Chapter Four Fresh Snow
Caleb
Hale Lodge was already busy when I arrived, which wasn’t surprising given the time of year or the confidence people brought to snow before it reminded them that gravity was not optional.
The beginner slope buzzed with nervous energy.
Boots were tightened too much, helmets were adjusted that didn’t need adjusting, and people stared uphill as if the mountain might reconsider its intentions.
I signed in at the instructors’ desk, clipped my badge on, and reviewed the group list again.
Group lessons paid better than private ones, and I needed the extra income more than I liked admitting.
Teaching worked for me because it was contained.
I explained things. People tried them. Nobody asked me to be anything other than competent.
The Bennet sisters were listed together.
I had just finished checking the bindings on a demo board when I heard a group of women approaching.
“This is going to be so fun,” one of them announced loudly.
I turned as they approached, and the energy shifted immediately.
A similar looking woman walked at the front, already surveying the slope with a focused expression, like she was mentally preparing a report on the structural integrity of snow.
They all looked alike yet different. Five women who were dressed in winter gear, adjusting gloves or looking around at the hillside.
Kitty was one of them.
She moved carefully, watching where she stepped and keeping a bit of distance from the others. When she spotted me, her expression flickered with recognition before she caught herself and smoothed it away.
“Hi,” she said, a little breathless. “I didn’t realize you would be teaching.”
“Surprise,” I replied. “You still have time to pretend you don’t know me.”
Her mouth curved slightly. “I think it’s too late for that.”
One of her sisters stopped short and looked between us. “Wait. You know each other?”
Kitty’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “I signed up for guitar lessons earlier this week. Caleb has the music shop downtown.”
One of the women tilted her head as she regarded Kitty. “You didn’t mention this.”
“This is Meri, Lucy, Jane, and Lydia,” Kitty named her sisters, pointing to each in turn while ignoring Meri’s observation.
“I’m Caleb Green,” I introduced myself.
“You didn’t think it was relevant that you already knew our snowboarding instructor?” Lydia wondered as she studied Kitty.
“I didn’t know he was our snowboarding instructor,” Kitty dryly mentioned.
“That feels like a technicality,” Lydia replied.
I cleared my throat lightly and clapped my hands once. “All right, let’s start with equipment.”
I went through the equipment, how it should feel when properly fitted, and our expectations for the first lesson.
Lydia interrupted me twice before I finished my first explanation. “So you just lean forward and let gravity do the rest, right?”
“No,” I said calmly. “You do not just let gravity do the rest. You need to steer to where you want to go and learn how to stop.”
“Good to know,” she said, undeterred.
We moved to the edge of the beginner slope, and I demonstrated basic stance and balance. Lydia attempted to copy it immediately and nearly toppled sideways, laughing the entire time.
“This is amazing,” she declared from the snow.
Lucy tried next and did not fall, which seemed to irritate her more than if she had.
“I don’t understand why this is harder than it looks,” she muttered.
Jane slid forward easily, knees bent naturally, arms relaxed. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “This feels… nice.”
Meri took her turn, shrugged, and managed to stay upright with minimal effort. “This is fine. Cold, but fine.”
Then it was Kitty’s turn.
She inhaled, exhaled, made it about three feet before tipping forward and landing on her knees with a soft oof.
“I’m fine,” she said immediately, before anyone could ask.
I walked over and offered a hand. “That was a good start.”
“It was?”
“Yes. You committed. You just committed too enthusiastically.”
She laughed despite herself and accepted my help, steadying herself quickly as if balance were something she needed to earn.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s try again.”
The second attempt went slightly better. The third went sideways.
Literally.
Lydia, who had decided she was ready to test her limits, launched herself forward with enthusiasm and very little control. Kitty was directly in her path.
“Kitty, move,” Lucy shouted.
Kitty turned just in time to see Lydia collide with her, sending both of them tumbling into the snow in a tangle of boards and limbs.
“I’m so sorry,” Lydia said cheerfully from somewhere beneath Kitty. “This is so fun.”
I boarded over quickly, helping untangle them while trying not to laugh. Kitty looked flustered but unharmed, her helmet crooked and snow clinging to her jacket.
“I didn’t see you,” Kitty said, mortified.
“That’s because I was moving very fast,” Lydia replied proudly.
“Let’s all slow down a bit,” I suggested.
Kitty nodded, cheeks flushed. “I’m really bad at this.”
“You’re not,” I said. “You’re learning.”
She eyed me skeptically. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes,” I said. “And you’re doing fine.”
She tried again, moving more cautiously this time. She made it halfway down the hill before losing her balance and sliding directly into me. I caught her instinctively, my board skidding slightly as we both steadied ourselves.
“I’m so sorry,” she said immediately, trying to pull back.
“It’s fine,” I replied, keeping my hands lightly on her arms. “You didn’t break anything.”
She laughed, embarrassed but smiling. “Yet.”
Behind us, Lydia fell again, laughing loudly. Jane boarded past her with encouragement. Lucy sighed in frustration but stayed upright as she windmilled her arms while passing a much slower Meri.
And Kitty, despite all the distraction, stood back up and tried again.
By the time we moved farther down the beginner slope, Lydia had discovered speed.
Not control and certainly not balance. Just speed.
“I think I’m getting it,” she called over her shoulder, already accelerating.
“Lydia, slow down,” I said calmly, because yelling rarely helped and usually encouraged exactly the opposite behavior.
She didn’t slow down.
Jane laughed, graceful even as she eased herself to a stop.
“You might want to move,” she suggested to Kitty, who was still carefully repositioning her board further down the slope and didn’t realize she was in danger.
“Lydia,” Lucy snapped. “Brake!”
“Fall in the snow!” I called out as I boarded down towards them.
Lydia attempted something that might have been a turn and instead became an enthusiastic diagonal slide across the slope.
Kitty looked up just in time to react. She shifted her weight instinctively, trying to avoid the collision, but the snow betrayed her. Her board caught, twisted, and sent her sideways directly into Lydia’s path.
They collided in a flurry of arms, legs, and snow, landing in a heap at the bottom of the slope.
“I’m okay,” Kitty said immediately, though she was still lying flat on her back.
“This was excellent,” Lydia declared, laughing as she tried to sit up and failed. “Did you see how fast I went?”
Lucy fell into the snow to stop her slide downhill near us. “I am begging you to take this seriously.”
I crouched beside them, and offered a hand to Kitty first. She accepted it quickly, brushing snow from her jacket with embarrassed efficiency as I helped her to her feet.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “I keep getting in the way.”
“You’re not in the way,” I told her. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
She looked unconvinced but nodded.
Lydia rolled onto her knees and grinned. “I think I should go again.”
“No,” Lucy said flatly.
Jane smiled. “Maybe after a short break.”
“I believe this is the point in the story where the reckless character learns humility,” Merie stated as she finally joined us.
“That feels unnecessary,” Lydia replied.
I repositioned everyone and simplified the exercise, keeping the slope short and the instructions clear.
I allowed Jane to practice on her own as she had mastered the basics.
Lucy and Meri, I teamed up together so they could work on their skills.
I gave Lydia tips on stopping and controlling her descent down the slope.
Kitty followed every word, concentrating so hard I could practically see the effort settling into her shoulders.
She moved slowly, cautiously, but she moved.
Each time she fell, she got back up without complaint.
Each time Lydia fell, she laughed louder.
Kitty tried again, and this time she stayed upright long enough to reach the bottom of the slope. She stopped awkwardly, arms flailing slightly before she caught her balance.
She looked up, searching my face.
“That was good,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “It was?”
“Yes. You didn’t fall.”
She smiled, small and tentative, and I returned it with a smile of my own.
The chaos peaked shortly after as we went back to the top of the hill.
Lydia told us she was ready to go to the big hill as Meri, Kitty, and Jane started their descent.
“I am not ready for you to have a real run,” Lucy grumbled.
“You lack control,” I told her. “Until you can stop and change speed on command, you aren’t ready.”
“Confidence isn’t competence,” Lucy murmured.
“You’re just upset because I’m a natural and you’re still struggling.” Lydia pushed forward, gathering momentum faster than before. Kitty, still basking in her small success of moving down the hill without falling, didn’t move out of the way in time.
“Kitty,” I shouted.
She turned, startled, and lost her balance immediately, sliding sideways just as Lydia barreled toward her.
This time, I moved first.
I cut across the slope, catching Lydia just enough to redirect her momentum, which sent all three of us tumbling into the snow in a graceless pile.
For a second, there was nothing but laughter and cold and the dull thump of adrenaline.
“I’m so sorry,” Kitty said breathlessly, already trying to sit up.
“Worth it,” Lydia declared. “Absolutely worth it.”
Lucy stared down at us. “I would like to formally apologize to the mountain.”
Jane laughed so hard she had to stop and brace herself.
I pushed myself upright and helped Kitty to her feet, steadying her a moment longer than strictly necessary. She looked flustered but unhurt, her cheeks flushed, her hair escaping its helmet slightly.
“I’m really terrible at this,” she said softly.
“You’re not,” I said again, because repetition mattered. “You’re doing the hardest part. You keep trying.”
She hesitated. “That doesn’t usually count for much.”
“It does here,” I said. “And it should elsewhere .”
She didn’t respond right away, but something in her expression softened.
We called the lesson shortly after that, mostly for safety and partly because Lydia had declared herself “exhausted in the best way.” Everyone gathered at the bottom of the slope, boots heavy, cheeks pink, laughter lingering in the air.
Jane thanked me warmly. Meri nodded and said it had been “educational.” Lucy apologized for Lydia, then stopped herself and added, “Actually, no. That was helpful.”
Lydia hugged me without warning. “This was amazing. You’re very patient.”
“I practice,” I said.
Kitty lingered until the others moved ahead, shifting her board under one arm.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For not making me feel ridiculous.”
Surprised, I met her gaze. “You weren’t ridiculous.”
She smiled, more confidently this time. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied, and I realized as I watched Kitty walk away, I was looking forward to Thursday.