out of a woman that weighed less than his Rottweiler. And I’m sorry he’s not the hero you wish he was. I only report the news––I don’t make it.” That has me thinking about everything that’s happened since I returned to New York. “At least––I try not to.”
Turner shakes his head. “I feel for his family, but he wasn’t the person his fans thought he was.”
The phrasing gets my attention. “You say that as if you knew him.” There’s no chance a loner living in a rundown farmhouse on the outskirts of Lake Placid would ever cross paths with a hundred million dollar Super Bowl winning quarterback.
Turner walks away, heading straight for the room where he “paints.” Right before the door closes, I’d swear on a Bible that I hear him say, “I did.”
Chapter 6
The Tri-Lakes Region, made up of Lake Saranac, Placid, and Tupper, has a rich history. Here’s some trivia for you, President Calvin Coolidge made White Pine Camp the summer White House in 1926, and the Lakes hosted two Winter Olympics. The first in ’32 and the last in ‘80.
A bonafide sports factory, the area in general has been pumping out pro athletes for decades. Over two-dozen of them competed in the Vancouver Games and almost a dozen in Sochi. And many of them still return to train here when they’re not competing.
Lake Saranac in particular became popular in the 1800s as the preferred destination of the famous and wealthy who were fighting and recovering from tuberculosis. The Cure Cottages, as they were called, became temporary homes for writer Robert Louis Stevenson and composer Bela Bartok, among many others.
My great great Swedish ancestors (somewhere along the way we lost an extra s) purchased one of these properties. However, once the tuberculosis vaccine was discovered, the cottages lost their appeal, and it was repurposed as a hotel.
Comfort Cottages has been in my family for four generations. And after everything that’s happened in the last week, I’m reminded that I’ve always sort of taken it for granted that it would always be here to catch me if I fell.
Well, I’ve fallen.
Turner’s Expedition slowly chugs up the cleared driveway of the hotel and a small buzz swirls in my gut. Being back here feels less than a punishment and more like a personal challenge. That’s good, I guess.
While Turner pretends I don’t exist, I examine the man who both saved my life and made it a living hell the last two days. Head cocked back, muscular arm extended, one big hand resting on top of the steering wheel. His expression says one thing only––back off.
I’m happy to, pal. I’m happy to back way off.
He woke up early and told me to get dressed. Then he handed me a shovel and the two of us––okay, mostly him––shoveled the porch. After which he pulled out the snowblower and cut a path wide enough to drive his Expedition to the main road. He didn’t said one word to me other than, “Maybe hit the gym once in a while,” after I got tired and had to sit to catch my breath.
I revise my prior assessment of him being a cousin to the Uni-Bomber. He’s not dangerous, just mean for whatever reason. He’s more Ebenezer Scrooge. Yep, Ebenezer Scrooge of the Adirondack Mountains has a nice ring to it.
A hot Scrooge––because fair is fair.
Which doesn’t matter because Scrooge and I will be parting ways forever as soon as he drops me off. “How did you know?” I ask, unsure whether I’ll get an answer.
Frankly, it’s less a question and more an accusation. I gave him the address and he drove straight here without needing direction or GPS.
“Google map.”
The sly passing glance he gives me earns him an involuntary eye-roll.
Whatever, Scrooge.
Dad’s outside gathering wood for the fireplaces when we pull up to the main house, a big twenty-room, white Victorian with glossy navy-blue shutters. It serves as reception and the family residence, hosts weddings and banquets. A smile lights up his face when he sees the SUV approach.
We park out front and Turner gets out of the Expedition “Gene,” he says, tipping his head at my father.
“Jake,” Dad says, not missing a beat.
Gene? Jake? Wtf?
Dad’s attention shifts to me. “Carebear! How’s the head?”
Reaching up, I brush my fingers over the unicorn next to my temple. Yeah, it’s still there. “I’ll live. Hi, daddy.”
Slipping out of the Expedition, I walk into my father’s open arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Turner watching us. Our eyes meet and he ducks his head. Opening the back door, he takes my suitcases out.
“How are you?” I ask, glancing up at my father.
“Good, now that you’re home.”
Turner brushes past us and deposits my stuff on the porch, and I level my so-called good Samaritan with an accusing squint. “Jake?”
And get another glare-lite for this. It’s like his calling card at this point; he’s never without it.
“You two know each other?” I ask my father, my attention bouncing back and forth between him and the man I’m developing unchristian-like feelings for.
“Carri
e! You had us worried sick,” my grandmother calls out.
She appears at the top of the stairs, looking exactly as she did the last time I saw her two years ago, when they came to visit. She’s wearing her standard issue red turtleneck with a fair isle sweater over it, jeans, and her hair is the same shellacked white helmet. To complete the outfit, a skinny cigarette is tucked between two fingers in one hand and Elvis, her Main Coon, is tucked under the opposite arm. Seeing me, he hisses. Freaking hell spawn.
“Sorry, Nan.”
“Hi Martha,” I hear Scrooge call out.
“Hi Jake,” my grandmother chirps back. “Did you take care of my baby girl?”
“Promised I would,” he tells her.
I feel like the dumb girl in this story. Apparently everyone is in the loop but me. And if it’s one thing that ticks me off, it’s being out of the loop. “What is going on here?”
“Jake lives here, sweetie,” Dad proudly announces, tucking me closer. Then his attention pivots back to Jake. “You didn’t tell her?”
“Thought it be a nice surprise.”
Yeah, I bet he did. The glare I give him should’ve cooked his flesh to medium-well. Doesn’t seem to make much difference, however. Completely unbothered, he turns on his heels and heads for the cottages without another word while I watch him go.
“He lives here?” I repeat, my voice loaded with genuine disappointment.
“Moved in last summer.”
I suspect there’s more to this story, but I need a shower and wifi, stat.
“Can I stay in the Austen?”
All the cottages are named after Zelda’s favorite authors. Why my father never changed them is beyond me. If my husband walked out on me, I’d do my best to erase him from my life.
“Yep. It’s the only cottage available,” Dad says, smiling down at me.
There are more creases around his eyes, more grey peppers his dark brown hair, and yet he’s still as handsome as ever.
My father could easily pass for a movie star. Better looking than Cary Grant, someone wrote in his yearbook. Although Dad is definitely more Jimmy Stewart than Cary Grant. He’s a simple guy, my dad. There’s nothing flashy about him. He doesn’t need much to be happy and never aspired to anything more. Which is weird because Zelda was never happy with anything. What draws people in is his utter sincerity, his humility, his kindness. He’s completely comfortable with who he is. Probably why Zelda had to have him. She feeds on other people’s kindness.
