Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Inside the Glenmore Visitor’s Center, where the world was wide awake and waiting for the sun to rise, I ripped open my backpack and dumped my equipment onto the bench, mortified that the entire ski party was forced to wait for me.
My driver had been grumpy due to the early hour, so I hadn’t dared rush him.
As a result, I had missed half the leader’s instructions and only heard a few bits and pieces while suiting up.
Everyone else was ready.
“Relax,” said a deep voice behind me.
I turned to find a very tall, very blond man smirking at me. “They’re happy to wait. Gives them more time to blether.”
“Blether?” I blinked and glanced around at the large party of twenty plus skiers paying me little attention, laughing and chatting quietly in the early morning glow coming in through the high windows.
“You know, gossiping? Spinning yarns? These Scots open their mouths in the morning before they open their eyes.”
He had sharp features and high round cheeks that hinted at Nordic genes, but there was no trace of an accent.
His pale green eyes matched his cap and the top half of his black, softshell jacket.
His slight beard couldn’t hide the deep grooves in his forty-something face, and his goggle tan said he’d spent a lot of time on the snow this season.
I would need to stay away from him if I didn’t want to look like a rookie in comparison.
“I’m Phillip.”
I nodded. “Matty.”
“Where are you from?” Not flirty, just friendly.
“Vermont.” I pulled on my neck gaiter and forced it down onto my collar.
His eyes lit. “Really? Where?”
I closed the last snaps at the top of my jacket. “A little ski town called Sugarbush.”
“Sugarbush?” He chuckled. “Then you know The Last Chair!”
I bore down against the blow to my chest, which I hadn’t expected to reach me so far from home. I forced myself to smile and strapped my gloves tighter. “Intimately.”
He waited for me to say more.
I gave in. “The Last Chair on Bridge was mine, until recently. My ex is buying me out of my share.”
“Oh, well done you.”
He assumed it had been some brilliant move on my part, but it was just the opposite.
More like, Well done Nick. He’d made me believe he was looking into refinancing what little debt we had, getting a thorough market analysis of the business, an appraisal of our home, and every little thing of value we owned.
Then he’d dropped the subject, waved off my questions as if he’d thought better of it. “Maybe someday we can open a second location,” he’d said. “It was just good to find out where we stand.”
Two months later, he’d insisted I take a morning off—so I’d be home when a woman came to serve me with papers. I hadn’t even known our relationship was in trouble. All our energy went into the business, sure, but our success was our joy, our why. At least I thought it was.
Yeah, I’d believed it because he’d said it, a hundred times, to all our friends, to anyone who asked if we had children.
“The Last Chair is our child. We love this place. This is our why.” Then he’d pull me close, give me a squeeze and a kiss to prove it. It was our schtick.
But for Nick, it had only been a schtick.
“Margo, you won’t believe this!” Phillip waved at a woman across the room who was as dark as I was light.
She had black sleek hair I instantly compared to my curly strawberry blond that I controlled with braids.
She wore a loud orange ski suit, which might have been a conscious choice where avalanches were concerned.
I wore white with just a touch of blue. When she neared, Phillip pointed to me.
“This is the woman who made your favorite pie.”
Her eyes flew wide. “Sugarbush Onion Pie?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “The Last Chair. She just sold it.”
“Sold it? You must tell us if the new owners will do the pie justice. We always planned to go back again, but we won’t if we can’t get your delicious pie.”
A slight accent slipped through. French, maybe Spanish. In a ski town, working with the public, you get an ear for dialects.
“Yes, you should go back.” Whether or not I ever would was the question. “I’m the only thing that’s changed about the place. Same staff. Same menu. I’m sure you won’t be able to tell a difference.” As if I’d had nothing to do with every little choice, every little tweak.
The woman held out a glove. “Not if they’re smart. I’m Margo Sud-Nelson.”
“Matty,” I said, and shook her hand, then reached for my skis. I’d almost said Matty Gaines, but I wasn’t that anymore. And I wasn’t quite ready to go back to Danner. For now, Matty would have to do.
“You’re on your own?”
“My friend had to cancel at the last minute.” I was pleased I was able to sound nonchalant about it.
Margo nodded. “You are welcome to stick with us, if you intend to take the Ryovan track.”
The other option was to ski around the perimeter of Loch Morlich, which I probably should have chosen, but it sounded too much like opting for the bunny hills.
“I do. But don’t let me slow you down. I’ve spent too much time in the kitchen and not enough time on my skis this last year.”
The trek leader finally noticed I was ready.
“Right, then. Everyone to me, if ye please. Time to meet Scotland’s Cairngorm Mountains properly.
If ye remember nothin’ else, remember a long blow on yer whistles if ye’re in trouble.
We’re in for true blue skies, as I said, but if a storm blows up, or visibility drops, gather the stragglers and get inside the tree line.
Remember the markers, and keep yer eyes on the tracks of the man ahead. Right? Right.”
Markers? I must have missed that part of the instructions. But I wasn’t going to delay everyone further by asking. I’d just have to follow the tracks ahead and hope whomever made them knew where they were going.
I patted the lump of my whistle dangling beneath my layers.
No worries…