Lakeshore Chronicles [10] Candlelight Christmas (6 page)

He put his arms around her, feeling her misery lashing at his chest. “I’m really sorry. I’ve never had to deal with something like this, but I do know it sucks to be separated from your kid.”

She gently pulled back, visibly gathering herself back together. “I’m sorry, too. It’s just...I don’t have a lot of friends. The people I work for...I’ve managed to keep it from them, but I know when I tell them, they won’t offer to help with André and Angelica.” She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve and gave a short, humorless laugh. “Their dad’s mother lives in Jersey. But I can’t ask her. I don’t want anyone from that family looking after my kids,” she said. “My lawyer said foster care is good these days. Lots of enrichment opportunities for the kids. But it’s...”

“Foster care,” he finished for her. And then, from a place inside himself he did not know existed, he said, “I’ll take care of them, if it turns out you need someone.”

She fell utterly still. She even seemed to stop breathing. “You don’t mean it.”

“I do,” he said, “completely.” The surprise was not the offer he’d made. The surprise was how clear he was on this decision. He did intend to help her. “Look, you’re probably not going to need my help,” he said, “but if you do, I’m here.”

“Really?” she whispered, still not moving. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. If your kids need to stay with someone, I’m here.”

“An angel, that’s what you are.” Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. “You’re a flesh-and-blood angel.”

He laughed, trying to lighten the moment. “Don’t lay that on me. Believe me, I’m nobody’s angel.”

Part 3

M
an Food

A lot of business is done over beer and food. It helps a man think better.

Beer-Cheese Spread

1 (2-pound) block sharp Cheddar cheese, shredded
1 small onion, minced
2 garlic cloves, minced
½ teaspoon hot sauce
¼ teaspoon ground red pepper
1 (12-ounce) bottle amber beer, at room temperature
Salt and pepper to taste

Garnish:

thyme sprig

Beat together first 5 ingredients at low speed with a heavy-duty electric stand mixer until blended. Gradually add beer, beating until blended. Beat at medium-high speed until blended and creamy. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Cover and chill. Garnish with a thyme sprig. Store in refrigerator up to two weeks. Serve with crackers, or use to make grilled cheese sandwiches.

[Source: adapted from Southern Living, 2007]

Chapter Four

F
ollowing through on a crazy impulse was often the right thing to do.

As soon as the workweek started, Logan got together with his two best buddies, Adam Bellamy and Jeff Bailey, Suzanne’s husband. They hooked their mountain bikes on the back of his Jeep and headed up the winding road that curved around the mountain.

“Hope you’re up for a screaming ride,” Logan said. “And then a business meeting.” He’d told them about his idea of taking on the resort at Saddle Mountain. In the bright sun of a September morning, the wild hills around Willow Lake were clad in a crazy quilt of colors. The drive up to the ski resort filled Logan with nostalgia, for the boy he’d once been, and for Charlie, the boy he’d raised.

The boy who was moving half a world away.

Logan had worked nonstop on the new enterprise, meeting with the retiring owner and sketching out a detailed business plan. There was only one glitch—money. He needed lots of money, more than any one guy had. He needed investors. He’d been on the phone and email constantly, talking with bankers, brokers, private investors. Thanks to his business in town, he knew a lot of people, and there was serious interest. He was working with an expert in ski resort financing, who told him the preliminary financials looked good. There was a lot more work to do, but Logan was determined.

He’d told his father his plan, and had received the predictable wet blanket treatment. Still, he did want his dad to see the place, and had persuaded him to drive up to the mountain today for a meeting about the idea. He’d even offered Al a stake in the enterprise. Al, of course, had assumed he was joking, but he’d agree to pay a visit, just to see.

But first—the ride. He, Jeff and Adam spent an hour careening along the trails that, when the snows came, would be ski runs. As he churned over the bumpy terrain, his mind went into overdrive. Once he took over, this was going to be a year-round resort. The trails would be waymarked and graded for mountain biking, and they’d modify the main chairlift to take riders to the top. This new direction felt, to Logan, kind of like falling in love. He woke up each morning thinking about it, fantasizing, knowing in the deepest part of his gut that he could make it work. He’d heard people talk about finding their life’s passion. This, he was fast discovering, was his.

The runs were swaths of green, veined by forest and rock. Streams cut through some of the runs; in winter they would be frozen over and buried by several feet of snow. Pedals churning, he climbed and descended, sweat and dust mingling on his forearms. The hour they’d allotted themselves before the meeting went by quickly, and they reluctantly concluded the ride at the resort’s main lodge.

“Awesome,” said Jeff, brushing the dust off his shorts. “Excellent way to start the day.”

“I thought you’d like it. There’s going to be a lot more going on up here in the off-season next year.” Logan unclasped his helmet and sucked down half a bottle of water. He used the rest of the water and a hand towel to get the sweat and grime off his face.

The resort’s owner walked down from the on-site residence, a big, rambling place that had been the original lodge in the 1950s and had been converted into a bed-and-breakfast and owner’s lodgings.

Logan already knew that if they made a deal, he’d be selling his house in town and moving to the residence. It was huge, way too much house for him, but it made sense to be on-site, especially when he was in the process of taking over.

In jeans and a plaid shirt, and a graying beard that needed a trim, Karsten Berger looked like one of the workmen. “You guys are crazy,” he said, indicating the bikes.

“Mountain-biking kicks ass,” said Adam. “You ought to try it sometime.”

“I just might, at that. The lodge is open if you need more water or something to eat.”

Just then, a shiny black vehicle turned off the road into the parking lot and came to a stop in front of the lodge.

“Holy crap,” murmured Adam, watching Al exit the sleek black Escalade, his bespoke suit catching dust from the wind blowing across the parking lot. “You never told me your father was Darth Vader.”

“Yeah, he’s kind of got that whole evil empire thing down pat.” When Logan was a kid, he used to greet his father with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

Now Al O’Donnell arrived at the resort like the pontiff making a papal visit. He traveled with a small entourage—the driver of his sleek black SUV, his personal assistant, a humorless stick figure of a woman named Miss Teasdale, and two others who looked like bodyguards but were more likely in charge of guarding Al’s wealth.

“Thanks for coming, Dad,” Logan said. “This is Karsten Berger. His family has owned Saddle Mountain since 1949.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Karsten.

“That’s a hell of a long time to keep a business in the family.”

Karsten chuckled. “Some would say I’m a slow learner. Should have ditched the place decades ago.”

“So why are you ditching it now?”

Logan had explained the situation to his father numerous times over the phone. But his father didn’t believe Logan should make a financial move without checking out every angle—repeatedly. Saddle Mountain had been teetering on the brink of closure for several years. Karsten was ready to retire, and hadn’t put as much money into the place as he probably should have. He’d told Logan he had interest from a big corporation that was in the real estate development business. The downside was that the developer would simply do a cookie-cutter rehabilitation, creating mediocre ski terrain in order to drive condo sales.

The alternative was for someone local to take over the resort and focus on its best and most unique assets. That was where Logan came in.

“I’m older than these hills you see around us,” said Karsten. “None of my kids or grandkids wants to take it on.”

“I know what that’s like,” said Al. “You spend your life building something to last, but there’s nobody to carry on.”

“Hell, Dad, why be subtle when you can make your point with a sledgehammer?” asked Logan. He was already starting to regret inviting his father up for the day. “Tell you what. Let’s take a look around.”

It was a cozy resort complex designed like an old Tyrolean place in the Alps of Austria. The centerpiece was the big brown-and-orange Austrian-style chalet, set squarely in the middle of everything. Five chairlifts radiated up the mountain in different directions.

Some of Logan’s best memories with Charlie had been made right here on the mountain. They came here together every year, reveling in the snow and the scenery, savoring the rush of speed as they rode down the mountain on their snowboards. It was the one time Logan could simply be with his kid and escape everything else—the tedium of running his firm, a marriage that wasn’t working, the everyday challenges of parenthood.

“It’s a diamond in the rough,” said Logan.

“Emphasis on rough,” said Al, shading his eyes and checking out the old lodge.

“It’s got the second-highest vertical drop in the state,” said Logan. “Three thousand three hundred feet.”

“Could be this is one of those ideas that’s just crazy enough to work,” said Adam, never one to hold back his opinion.

“How’s that?” Logan’s father’s scowl darkened.

Logan used to be afraid of that scowl. Not anymore. “The idea’s not crazy at all. This resort is just a few hours from the city. The financials are going to be a challenge, but I can make it work.” Looking out over the vast property, he could picture a vibrant family place, alive with skiers and snowboarders in winter, mountain bikers, hikers and climbers in summer. With or without his father’s approval, he’d find a way to bring his vision to life.

“Why this?” Al demanded. “Why now?”

“This place means something to me. It’s unique in the world, and I know exactly what I want to do. I practically raise Charlie here in the winter.”

“I didn’t know you were so keen on skiing,” said Al.

You wouldn’t,
thought Logan. As a kid, when he wasn’t playing soccer, Logan had barely been a blip on his father’s radar. “I used to come up here with friends all through school,” he reminded him. “I learned to snowboard on this hill when I was younger than Charlie.”

In high school, his knee injury from soccer had sidelined Logan from everything—except partying and painkillers. That had been the start of a crazy, headlong descent down the wrong path. Then the reality that he’d gotten a girl pregnant had smacked him sober, and he’d put his life back together again. The knee had taken longer to heal, and sometimes still ached, but nothing could keep him from doing sports with his son. He never wanted to be a sideline dad. He wanted to be right in it with Charlie.

He and Karsten led the tour through the hotel, showing off its signature rooms with their tree branch bed frames and birch-clad furnishings. There was a spa at one end of the complex, an oddly appealing combination of Nordic traditions and Asian innovations. It looked like a hunting lodge with gongs in place of the trophy heads.

The bar was called the Powder Room and featured furniture and fixtures made from recycled chairlift parts, the walls decorated with vintage wooden skis. The restaurant offered the kind of food you wanted to stuff yourself with after a day on the slopes—mac and cheese, chili, poutine, hot chocolate.

Logan went out on the deck of the restaurant, which faced an expansive view of the slopes. His father came out with him. “This would be a perfect spot to build the zip line course,” Logan said. “It would be a big draw in summer and winter both.”

“You’re determined to do this,” said Al.

“Correction. I
am
doing it.”

“Son, I applaud your sense of enterprise. The business plan you drew up is an impressive piece of work. But the fact is, resorts are notoriously risky. You’re choosing a hard path.”

“If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

“I just don’t understand,” his father said. “You’ve built a rock-solid business in town. You’re doing well in the insurance field—”

“Underwriting other people’s risks while taking none of my own,” said Logan.

“And it’s worked out well for you,” his father pointed out.

“Has it?” Logan asked. “How so?”

“You’ve got a beautiful home, your own business to take care of, the respect of the community.”

Those were the things that mattered most to his father. Logan knew then he’d never make Al understand. He tried to explain, anyway. “I played it safe. I tried to be responsible. I was a good husband, and the marriage still didn’t work out. I’m a good father, and now my son is moving to Japan. I’ve been a good businessman, and I’m so bored some days I want to hit myself in the head with a hammer.”

“It’s the ebb and flow of life,” said Al, a hint of his Irish heritage coming out.

“Not
my
life. I’m done playing it safe all the time. I’ve decided to live the way I want to, taking risks, doing something that matters to me, creating something.”

“Creating what?” His father seemed genuinely baffled. “A glorified playground?”

“This is a project I’m passionate about. I have big plans for Saddle Mountain. More mountain-biking in the summer. The zip line. A climbing course. Ice-climbing in winter.”

“You’ll lose your shirt.”

“I’ve lost more than that and survived.”

Al paced the deck, casting dubious glances at the green and gold hills, the grand view of Willow Lake in the valley with the town of Avalon hugging its shore. “I understand that restless feeling,” Al said. “I was young once, too. But it’s a cockamamie scheme. It’s not that I don’t trust you or think you’re a good businessman. I simply can’t give my approval to your financial downfall.”

“The plan is to succeed, not fail,” Logan said, struggling to keep his voice even. A decade of anger and resentment simmered just beneath the surface. “And I don’t need your approval.”

“You haven’t thought this out,” his father said. “You’re panicking because Charlie is going to be moving so far away. You miss him and you’re trying to fill the void.”

Ah, so now Al was the armchair psychologist. “And what if I am?” asked Logan.

“Never make a decision driven by panic. It won’t work.”

“I’m not panicking, and it’s going to work.”

“You’ll be taking on a terrible burden of debt,” his father blustered. “It could be really bad.”

“Only if I default.” For some reason, Darcy Fitzgerald’s words came back to him.
When it comes to leaps of faith, I’m a frequent flyer.