17. Tyler #2
As Jean-Luc disappears into the kitchen area, Ginger sinks onto one of the plush sofas with a contented sigh.
"I could get used to this," she admits, patting the space beside her.
I join her, draping my arm across the back of the sofa behind her shoulders. "The helicopter rides? The mountain-top dining? The private chefs?"
"The company," she correct, leaning into me. "Though I wouldn't say no to the occasional helicopter adventure."
"Noted," I grin, absurdly pleased by her words. "I'll pencil it in for your birthday."
"Speaking of special occasions," she says, her tone shifting to something more serious. "We haven't discussed schedules for visits."
I nod, understanding her concern. Tomorrow we'd be separating—me to New York, her to Boston—and while we'd talked about continuing our relationship, we hadn't hammered out specifics.
"My calendar is flexible," I offer. "I can work remotely when needed. And as I mentioned, the company jet is available for weekend trips."
She gives me a look that was both amused and exasperated. "The casual way you mention 'company jet'—like most people would say 'I'll catch an Uber.'" A small snort escapes her. "It will never stop being surreal to me."
"Says the forty-million-dollar lottery winner," I counter, eyebrows raised, pointing my champagne flute at her. "Who bought a designer ski suit without checking the price tag last week—and then tried to return the matching hat because it was 'just a beanie.'"
"Touché," she concedes with a laugh. "But seriously, I have Karl full-time except every other weekend with Mark, and you have Julian with occasional unpredictable weekends with Amy."
"So logistically," I muse, "it might make more sense for you to visit New York when Julian is home, and I'll come to Boston when he's with Amy. We could alternate weekends."
"That could work," she nods. "Start with once a month and see how the boys adjust?"
"Agreed," I say, though part of me already knew once a month wouldn't be enough. "Plus daily video calls, of course."
"Of course," she smiles. "Karl would riot if he couldn't tell Julian about his day."
"So would Julian," I chuckle. "I've never seen him bond with another kid so quickly."
Our planning is interrupted by Jean-Luc's return, bearing a tray with steaming mugs and a bottle of champagne nestled in ice.
"Hot chocolate for the young gentlemen," he announces, setting two elaborate concoctions before the boys, who abandon their window vigil with impressive speed. "And champagne for the adults, if you wish."
"Absolutely," Ginger confirms with enthusiasm that makes me laugh.
Jean-Luc fills two crystal flutes, then discreetly withdraws, leaving us to our beverages and conversation.
"To new adventures," I propose, raising my glass.
"And helicopter courage," she adds, clinking her flute against mine before taking a sip. "Oh, that's good."
"Only the best at ten thousand feet," I confirm, enjoying the way the bubbles complemented the crisp mountain air and stunning company.
The boys, having demolished their hot chocolates in record time, approach us with matching expressions of barely contained excitement.
"Jean-Luc says we can build a snowman outside while lunch is cooking," Julian reports. "Can we?"
"Please?" Karl adds, mastering the same puppy-dog expression his mother occasionally deployed.
I glance at Ginger, who nods. "As long as you stay where we can see you from the window," she stipulates. "And no wandering toward the edges."
"We promise," they chorus, already racing toward where their coats hung.
"And hats!" I call after them. "It's cold enough to freeze your ears off!"
Once they were properly bundled and dispatched to the small flat area visible from the panoramic window, Ginger and I settle in to watch their snowman construction efforts, champagne in hand.
"They're going to miss each other," she observes, a note of melancholy in her voice. "This separation is going to be hard after three straight weeks together."
"For them or for us?" I ask, only half-joking.
"Both," she admits with a small smile. "Though I suspect they'll adapt faster than we will. Kids are resilient that way."
"True," I agree, taking another sip of champagne. "Though I'm counting on modern technology to help bridge the gap. Video calls, online gaming sessions, maybe even those collaborative apps where they can work on projects together."
"Listen to you, all tech-savvy dad," she teases. "And here I was thinking I'd have to explain FaceTime to you."
"I do run a tech-adjacent business," I remind her with mock offense. "I'm not completely hopeless with modern innovations."
"Says the man who couldn't figure out the smart thermostat in our suite," she counters, eyes twinkling.
"That thing was possessed," I defend. "That thing had more buttons than a NASA control panel. Even my tech team would have needed a manual."
She laughs, the sound warming me more effectively than the crackling fire. "If you say so, grandpa."
Outside, the boys had progressed from standard snowman construction to what appeared to be a snow fort, complete with defensive walls and a stockpile of pre-made snowballs.
"Should we be concerned?" I nod toward their increasingly militaristic snow architecture.
"Probably," Ginger sighs. "Though I'm choosing to view it as 'creative expression' rather than 'preparation for snow warfare.'"
"Wise approach," I agree, just as Julian lobs the first snowball directly at Karl's back, initiating what devolves into a full-scale snow battle.
"So much for the creative expression theory," Ginger laughs, watching as Karl returned fire with impressive accuracy.
"At least they're burning off energy," I offer. "Makes the helicopter ride back less likely to include midair wrestling."
Outside, Julian ducks behind his hastily constructed snow wall, a white projectile sailing over his head.
His laughter—high and unrestrained—carried through the glass.
Snow clung to his eyelashes and dusted his hair as he packed another snowball between mittened hands, his tongue poking out in concentration.
His shoulders, held with the same tension I carried in boardrooms, had loosened, the rigid posture replaced by the fluid movements of play.
He'd stood stone-faced in our apartment as Amy explained she was "moving on," his small hands clutching the dinosaur backpack she'd packed for him.
"You're the man of the house now," she'd told him, patting his head while I silently fumed.
That night, I'd found him organizing his clothes for the week, meticulously laying out socks and shirts with solemn efficiency.
Now he rolls in the snow like the child he was, his face split in a grin I hadn't seen since before the divorce papers arrived.
"He seems really happy," Ginger say, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire.
She leans forward, elbows on knees, watching Julian demonstrate a victory dance after a direct hit.
"Julian, I mean." Her finger tracing the condensation on her champagne flute.
"There's this... I don't know... light in his eyes when he's with Karl. It wasn't there the first day."
"I've noticed that too," I admit, my throat tightening unexpectedly.
I swallow hard. "Last night he laughed so hard at dinner he snorted milk through his nose.
" My fingers tap against my knee. "Before we came here, he was checking the weather app every morning, worrying about whether to pack an umbrella in his school bag.
Eight years old and checking weather patterns. "
"Karl too," she nod, tucking one leg beneath her on the sofa.
"At home, he hides behind me when the delivery man comes.
Takes him twenty minutes of hovering before he'll talk to kids at the playground.
" She gestures toward the window where Karl now stood atop the snow fort, arms raised in triumph, voice carrying through the glass.
"Yesterday he marched up to that ski instructor—the one with the scary beard—and asked for extra practice time.
Didn't even look back to check if I was watching. "
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching our sons play, each lost in our own thoughts about the unexpected bonds formed on this mountain.
"Lunch is served," Jean-Luc announces, breaking our reverie. "Shall I call in the young snow warriors?"
"Please," Ginger nod. "Though you might want to prepare extra napkins. They appear to have acquired a snow coating."
Jean-Luc chuckles. "Not to worry, madame. I have raised five sons. Extra napkins are always part of the preparation."
The boys tumble in moments later, pink-cheeked and damp from their battle, chattering excitedly about their snow fort engineering and who had landed the most direct hits.
Jean-Luc observing their snow-encrusted forms with the serene expression of a man who'd witnessed far worse catastrophes than melting slush on hardwood floors.
When Karl shook his head like a wet dog, sending a spray of snowflakes across the entryway, Jean-Luc merely produced a towel from seemingly nowhere—the culinary equivalent of a magician's handkerchief trick.
"Perhaps the young gentlemen would like to.
.. how do you say... de-snowify before lunch?
" he suggests with impeccable politeness, even as Julian created what resembled a miniature alpine lake beneath his boots.
The boys glance down at their soggy trail with matching expressions of sheepish recognition.
“Sorry about the mess,”I offer, but Jean-Luc dismisses my concern with a graceful wave.
"Monsieur, I have raised five sons of my own. This," he gestures to the puddles with a slight smile, "is nothing. The time my twins decided to bring home a mountain goat—that was a mess."
"Wash hands before eating," I remind Julian.
"We know, Dad," he replies with the exaggerated patience of a child who considers himself well beyond such basic instructions.
Once we settle at the table—boys somewhat less snowy, adults comfortably into our second champagne—Jean-Luc presents an extraordinary meal.
The creamy lobster bisque gave way to perfectly cooked beef tenderloin.
The boys devoured gourmet macaroni and cheese while stealing glances at our plates, and a chocolate lava cake finale had even the eternally hungry boys groaning with fullness.