Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
There’s been an accident.
I stared at the hotel manager standing in front of me.
“An accident?” I replied, automatically.
The older ski patrol officer standing behind her spoke up.
“There was an avalanche this morning on the upper slopes. Your husband was caught in the slide. We had teams on the scene immediately, but—” He paused, and in that pause, the entire world collapsed.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Carideo. He didn’t survive. ”
The note was still crumpled in my fist. Be back by 9.
“No.” The word came out flat, certain. “No, you’re wrong. He just went for one run. One quick run on the resort slopes. It’s safe. He promised me it was safe.”
“Ma’am, I know this is—”
“You have the wrong person.” My voice was rising now, hysteria creeping in at the edges. “You made a mistake. Marco is an experienced skier. He wouldn’t—he knows how to—”
“Mrs. Carideo.” Jennifer’s voice was gentle but insistent. “We’re certain. He had his resort pass, his ID. I’m so very sorry, but there’s no mistake.”
My legs went out from under me. The older ski patrol officer caught me before I hit the floor, his hands steadying me.
“We need to sit down,” he said.
Next thing I knew, I was sitting in the hard polished wooden chair with armrests that felt cool under my palms. Outside the window, skiers carved down the slopes in their bright jackets. A woman in pink threw her head back, laughing. The world kept going as if nothing had happened.
“Mrs. Carideo?”
Jennifer Mills was talking, her mouth forming words I could hear but couldn’t process. She sat across from me, hands folded. The two ski patrol officers flanked her.
“...very quick... wouldn’t have suffered...”
The words floated past me. I focused on the water glass sitting on the table, half-full. The light hit it and created a small rainbow on the wood. I stared at that rainbow, at its tiny perfect spectrum.
The older ski patrol officer had a loose thread hanging from his jacket pocket. Red, the same shade as the jacket, but it caught the light differently. I wanted to reach across and snip it off. That loose thread felt wrong somehow. An imperfection that needed fixing.
“Mrs. Carideo? Theresa?” Jennifer leaned forward. “I know this is a terrible shock. Is there anyone we can call for you? Family?”
Family. The word cracked something inside me.
I had kids. Four children who had gone to sleep last night with a father and woke up today without one.
Austin, who was so serious at eight years old.
Rome, who moved through life like a whirlwind.
Paris, who demanded the world arrange itself to her specifications.
And Aspen, my baby, barely two years old, who would grow up with no memory of the father who adored her.
“My brother,” I managed, the words scraping my throat raw, like I’d swallowed glass. “Michael Gracen. He’s... he’s at the house watching the children.”
“Let’s call him,” Jennifer said, picking up the phone. “What’s your number?”
I told her. Jennifer dialed the number and turned on the speaker. The rings dragged on like torture. Maybe if Michael didn’t answer, none of this would be real.
“Hey, Tess. Are you guys already leaving for the airport?” His voice—cheerful and alive—cut through the last of my shock.
A sound escaped me. Raw and animal-like. Definitely not human. I covered my mouth with my hand, unable to form words.
Jennifer took over, her voice shifting to professional gentleness. “Mr. Gracen, this is Jennifer Mills. I’m the manager at the Ritz-Carlton in Aspen, and I’m with your sister. There’s been an accident involving her husband.”
I couldn’t hear Michael’s response. The room tilted. The white walls were too bright, the air too thin. My lungs wouldn’t fill properly. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.
“Mrs. Carideo?” The older officer was at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “You need to breathe. Slow and deep. That’s it.”
I followed his instructions automatically. In, out. In, out. The black spots receded, but the pain remained—a physical agony lodged beneath my ribs.
Jennifer was still on the phone. “...as soon as possible... yes, we’ll make arrangements... she’s right here.”
She held the phone handle out to me. “Your brother wants to speak with you.”
I took it with hands that didn’t feel like mine. “Michael.”
“Tess.” His voice cracked. “I’m coming. I’m getting on a plane right now. Don’t move, okay? Just stay where you are. I’m coming.”
“Michael,” I repeated, his name the only solid thing left. “He’s gone. Marco is gone.”
Saying the words made it real. Marco was gone. The man who had kissed me last night, who had promised me forever, was gone. And he wasn’t coming back.
“I know, sweetheart. I know. I’m so sorry.” His voice was thick with tears. “I’m coming to you. Just hold on.”
Time stopped making sense after that.
I was alone in the suite now. Jennifer had said things about arrangements and assistance and privacy.
A breakfast cart sat by the window. Two covered plates. Two cups. Two glasses of orange juice, condensation beading on the outside. A small vase with a single red rose.
He’d ordered it last night. Before we fell asleep. “Breakfast in bed,” he’d murmured, kissing my temple. “We’ll sleep in, have breakfast, then pack.”
I stared at that cart, at those two plates, and something inside me went numb.
I should call the kids. I should—what? What do you say to children whose world is about to shatter?
Your father went skiing this morning. There was an avalanche. He… he...
No. I couldn’t. Not yet. Not alone.
I sat on the edge of the bed and waited. The clock on the nightstand ticked forward. 10:00 AM. 11:00 AM. Noon. I watched the numbers change and felt nothing.
The knock, when it finally came, was different—less official, more hesitant. I opened the door and Michael was there, his face ashen, his eyes red and swollen.
He dropped his bag and opened his arms.
I fell into them, and something broke inside me. A dam giving way. I sobbed against his chest—violent, wrenching cries. Michael held me, his hand steady on my back, saying nothing because there was nothing to say.
He let me cry until I was spent, until my legs gave out and we both sank to the floor right there in the entryway, my face buried in his shoulder.
“I’m here,” he said finally, when my sobs had quieted to hiccups. “I’m here, Tess.”
“He promised,” I choked out. “He promised to be safe. It was just a resort run, Michael. Just one quick run and now he’s—he’s—”
“I know.”
“We were going home today. We were going to see the kids and close the Ashley deal and—” My voice broke completely. “We were supposed to have more time.”
Michael tightened his arms around me. “I know.”
We sat there on the floor for a long time. Eventually, Michael helped me up, guided me to the sofa, and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders like I was a child.
“Have you eaten anything?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Okay. I’m going to order some food. You don’t have to eat it, but it’ll be there.” He picked up the phone, his movements purposeful, giving himself something to do.
Afterwards, Michael sat beside me, his voice gentle now. “Tess.” Michael took my hand. “We need to make some arrangements. For getting you home.”
Home. The word felt foreign.
“The hotel has been very accommodating,” he continued. “They’ve offered to help with... with everything. Transport arrangements. Paperwork. Whatever we need.”
I nodded, not really processing.
“There’s a private jet we can charter tomorrow. I thought—I thought you might like to rest today, and we’ll fly home tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”
Tomorrow. That meant another night in this room. In this bed where we’d made love, where he’d promised me, we’d have more nights like that.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“There’s one more thing.” His voice softened. “We need to call Mom and Dad.”
I closed my eyes. Our parents—divorced but still bound by their shared refusal to live in the conventional world.
Marco had charmed them both from the first time I brought him home at seventeen.
My father had spent summers trying to teach Marco to "commune with the river spirits" rather than just catch fish.
And my mother would call him to ask if the router signals were blocking her third eye.
“I can’t,” I whispered. “Michael, I can’t do it.”
“I know. I’ll do it.” He squeezed my hand. “But I thought you should know first.”
He stepped into the bedroom, closing the door partway. I could still hear him though, his voice an inaudible murmur that occasionally broke on certain words.
I could hear the exact moment he told our mother. The sudden silence.
I pressed my hands over my ears, unable to bear it.
When Michael came back, his eyes were wet. “They’re going to meet us at your house tomorrow. Dad’s driving down from Napa tonight.”
I nodded. Numb again.
Michael moved around the suite with purpose. He called the front desk about dinner I wouldn’t eat. He spoke with Jennifer Mills about checkout procedures. He found Marco’s suitcase and began packing the clothes Marcus would never wear again, the toiletries he’d never use.
On the dresser, he found Marco’s wallet. When he opened it, a small, folded piece of paper fell out, fluttering to the carpet.
I reached for it automatically. The paper was worn, creased from years of folding and unfolding.
I recognized it immediately—a note I’d written to Marco during our sophomore year of college.
The paper yellowed with age, the blue ink faded.
I’d drawn a silly cartoon of us as stick figures holding hands.
Above it, in my rounded handwriting: You and me against the world.
All these years—through dorm rooms and apartments and our house and family and building a company—he’d carried it with him every single day.
The tears came again, different now. Quieter. Deeper. This wasn’t just about losing my husband or my kids losing their father. This was about losing a piece of my history, a shared past that stretched back to when we were barely more than kids ourselves.
“He kept it,” I said, holding the paper out to Michael, my voice breaking.
Michael took it, his expression softening. “Of course he did,” he said simply, handing it back. “It was you.”
The private jet dipped toward San Jose, white clouds masking everything below. I pressed my face to the window, seeing nothing through vacant eyes.
Michael slumped opposite me; exhaustion etched into every line of his face. The morning had been nothing but brutal practicalities—hotel checkout, police statements, arranging separate transport for Marco’s body.
“Landing in ten,” Michael said, reaching for my arm. “Tess, we need a plan for telling them.”
The kids. My children.
What words could possibly suffice?
I turned to my brother, the brutal reality of what waited at home crushing me completely.
What script exists for telling innocent children their father is gone forever? The task sat on my chest like a concrete block. I looked at my brother for any hint of guidance, finding only grief that mirrored my own.
“I don’t know how,” I whispered, my voice breaking apart. “Michael, I don’t know how to exist without him.”
Michael squeezed my arm. “You won’t face this alone. Not for one moment.”
But I was alone. I would remain alone in ways I hadn’t experienced before.
I felt the plane decent through the clouds, bringing me closer to the moment I would have to shatter my children’s world.