Chapter 9 #2
“You know my dad.” I shrug. “It’s not like we talk about his emotions.” That was always my mom’s role, and Jackson knows it.
“I’m so sorry, Nate. I can’t even imagine how much he must miss your mom.” She takes a quick drink of her water. “I mean, if how much I miss her is any indication . . . I wish I could have been there to say goodbye.” Her voice is so filled with guilt and sadness.
“Don’t.” I stop her. “You have no reason to feel guilty. You had no control over what happened.”
“I don’t feel guilty, Nate.” The words are caustic, her eyes so cold it’s like she’s throwing frozen crystal daggers right at my heart.
“I’m sad and I’m angry because you kept it from me how bad off she was.
You left France to come back to Boston without even telling me, and then the next thing I know,” she says, then pauses to take a deep breath, “I wake up from a freaking coma, a week has gone by, and your mom has already been buried!” A tear escapes down one cheek and I turn fully toward her on my barstool, reaching out and using my thumb to wipe it away, but she swats my hand from her face.
“You didn’t just leave me, Nate. You made it so I didn’t get to tell your mom how much I loved her.
To thank her for being so amazing, for caring so much about me, for always being so supportive .
. .” She clearly has more she wants to say, but she stops, choking on the last words as she’s overcome with tears.
I reach over and rest my hand on the back of her barstool as she pushes her plate away from her, making room to fold her arms on the counter before dropping her head down on them.
“I didn’t know,” I say softly as I lean in toward her. I reach out and tentatively brush my hand over her head, smoothing her hair back from her face. “When I got on that plane, I didn’t know it was the last time I’d see her. I didn’t know there wouldn’t be an opportunity for you to say goodbye.”
“I would’ve come too,” she mumbles into her arms. “If you’d told me, I would have been on that plane with you.”
“I didn’t think she was at that point yet.
I mean, all I knew was that they’d put her in the ICU, but it wasn’t the first time and there was no indication that she wouldn’t make it out again.
And I didn’t want you to miss that race.
You needed Val d’Isère to secure your first place standing for the season.
Your dream—that overall World Cup trophy—was within reach.
No way I was going to take that away from you. ”
“Just so you know,” she says, turning her head and looking up at me. Her tearstained face is so close it’s a struggle not to cup her cheek in my hand, kiss away those tears. She sighs. “I would have come back to Boston with you. I would have skipped the race. And I wouldn’t have regretted it.”
“It’s easy to say that in hindsight, especially knowing now how that race ended.”
She jerks up to a full sitting position. “It’s easy to say that in hindsight because it was true then too. Instead, you decided for me. You left, I raced, and we all know how that turned out.”
She doesn’t flat out say what we both know—that my not being there caused her crash. That I knew she’d be worried when I just disappeared, and that she never skied well when she was distracted. It wasn’t my intention, but it was my fault.
“I . . .” I start but the loud and distinctive ring of my cell phone interrupts me. That ringtone is the only one I never ignore. I glance at my phone, sitting next to me on the countertop. “I’m so sorry, but I have to take this call.”
She shrugs, a small lift of her shoulders with her eyebrows slightly raised. I know that look. She thinks our conversation isn’t important enough to me to continue, which couldn’t be further from the truth. But I don’t have time to explain that to her right now.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her.
“Talk to me, Jed,” I say as I bring the phone to my ear and shut the bedroom door behind me. Given that everyone involved in this acquisition has had to sign an NDA, this isn’t a conversation I can have in front of Jackson, and the bedroom is the only semiprivate place in this cavernous suite.
“The board of directors met tonight and they agreed to the sale,” my lawyer says, and I let out a relieved breath. “But they have conditions.”
“Of course they do.” The last two decades have seen huge ski conglomerates buying up many of the resorts across the country.
Blackstone Mountain, being one of the last independently run ski resorts in New England, are staunchly opposed to “selling out” like so many of the mountains around them.
At the same time, climate change is making operating a ski resort more expensive every year and they’ve been struggling financially as long as I can remember.
“As you predicted, Rory Shanahan was the most vocal opponent.”
I don’t respond. I expected Jackson’s dad to oppose this plan, both because he loves the small, independent nature of Blackstone and because it’s me. And his position as president of the board means he has great influence.
“So,” Jed says, “you have until tomorrow at the close of business to either accept or counter their conditions.”
Which means we have to talk about this now or there won’t be time for Jed to get all the paperwork in order tomorrow.
I sit down at the desk as Jed walks me through the parameters of this sale, which would have me investing in and owning a majority share of the mountain.
As I suspected, developing the backside of the mountain with an additional twelve runs is something they view favorably.
But the ski village I want to put at the base, complete with a hotel, condos, indoor water park, and shops, is a sticking point.
When we finish up, I feel good about where we’ve landed, and more confident than ever that we can make this work.
I’ll give on some points, but they’ll have to give on others.
I hit my phone screen to disconnect the call and sit back, satisfied.
Until I see the clock. How can it have been almost two hours?
It’s approaching 10:00 p.m., and I’d told Jackson I’d be right back to finish our conversation. Shit.
I rush to the door, but when I open it, the suite is deadly silent. Did she leave?
I take a few tentative steps into the living area and the side of Jackson’s hip comes into view.
She’s curled up on the sofa, phone in hand, asleep.
A few more steps and I’m towering over her, watching her back rise and fall rhythmically.
There’s no way I’m letting her sleep on the couch after I promised her the bedroom, so I bend on one knee and slide my arms under her, lifting and cradling her to me as I stand.
She’s dead asleep, doesn’t even move or open her eyes as I carry her to the bedroom and lay her down.
But as I lift her weight from the bed to pull the covers out from under her, she reaches out, laying her hand on my arm, her finger tightening around my wrist.
My eyes slide up her body to meet hers and I’m yet again astounded at the desire I see flash across her face. “Thanks,” she whispers, still gripping my wrist.