by Jill Barnett
“March,” Spider said. “I was looking for you.”
“Why?” It just slipped from my mouth.
He laughed and winked at the dealer, who was in the throes of being starstruck. Spider had a way of connecting with you, a look, that for me was unsettling and too intense. You weren’t quite sure if he was really interested in talking to you or coming on to you, and he was helped by Nordic good looks and his reputation: famous or infamous, depending on how you chose to look at his lifestyle.
As a woman of a certain age, I was fairly unimpressed with the type of men that dated women half their age. “I meant why would you even know I was here or be looking for me?”
“I was sent on a mission,” he said confidently and waved to someone, his hand above me and pointing at my head. I looked across the casino and decided I was going to kill my son. Phillip and Keely were walking toward me.
“Hey, Mom, look who we ran into.”
“We came to find you, because we’ve had a change of plans,” Keely said. “We’re holding tables in the lounge so all of us can go to the next show.”
My son and daughter-in-law were wide awake, smiling and obviously having a great time. My mind flashed back to Renee that morning, almost begging me not to tell them she was pregnant. I loved my children and wanted their lives to be easier than mine. They needed a night out. But I knew I couldn’t sit through a show. “You all go ahead.” I made a point of turning to Spider. “My grandchildren wore me out today.”
“Grandkids can be a handful,” he said easily. “I’ve got two myself.”
“You all go on,” I said. “I can take a cab home.”
“No cab,” Spider said. “I’ll take you.”
“That would be great,” Phil said.
“No.” I put my hand on Spider’s arm. “Really. You go to the show.” I turned and pushed my stacks of chips toward the dealer and told her I wanted to cash in.
“I was at the earlier show already. I’ll take you home. I insist. My car’s in valet. After all, your company is paying me well enough that I can be your taxi for one night.”
Great. Nice a way to remind me we had an important business relationship, one Keely and Phil worked hard for and needed. What had Mike given up for that contract? I felt sick to my stomach, and suddenly, I had no energy left in me to argue. I just wanted to go home.
Five minutes later I was in a large silver SUV that smelled like lemon air freshener, and we were spiraling up the mountain road and away from the Stateline casinos.
“I had an ulterior motive for wanting to drive you home tonight. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” I said. The fact that he wanted to talk to me gave me mixed emotions. Good business or bad business or some other business.
“I’m not certain how you’ll take it or whether you feel like discussing this.”
“Try me,” I said. “Take a right on the next private road. It’s not too far. Just past the next mile marker.”
“I remember,” he said. At our private road, Spider turned right and headed up the hill. “Mike and I spent time at the house away from all the attorneys. Actually, we talked a lot when we last met up here.” He glanced at me to see my reaction.
Mike was with Spider that whole weekend just before he died.
“I really liked Mike. He was a good guy. I know there was that stupid thing in Calgary. I was an ass, and I need to apologize to you for that. I told Mike he should have hit me. I would have hit me,” he said, laughing without humor as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the house. He turned in his seat, arm resting on the back. “I’m sorry, March. I’d like you to forgive me for that.”
I don’t know what I expected from him, but the way he said it was sincere and I felt an acceptance of him I didn’t really want to feel. That he seemed genuine bothered me, which says a lot about where my head was and my own judgment issues. I didn‘t really know this man, and I didn’t really need an apology for something so many years ago. “It’s forgotten, Spider. Really.” I started to reach for the door handle.
“Wait. I needed to apologize, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Mike mentioned that your youngest son had been fighting with him about going to college.”
“Yes. Mickey was giving Mike a hard time, but I think that’s over now.”
“You do? Why?”
“He’s been working really hard in school. His grades are strong. I think he feels guilty that he and Mike were not on the best terms when he died.”
“Mickey tracked me down today on the mountain. He wanted to talk to me about the circuit. He said he wanted some advice and he couldn’t talk to the family because they didn’t get it. He felt I had more experience, and probably thinks I don’t have a vested interest in him going to college. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow. I wanted to talk to you first.”
I was devastated, and my mind raced from thought to thought. I tried to think back but nothing I could remember gave me a clue that Mickey was serious about not going to college, especially when he knew Mike wanted him to go. I was only a matter of weeks before he’d hear from the colleges where he’d applied. I couldn’t think clearly, feeling blindsided, and it was cold, barely twenty degrees out. “I’m freezing. Come on in with me. We’ll talk inside.”
He followed me up the front steps. “Is Mickey home?”
“It’s a big house. He might be in bed already. He was planning to hit the mountain early.”
“He wanted to meet me in the morning,” Spider said. “He probably shouldn’t see me here talking to you, March.”
Spider was right. The upstairs hallways flanked the great room and from the basement you had to walk through the great room to get upstairs. I unlocked the door but didn’t open it. “The master wing has a sitting room and complete privacy. He won’t come in there.” I quietly opened the door. “Take a left. There’s a bar fridge in the room. Help yourself and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I dropped my purse and keys on the table, slipped off my shoes and went upstairs to check the kids and to look in on Mickey. My legs felt heavy, the muscles tight, and I wasn’t sure if it was from boarding all day or from my disappointment. I was scared and didn’t have Mike to turn to. We always talked over our decisions and how to handle the kids. He joked once if we ruined their lives, it was a group effort. But Mickey and his future was my responsibility alone now. I needed to guide him down the right paths. My fear was palpable, and I stood there feeling extremely lost in my own home.
God, Mike, why? How do I do this alone?
Upstairs, the little ones were sound asleep, Tyler in his crib and Miranda in a bed shaped like a bobsled and surrounded by stuffed bunnies, bears and kittens, and a very real looking stuffed collie she’d named Harold. I paused before I closed the door. Next year, we would have a new baby in there. Then my thoughts went to Keely, and I wondered when they would tell her. She was a strong girl and Phillip loved her. Having children had been all too easy for us, so I could only use my imagination to place myself in my daughter-in-law’s shoes. However, I did know what it was like to want something very badly and know you cannot have it.
As I walked toward Mickey’s room, I made a mental note to take Keely out for lunch and shopping or a spa day, just the two of us. I listened at Mickey’s door and slowly turned the knob. It was dark inside, but a lava lamp was boiling red in the corner and the air was stuffy with boy funk. The smell of his shoes alone was enough to bring tears to my eyes from ten feet away. Once you’ve raised a teenaged boy, you never again cry at the odor of onions.
I watched him sleep; he was snoring softly, arms thrown over his head, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. I still thought he was just scared about college, and perhaps I needed to talk to him about going to school closer to home. But it was Mike who pointed out that Mickey didn’t shy away from anything. Why would college send him running? Maybe Scott or Phil could corner him at some point.
What was I doi
ng? When did I become so weak? So unsure? I never had to tiptoe around my sons. Molly was another story, but not with the boys. Mickey was seventeen, and we had always been close. I should just play the guilt card with him—wasn’t it a mother’s ace in the hole?
With so many questions eating at me, I left the room and joined Spider, to find he’d turned on the gas in the fireplace and was sitting on the sofa drinking from a green bottle of sparkling water.
“Mickey’s sound asleep.” I made myself a cup of green tea from the hot water dispenser and sat down on a chair opposite him, playing with the teabag string as I pulled my knees up. I cupped the hot mug in both hands. I wasn’t certain what to say to him, but part of me wanted to beg him to please send my son running from the circuit with his hair on fire. Finally, I admitted, “This feels so awkward.”
“Why? I don’t bite.”
“But I do.” It just came out. My mouth has ever been a problem for me, never for Mike. We had bantered like that for years. I couldn’t look at Spider and instead just buried my head in my hand and groaned out an “I’m sorry.”
He laughed, and I found myself staring at one of those sincere looks of his I didn’t quite trust. “If you want Mickey to stay away from professional sports,” he said, “I can paint a clear picture for him, one that’s true and he’d believe if he talked to Seth or some of the others who have been around the sport for a while. You know he might also be talking to competitors, someone closer to his own age.”
I took a sip of tea. “You’ll leave out the thrills and glory and groupies?”
“And money.” He smiled slightly. “I expect those things wouldn’t help your cause with a boy his age.”
“No, they wouldn’t. He needs to finish his education. He’s not nearly mature enough to handle that kind of life, let alone thrive in it, and frankly, I believe you have to have an innate passion for all that fame, as well as for winning to be successful in professional sports. He does like to win, and keeping up with his older brothers made him grow up incredibly fearless. On the slopes or half pipe, you should see him. He’s amazing. When he was just a kid, Mike used to say he was in the air more than on the snow.” I paused for a moment, then added, “But he doesn’t understand what trouble there would be for him because of his last name.”
“I’ll point out the fact that I don’t think his last name would help him or win him friends, no matter how great a kid or how good he is.”
“For him to handle all that pressure, so soon after losing his dad . . . I don’t know.” I was terribly unsure of what to do and decided I had to trust Spider to try to help. “I have a really bad feeling about him doing this, and my instincts have always been strong. I think you have to discourage him. Someone has to.”
“Okay.” Spider downed the last of his water and stood. “I should get going.”
I leaned forward to set my tea down on the coffee table, and he was next to my chair to give me a hand up. I come from a generation of women who remember how a gentleman showed his respect. Too many young women never expect and don’t even know those gestures existed. Till the day he died, my father always stood when a woman left the table. Even now, years into a new millennium, I still hate having a man close a door in my face or run me down and elbow me aside for a cab or to get in a door first, and don’t even get me started on men and grocery carts.
Frankly, since we didn’t get the Equal Rights Amendment passed, I’ll take anything I can get, including some old-fashioned male courtesy. I took Spider’s hand automatically—Mike always helped me up—and found myself just a few inches away from him, a little unsteady from sitting on my leg for so long. His free hand went to my shoulder and I grabbed his arm.
“Mother!” Molly stood in the doorway. “What’s going on here?”
Chapter Eleven
I actually laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of my daughter’s shocked expression, but Spider wasn’t laughing. His tanned face grew a little pink, and he quickly put some space between us. The thought crossed my mind that he had just made us look guilty of something, and I suddenly felt less easy about his motives for being there. Very calmly I said, “Molly, this is Spider Olsen. Spider, my daughter, Molly.”
“We’ve met,” she said quickly, her fair skin flushing the same red color of her hair, which had grown out long again, and hung down to her shoulders in soft auburn waves. Even dressed in baggy plaid flannel sleep pants and a faded UCLA sweatshirt, my daughter was gorgeous. She held a glass of red wine in her hand. Clearly she had come home before me and been upstairs or in the basement. “I’m going to shoot him,” she said none too sweetly. “For the SKISTAR print ad campaign.”
“Well, that’s good. We’ll keep everything in the family.” My joke didn’t clear any of the tension. You would think I would have learned over the years. “Your brother coerced poor Spider here into giving me a ride home from the casino while they all went to the late show. He was just leaving, so we can walk him to the door together.” I threaded my arm through hers, which was still planted on her hip while she gave him a look that said he didn’t belong here. I couldn’t really get upset with her. All weekend she had been chiding her brothers about my feelings. Suddenly my fierce daughter was standing there, like a little dog, posturing and trying to protect me when there was nothing to protect.
Seeing Spider to the door was swift and uneventful, but I didn’t let go of Molly’s arm just in case—she’d thrown punches at her brothers over the years—and she closed the front door harder than was necessary, before pulling away from me. “You need to stay away from him, Mother.”
“Just what did you think was going on in there?”
“I know what it looked like.” She took a draw on her wine, set it on the table and headed up the stairs without looking back at me. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow’s a huge day. They’re honoring Daddy, in case you’d forgotten.”
It only took about a minute of standing there, staring at the empty spot where my daughter cast her parting shot, for me to pick up her wine and finish it off. I took the glass in the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher, annoyed, then changed my mind and refilled it from the bottle she’d left open on the counter. One look at the label when I corked it and the urge to strangle her hit me harder than it had a few seconds before.
You think by giving your kids the best, you are helping them . . . ha! In the name of parenting, you take perfectly naïve little Claymations and turn them into monsters who expect the best, rather than appreciating it. She was twenty three and she opens a two hundred and fifty dollar bottle of wine?
Then I realized I was thinking along the same lines as I had lectured Mike over, those silly times when he got so annoyed with Mickey over leaving the holiday wine untouched.
“And you accused me of being hard on Mickey for the same thing.”
I could hear his voice as plainly as if he were standing next to me. I gripped the countertop until my knuckles turned white, hanging my head and looking down at the floor. Bottle in one hand and wine glass in the other, I escaped to our room. I wasn’t going to waste the wine; instead, I would get wasted.
The bright morning sunshine at nine thousand feet didn’t do a thing for my blinding headache. Of course Mickey was on my mind, but he hadn’t said much since he’d joined us about a half an hour ago and now stood about thirty feet away talking with some of the professional boarders. I felt a distinct chill that had nothing to do with the weather and could only hope Spider had discouraged him.
I’d expected the cold shoulder from Molly, but she acted as if nothing had happened between us the night before, something for which I was grateful.
All of the Cantrells, my daughter, sons, their wives and kids, Rob and both generations of his family, were gathered at the top of the mountain, Cantrell boards littered all over the snow, while we waited to descend en masse down the main run, which had been groomed and was closed to the public for the final events.
Starting ahead of us were some of the best k
nown names in snowboarding and the winter sports business, along with international and Olympic champions from every freestyle event, carrying huge flags with the Cantrell logo, and behind them the family would board down the run together holding bundles of bright helium balloons that would float up into the sky.
From now on, the first of the most prestigious annual snowboard meets would be the Mike Cantrell Memorial Global Open. When I’d received the phone call to tell me what everyone in the snowboarding industry wanted to do for Mike, I cried. Not on the phone, but just as I hung up. I cried alone.
It was important to me to pretend I wasn’t dying in inside. It was important for me to look strong to everyone else. There was nothing I hated more than the image of me as a sniveling, weak widow who couldn’t hold it together. And I was still new to the process of recreating myself.
Someone blew a whistle, and we dutifully stepped into our bindings and accepted the bouquets of balloons. Scott was going to carry Tyler down the mountain and was juggling him from arm to arm in order to secure the balloons, while his son giggled and batted at them so they bounced off his daddy’s head.
One of the balloon girls tried to give Phil more than one bundle and laughing, he said, “No thanks.” He slung his arm around Keely’s shoulders and turned to us. “Hey, did any of you see that news story about the guy in Oregon who tied a bunch of heavy duty helium balloons to his lawn chair and flew up to thirteen thousand feet?”
“Tyler, stop hitting me in the head.” Scott grabbed his son’s hand and glanced at Phil. “You’re kidding.”
“No way. The guy had a GPS system, wind gauges, a camcorder, and used heavy water jugs for ballast. He’d turn on the water spigot or release helium from the balloons to raise and lower himself. Apparently he’d tried to fly via helium balloons once before, and when he let go of some of the balloons to adjust his altitude, he fell like a rock and had to use a parachute.”
