A Little Learning (4 page)

“The kids should have it, too,” he remarked. “At least, Lauren and Beau.”

“They will. Just not on the same schedule as you.”

Watching her smile, Seamus wondered if she had some surprise up her sleeve. “I thought you would be teaching all of us,” he said.

“I will—on different days. All the instructors rotate. I’m your program coordinator.” Her breath steamed as she spoke, and Seamus thought again how pretty she was.

There was no reason for his attraction to Rory Gorenzi to feel so inappropriate. Except that this was the first extended amount of time he’d spent with his children—all of them together—since Janine’s death. He feared that the temptation to pursue Rory was just another way to avoid their company.

I need to avoid them.

He had found Janine after the accident. Forensic evidence had proved that neither he, nor anyone else, had killed her—and had established that it wasn’t suicide.

No way would it have been suicide, in any case. Janine would never have taken that way out, and she hadn’t wanted to go.

It had been an accident. A stupid accident. Because she’d decided she needed to carry a gun. Because she’d
wanted
to carry one. Because she’d needed to prove to the world how tough she was.

The anger simmered within him all over again, and he tried to block it out. And hoped that none of his children would mention the subject of their mother for the next three months.

* * *

“I
WANT
F
IONA
!”

Belle’s sobs were something Seamus hadn’t anticipated. Even less had he anticipated that his own daughter would not be comforted by his arms.

Lauren reached for her. “Baby Belle, it’s okay. Look. You’re upsetting Mouse. He’s going to cry, too.”

“He misses Fiona!” Belle said.

Seamus thought in amazement of the slim, sure elderly woman now kayaking in Baja. Fiona, with her long white braid and her love of poetry and opera and ballet and openness to learning about all that was new.

Seamus surrendered Belle to his oldest daughter. The four-year-old turned and gazed at him with what looked like a combination of suspicion and curiosity. He could still smell the child scent of her and marveled that it should seem foreign to him, instead of familiar.

“Mouse wants you to sleep with us,” Belle told Lauren. “Please.”

Seamus’s reaction was to forbid it, on the impulse that Belle should be taught independence. Then, as if from long ago, he remembered the fears of his other children when they were younger, back in the days when he
had
known them. He would have to be a monster not to want this child, with her small tear-streaked face, to feel safe and comforted.

“Is it okay?” Lauren asked hesitantly, looking at him.

He realized that she didn’t call him Dad. She didn’t call him anything. “Of course.”

Lauren smiled and told Belle, “We can’t let Mouse feel lonely. I’ll sleep in the other bed.” She nodded to the room’s second twin. “We’ll share. Okay, baby?”

“Mouse loves you,” Belle told her sister.

CHAPTER THREE

E
ARLY
THE
NEXT
MORNING
, Rory and Lauren strapped on snowshoes over their snowboarding boots. They carried packs made by CamelBak, with water reservoirs, as well as emergency blankets, and small first-aid kits. Rory also wore an avalanche beacon and carried her shovel in her pack, though they were not going into any avalanche zone.

“This looks pretty tame,” Lauren pointed out, although she was breathing hard from the hike uphill.

“Good. We’re just starting out with this. The country around here has a lot of avalanche danger, so I don’t want to take you anywhere hairier until you’ve gone through the course and learned to use a beacon.”

“I wish I could take a course in fire-dancing,” Lauren said.

“I don’t know how your dad would feel about that. And I’ve never taught a minor with fire. Of course, you don’t actually
learn
twirling or poi with fire. You learn without. It’s essential to practice for months, to get really good, before you bring fire into it.”

“I’d practice without fire,” Lauren told her. “But I’m not afraid of fire.”

Rory glanced at her, noting the remark. She turned the comment over in her mind, knowing it would have relevance to snowboarding and everything else this girl did.

“I am,” Rory said. “I’m afraid of getting burned and I’m afraid of breaking bones snowboarding and skiing, and I’m afraid of being buried in an avalanche. It doesn’t stop me doing any of the things I like to do, but it does make me determined to do things the right way. Fear is what helps us stay alive.”

“I guess,” Lauren said without conviction. “Our family’s not fearful, though. I’m not, in any case.”

Why did she point that out? Rory wondered. What was wrong with a little healthy fear?

They made the run together, Rory following Lauren. Lauren was obviously an accomplished snowboarder. Her form was excellent. Probably, she’d had the best teachers in Telluride.

Rory led her up another slope, breathing hard as she made her way over the powder in her snowshoes. They snowboarded together for three hours, then headed back to the Empire Street house in Rory’s car, a black Toyota RAV4 that she’d bought used. As they turned down Main Street, however, Rory spotted a familiar shape wearing a day pack and walking with the help of an ornately curved walking stick. Her grandmother wore black wool pants and an imitation ermine coat, and her still-thick white hair was swept up in a French twist beneath her matching fake fur hat.

Snow fell heavily as Rory pulled up beside her and rolled down the window. “Gran, do you want a ride?”

“Of course not, Rory.” Her mother’s mother frowned with interest at Lauren. “I will fall apart if I don’t keep up with my walking.”

Walking, dancing, singing, yoga,
Rory filled in. The way Sondra had raised her—good grief, she’d learned to ski by being guided down slopes between her grandmother’s legs—seemed to have determined that she pursue an active, healthy lifestyle. Part of her love of fire-dancing and belly dance had come from her grandmother’s enthusiasm when she’d learned of Rory’s new interests; without being told, Sondra had seemed to understand that what Rory liked was the peaceful concentration required to work with fire.

Feeling a surge of love for Sondra, Rory told the woman, “This is one of my dad’s clients, Lauren Lee. This is Sondra Nichols,” she told Lauren, “my grandmother.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Lauren said dutifully.

As they went on their way, Lauren asked, “Is your grandfather alive, too?”

“No. He died before I was born. She’s been widowed thirty-five years, and as long as I can remember, she’s always said that she’ll never marry again.”

“Like my dad.”

Rory glanced over in interest.

Lauren said, “He has girlfriends, of course. In fact, don’t be surprised if he tries to make you the next one. But he never marries them.”

Rory couldn’t read the teenager’s tone—not with accuracy. “Do you wish he would?”

“I don’t really care,” Lauren said. “It’s not like he has that much to do with us, anyhow.”

The reply shocked Rory, and bothered her. She knew what it was to have a father who didn’t “have that much to do” with her. She’d never held it against her father, believing he was devastated by her mother’s death—and by her betrayal. But in Seamus Lee, who had four children, one of them just four years old, noninvolvement seemed criminal.

“I thought he had the kind of job...” Rory stopped abruptly.

“Oh, he
could
spend time with us. And he used to, before my mom died. But not anymore.”

“How did your mother die?” Reflecting that she and the Lee children shared motherless status, Rory pulled up outside the Lees’ temporary home. Lights were on inside, illuminating the Greek Revival house against the gray afternoon, making it warm and welcoming.

“A handgun accident. The forensic people figured she was loading it and didn’t know it was already loaded or something like that. I don’t really know how handguns work.”

Neither did Rory. She wondered why Seamus Lee’s wife had been loading a handgun in the first place.

“She didn’t put up with anything from anyone,” Lauren said.

Assertiveness through firearms? thought Rory. No fear, handguns... There was something amiss with this family, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

And it’s none of your business, anyhow.

Rory longed to ask
why—
about the handgun—but it seemed a delicate question to put to this girl. Instead, she said, “I want to get you into an avalanche class as soon as possible. But, in the meantime, how would you feel about teaching snowboarding to kids at the ski area?”

“To little kids?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” Lauren seemed to be thinking it over. “I could do that.”

“I think you could, too,” Rory agreed.

“What about fire-dancing?” she asked Rory. “Can you teach me?”

“Without fire. Possibly so. Let me look into it.”

Leaving Lauren at the house, Rory drove out to San Juan Ski and Snowboard to check on Beau and see how he was getting along in his new part-time job. She found him happily learning to use a jigsaw and not at all keen to return to Empire Street. Nonetheless, he was in an afternoon telemark class.

Telemark, an old form of free-heel skiing, allowed the skier freedom from the necessity of chairlifts and greater access to the backcountry. The style of skiing emphasized controlled turns, the proper execution of which was an art form.

Gigi Parks, the ski designer, pulled a pair of telemark skis off the wall and pushed them in Beau’s direction. “Give these a try and tell me what you think.”

Her assistant, Rory’s friend Woody, called goodbye to Beau as he and Rory left.

Rory was still preoccupied by the fact that the children’s mother had died in a handgun accident. She wanted to know the facts, and there was only one family member she could ask. The two of
them
had time booked for an hour of telemarking that afternoon, after he finished avalanche school.

Beau broke into her thoughts. “I like that place. I feel like I’m learning to do something
useful.
”

Rory considered this remark. “I’m glad you like it. I thought that might be a good fit for you.”

“Is it a group telemark class?”

“I think there are two other students.” She braked at a stop sign, then glanced over at him. “Is that okay?”

“I hate group lessons.”

Rory didn’t ask why. When people said that, there was usually one reason: fear of ridicule.

“Try it today,” she said, “and I’ll check with you tonight and see how it went. If it’s no good for you, we might be able to manage a solo lesson or two.”

The look he shot her was one of naked gratitude.

What a group these children were.

On Empire Street, Rory found Caleb outside on a snowskate. The seven-year-old was clearly a skateboarder. The snowskate consisted of a skateboard deck balanced on a short, wide ski, creating something that was a cross between snowboard and skateboard and perfect for transportation on Sultan’s icy streets.

However, Caleb was not wearing a helmet, and this wouldn’t fly with her. “Where’s your dad?” she asked as she got out of the car.

“He’s not back from avalanche school yet. Lauren’s watching us.”

“Well, you need to have a helmet on, Caleb.”

He made a face that promised lack of cooperation. “I don’t have to,” he said. “I don’t fall.”

“Congratulations on not falling, but while you’re here in Sultan, you’re learning safety from the Sultan Mountain School. That means wearing a helmet.”

“It’s
my
snowskate.”

“And no one makes you wear a helmet at home?”

He’d clearly been caught out. He glared at Rory and stalked inside. Caleb might turn out to be the rebel of this lot, she thought. He wore his hair below his shoulders, and even at seven he had the confidence of someone who knew himself to be a capable athlete.

Rory followed Beau inside the house and found Lauren rubbing the German shepherd puppy’s nose in a puddle on the floor. Lauren started to drag the dog back to his crate, and Rory said, “Actually, what you want to do now is take him outside to wherever you want him to pee. Then, you’ve got to clean up with carpet stuff that will neutralize the pheromones. There’s some in the cupboard beside the sink.”

Lauren cast her a look that seemed to weigh all these instructions. She said, “Beau, take Seuss outside. You have your boots on already.”

Beau grabbed the leash and said, “What am I supposed to do?”

Teaching children how to train their puppy was beyond the call of duty, and Rory had hoped to grab a snack before telemarking with Seamus Lee. Instead, she gave the two siblings better ideas for corrections than “rub his nose in it,” made sure Caleb was wearing his snowboarding helmet and instructed Lauren and Beau that this was strict school policy.

* * *

T
HIS
TIME
,
THEY
took his car and drove to the head of a trail and out onto a long, gentle slope where they could practice turns.

Rory remembered how determined she was to know more about the handgun, but there were too many other things to attend to in the meantime. First—Caleb and the helmet.

“He knows he’s to wear a helmet,” Seamus said. “The woman who works for me always makes him wear one. She’s an older lady who, well, runs my household, if you will. She’s something of a renaissance woman. If my kids have any good values, it’s because of her.”

“Good values, such as...?”

“Well, she has many interests. She loves ballet and poetry. She gets them reading classics and has actually gotten them listening to opera, at times. And, of course, she encourages them to spend time outdoors. Climbing trees, skiing. Enjoying nature. And she’s gotten Beau to do some writing. She’s kayaking in Baja right now.”

“It sounds as though you’re fortunate to have her working for you,” Rory said carefully.

“Yes.” Seamus fell silent, frowning as he considered the road ahead.

Lauren tells me your wife died in an accident with a handgun.
As Rory played this over in her mind, she knew she could not put it to him that way. Feigning ignorance? Yes, that was best. “Are you divorced?”

“No, my wife passed away when Belle was one.”

“I’m sorry. How did she die?” Rory hated the fact that her need to know the why of the handgun was stronger than any wish to save this man the pain of discussing his wife’s death.

“She was checking her handgun and it fired, and she was hit by a ricocheting bullet. At least, that’s what the forensic experts thought.”

“Was this in Telluride?”

“Yes, believe it or not. Janine represented battered women, and she’d been threatened by some of her clients’ spouses. So, she took to carrying a gun. It wasn’t...” He stopped.

Rory glanced at him, her eyes lingering on his cleft chin. He was a mystery, and she felt her interest piqued by what she could not reach within him.

He didn’t continue, so she finished the thought for him. “It wasn’t what you would have done?”

“No. It wasn’t.”

Rory didn’t know how to convey what she needed to get across.
Maybe you don’t need to say it, Rory. Saying too much is what gets you in trouble.
But there was nothing
bad
about what she wanted to say. “Lauren seems utterly fearless.”

“Nobody’s utterly fearless.”

The man was remote, Rory decided. Why? Possibly, Seamus Lee was simply unfriendly and uninterested in his children. But hadn’t Lauren said that he used to be different before his wife had died?

“I apologize for bringing up a painful subject,” she said at last.

“It’s better you know,” he replied shortly. “You’re spending time with my kids, after all.”

They spoke little after that. Rory directed him to a turnout near the trailhead, and they climbed out of his SUV and snugged up their boots and put on their skis. “You’ve telemarked before,” Rory clarified.

“Not as much as I’d like. My work is time-consuming.”

“Can you make a tele turn?” she asked.

“Barely.”

She grinned. “Just so we know where we’re starting.” It occurred to her that rather than putting Beau in a group telemark class, she could teach him and his father together. That would let Beau spend some time with his dad—and probably relax many of his fears about group classes.

They put skins on their skis—adhesive cloth trimmed to the dimensions of each ski. Skins allowed the skis to glide forward but kept them from sliding backward, making it possible for the skier to climb slopes.

Seamus followed Rory as she started up the route she’d chosen, onto a steeply climbing trail. She moved confidently, as he painfully remembered skiing with Janine. As soon as the memory surfaced, the anger came, too. He saw in his mind her pugnacious jaw, heard her voice and her conversation, scattered with surfing and snowboarding slang. Her tough act. He’d been attracted to her in part because of the vulnerability he’d been certain lay beneath that tough exterior. He’d seen a wounded woman with a wounded child trapped inside, and he’d never stopped wanting to reach the vulnerable person beneath.