Chapter 25 #3
“Get a room,” jokers yell from the chair behind us.
He pulls back, and I don’t try to hide my has-to-be-blinding smile.
Harlan Holcombe loves me. Not the actor. But Harlan Holcombe the man. Loves me.
I grab my glove and wrangle it back onto my cold hand. After zipping up my jacket, I loop my arm through his and rest my head against his strong shoulder.
“Dad was all about loyalty.” Harlan’s gravelly voice cuts through the silence. “He wanted us to be loyal to the family but also to ourselves. Regardless of my success, I think he understood my career wasn’t about being true to my ultimate purpose in life. And I think I disappointed him.”
Squeezing his arm, I snuggle in a little deeper. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Harlan?”
“I want to hand down a legacy.” Harlan taps his skis together, loosening the settled snow. “Dad taught us to leave something here on earth that makes an impact.”
I lick my chapped lips. “What does that look like for you? The guys you mentor?”
“I don’t know, Meredith.” He knocks his skis with more force, causing a giant clump of snow to fall to the ground. “But I was thinking it might have something to do with you.”
My pulse quickens, and I’m stilled in scared anticipation of what he might say next.
He kisses me on top of my head. “It would be an honor to leave a legacy with you.”
My stomach drops. At the same time, the chair lift restarts and jerks us back to our path up the mountain.
Ominous tingles skitter across my body.
What does he mean, leave a legacy with me? I close my eyes. Please, no. Legacy could imply a number of things, right?
Harlan moves, and I feel his face close to mine. “You okay?”
Swallowing, I nod. “Yeah. We got moving again, and it threw me off.” I grit my teeth, fighting back the tears that will out my lie.
He nudges me off his shoulder and brushes his lips against my cheek. “Well, I need you to look alive, because we’re about to ditch this ride.”
My eyes pop open, and now I’m terrified for a different reason.
Impending doom is approaching.
Maybe it’s not a different reason.
Drawing in a deep breath, I focus on the immediate problem. Getting off the death chair.
Harlan shifts his weight. “Tips up.”
While exiting the ski lift, I veer toward him, grasping his wrist for balance, and almost take us both to the ground. Once our comedy routine of a dismount is completed, I stare at the bottom of the hill with dread.
“Here’s the plan.” He offers me one of my poles. “We’ll stay on the easiest green runs down to the base. Then we’ll meet up with my family.”
When I struggle to loop the handle of the pole around my four fingers, I grunt my frustration. “It’s almost lunchtime?”
“Someone needed extra time studying the chair lift before we got on.” He adjusts his bright red knitted hat.
I shoot him a fake glare. “It wasn’t that long.”
“You’re right.” He leans over and fixes my second pole to my hand. “Only half an hour.”
“You can’t rush these things.” I point to a skier who struggles to stand after getting off the lift. “Which is why I think I need more time up here to observe my fellow Alpine friends before I throw myself down the mountain armed with metal sticks in my hands.”
“You’re going to do great.” Lacing his fingers together, he adjusts his gloves. “All you have to do is get behind me and line your skis up with mine. We’ll take it wide and slow while we snowplow. Just follow my tracks.”
I try to will the zombie apocalypse into coming. That can’t be as terrifying as what he’s asking me to do.
Harlan pushes off, and as I observe his form, I expend every ounce of energy to stay in his tracks. True to his word, we snowplow. And we are slower than Christmas. Which is saying a lot because Christmas is only two days away.
But a small miracle starts to gather momentum. With each turn of our journey, I gain a little more confidence. About three zigzags into our descent, a smile crosses my face. It dawns on me that I am having fun.
This is playful. This is freedom. This. Is. Living.
Five-year-olds skiing without poles fly by me. But somehow in my mind, I am an Olympic downhill skier. There is no stopping me.
However, somewhere during my personal Eddie the Eagle moment, it registers that I should slow down.
Only, I can’t remember how to stop.
We near the end of the run, and my speed only increases.
Even though I’m completely out of breath, I try to call out, “Harlan.” I dig my poles into the ground, trying to gain purchase. They drop to the snow. And now I’m toast.
“Snowplow.” Harlan’s bellow breaks through my panic.
I glance up.
He cups his mouth and yells again, this time indecipherable.
At that exact unfortunate moment, I lose my balance and my skis bump over something, causing me to veer to the left. My arms flail in an effort to steer my out-of-control body.
Ten feet away is a huge red plastic banner with giant white capital letters saying, “STOP.” Unable to break my forward propulsion, I make a direct hit. And take the sign down with me.
“Meredith? Meredith? Are you okay?”
Writhing, I fight the crimson monster. I can’t see anything but red. But I hear the crunching of boots on snow, and Harlan’s stressed voice is getting closer.
“Harlan.” I’m lying on part of the sign, with half of it wrapped across my body. Pushing, stretching, punching, I battle the banner. “Get me out of here.”
Hands grip my shoulders. “Quit moving, sweetheart.” I halt my struggle, and Harlan pulls the sign off and throws it down on the ground. He hauls me to my feet. As he frames my face in his hands, his worried eyes draw me in from head to toe. “You all right?”
Nodding, I gasp for breath. “I kind of forgot how to stop.”
Because I’m not embarrassed enough, the ski patrol approaches. “Everybody okay here?”
“She’s fine.” Harlan waves him off. “But the banner might need some medical attention.”
A blue-coated blur skies by us and comes to an abrupt, impressive stand, spraying snow ten feet in front of him. “Woo-hoo! Nice one, Stop Sign Girl!”
Great.
I wave at my fan. “I’m sorry to dethrone you, Harlan, but I’m the famous one today.”
On the drive home, with the setting sun turning the snow into shadows, I reflect on the day as a beautiful picture of our relationship.
Harlan moves ahead of me and asks me to follow him in his tracks.
Each progression is slow and methodical.
At first, all of it is terrifying, but he continues to reveal that moving forward is safe with him.
I open my jacket and reach for a package of Kleenex stored in my front pocket. Instead, my hand finds the note Harlan gave me this morning, reminding me that if I get lost, I now have a place to belong.
But what if our purposes don’t line up?
What if he wants something I can’t give him?
Staring out the window, I worry Harlan is unknowingly leading us straight into a giant stop sign.