Rebound (13 page)

I
’m sweating in my ski jacket as I reach the cornice I spotted from the chair lift. Sliding my skis and poles off my shoulder, I stake them into the snow.

Casper Bowl, my favorite run here in Jackson, dips and turns below me, coated with more than a foot of pristine powder from yesterday’s storm. It’s more work to hike to the runs that aren’t accessible by ski lift, but blazing a trail over a white blanket that hasn’t been touched by anyone is my style. The trek is more than worth it.

After I catch my breath, I snap into my skis. Then I adjust my goggles, firm my grip on my poles, and push.

The initial five-foot drop gives me the acceleration I wanted, and I’m off, slicing back and forth, just the mountain and me. Usually there’s no room for thought once I’m carving down a mountain, but
this time is different. Ali is in my thoughts. She has been all week, and flying on a pair of skis doesn’t change that.

I see her face just before I kissed her in the stable—an image that’s been sustaining me for days—for the week that’s passed since that night. A meeting with some potential co-producers cropped up and took Brooks and me to New York. Promising leads, but I spent too many days without Alison.

That ends today.

And it can’t happen again.

Graham, Ali, and I will have to work things out. Ali is twenty-two—old enough to make her own choices about her personal life. Graham will have to recognize that and see it as separate from the investment deal. There’s no reason—no good one—why I can’t have her and her father’s money.

I can’t believe this. I’m crazy about a girl again. What’s harder to believe is that I’m
hiding
that I’m crazy about a girl again—but that’s going to change immediately. I’ll talk to Ali, then deal with Graham.

I punish myself on the slopes, burning off the energy that’s been pent up inside me all week, leaping off a shoulder of snow like there’s no danger of breaking my neck. Eight inches of fresh powder should cushion me, but the impact jars every bone in my body. The pain feels good. Real and sharp. The blinding white snow, blue skies, and a blazing yellow sun even better, but I’m struggling to get a rhythm. I sink deeper into my legs, picking up speed to see if I can lock in.

Something shifts as I move into the shadow of the mountain, and I suddenly feel Chloe racing with me, her breath in my ear, the sting of her loss cramping my fingers, making my movements jerky and stiff. The wind lashes at my face, penetrating my goggles, and my eyes water, blurring the trail.

She’s so clear to me. I feel her with me, curled in my lap in an Adirondack on the deck back home, her breath warm against my ear, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of my neck, tickling
me. I hated it and she did it anyway, and I loved that she did it anyway. She whispered our dreams to me at night, whispered everything we’d become like we were a bedtime story. A loft in Manhattan. Her, an artist. Me, starting a business. She had a plan we’d do that until she turned twenty-five, then we’d move to Paris.

But we never became anything. She never turned twenty-five. She turned into a memory. A constant reminder of my mistake and . . . and,
fuck
. I can’t screw up like that again, not with Alison.

Some asshole in yellow ski pants bombs past me. He catches an edge and goes down hard, windmilling and blasting me in the face with a slurry of snow. I’m blind, my legs shuddering until I jam in hard and practically snap both of my knees trying to stop. A wave of rage crashes through me. I want to charge back up the mountain and wrap my hands around the guy’s throat, choke him. But I don’t. Anyway, those stupid yellow pants are their own punishment.

Breathing in deep, I feel ice form in my veins. The sky’s brilliance calms me. I dig my poles into the snow, start again. I feel rusty, my body still out of sync with my intent. I think about the people waiting back at the lodge for me. Rhett and Cookie. Mia, Sadie, and Pippa. Paolo. People whose lives depend on my getting my shit together. I dig into the powder, pushing until the snow is a blur, my poles tucked up tight against my body, a rocket shooting toward an endless horizon. I cut through a narrow crevice, along the more dangerous path. Every cell in my body warns me I’m in danger of failing, that if I crash, it’s going to be brutal.

I don’t care. I know I can’t outpace the memories. I’m alive and Chloe isn’t, and I’ll never forgive myself, or forget her. But every day is mine to determine now and I want to move forward.

There’s a chance with Alison. I’m going for her—for us—and I won’t screw it up. Not this time. Not with her.

The end of the run smoothes into a straight downward shot that finally makes me feel like I know what I’m doing. I sail over the last
hundred yards, and although the run gives me plenty of even ground at the end, I come up hard near a stand of firs by a path to the lodge. I unclamp my skis, hoist them over my shoulder and step into the Four Seasons, setting my skis on a rack.

It feels too hot in the resort, but I know it’s just my body being used to the outside cold and still cooling down from skiing. Ahead of me, there’s an enormous two-sided fireplace with high-backed benches upholstered in slate and pearl leather. I head to the bar, thinking I’ll have a quick drink before heading to the cabin where my staff awaits. I just need a minute to clear away the fog.

The bartender is gorgeous—flaming red hair, pale freckled cleavage—and she locks into me with blatant interest, licking her peach lipstick as she smiles.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, her question filled with invitations.

Normally, I’d accept that invitation, but now there’s no temptation. I order a Manhattan. When it arrives, I take a few sips. Then I check my watch and find myself smiling. Ali should be here by now.

“Hey, Adam!” Rhett says, sidling up to the bar. He takes the bar stool to my left. Cookie sits to my right. “How was it out there, man?”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Cookie says. She pauses to order two more martinis. “Make them strong and quick,” she says to the bartender. “Give me some nuts, too.”

The bartender’s eyes dart to me, smiling, before she moves to mix the drinks.

Cookie folds her arms. “Okay. What the hell is going on with Alison?”

I laugh. “What is this? An Alison intervention?”

“That’s exactly what this is, and we’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” Rhett adds.

I take a sip of my drink. I haven’t been in the office for a week, but Rhett and Cookie have caught onto me anyway. While I was in New York, I checked up with both of them a few times to make sure Alison
had everything she needed. Even from across the country, they’ve picked up on where my head is. Or to be more specific, my heart.

“Nice of you guys. But don’t waste your energy. I’m going to see her if I want to, and . . . I do.”

“You’re not thinking straight,” Cookie says. “I don’t trust her. I’ve never trusted her.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s not just Alison,” Rhett adds. “It’s Graham Quick. I’ve been thinking about what Ethan said at poker. I’m worried, Adam.”

“Worried about Graham?” I look from him to Cookie. “You mean you’re worried about the deal?”

“Yes,” they both say.

“I’ve been asking around,” Rhett says. “Getting some other opinions on Quick. I haven’t been able to get
anything
. The three guys I talked to who had worked directly under him wouldn’t badmouth him. But get this. They wouldn’t say anything
good
about him, either. They just kept making these really canned, neutral remarks about how they’d learned a lot from Graham. They’re scared of him, Adam. It’s the only explanation.”

“Exactly,” Cookie says. “The only thing they learned was how to be scared shitless of Graham’s wrath.”

“I’ll keep digging,” Rhett says. “I’ve got a few other contacts who—”

I hold up my hand, stopping him. “Look, Rhett. Cookie. Do your research. Do what you feel you need to do.” I stand and peel a hundred dollar bill out of my wallet, dropping it on the bar. “But let me ask you this. Do you think I built my company by being scared?”

They have no answer, and I knew they wouldn’t.

I leave them to grab my gear and head over to the lodge.

It wasn’t fear, I think, as I step back out into the snow. It was grief.

Grief was the fuel that built Boomerang.

P
erfect.

Philippe and I hover in the doorway of one of the lodge’s bedrooms, Gucci bags strewn at my feet, and take stock of the sleeping arrangements. Two bunk beds, three already littered with luggage that looks like it fell from a gypsy caravan, and one low-slung lumpy bottom bunk, apparently for me.

I should have known from the smirk Cookie gave me on the plane that something unpleasant lay in store. This, I’m sure, is her way of reminding me that my money can only buy so much. Or her way of keeping me from Adam, who she guards with the ferocity of a bullmastiff. Not that it’s been a problem this week. With Adam away in New York, I never got closer than the occasional Skype conference.

My phone chimes in my purse, and I dig it out—hoping it’ll be Adam letting me know he’s here. But it’s just a text from my father.

             
Dad:
 Text when you arrive, and let’s make a plan of attack.

Sighing, I text back.

             
Ali:
 
  
I’m here. Let me do things my way. Trust me.

I slip my phone into my purse and zip it closed, like I can zip away my anxiety and my father’s pestering.

“Cozy,” Philippe says. Thank God he’s here too—my touchstone.

“I guess you’re sleeping with the boys.” I heft my bags and bring them over to the available bunk, where I bounce on the flat mattress a couple of times to get a feel for it. At least, my dad is still letting me bring Philippe along as my assistant, though he’s spent a lot more time chatting up Paolo lately than he has in assisting me.

He arches one perfectly tended eyebrow. “Any chance we can sneak off to the Four Seasons?”

I shake my head, though I’d happily trade team-building for room service and a gold-filled sunset over Rendezvous Mountain.

To be fair, it’s only the sleeping accommodations that are sparse. The central area of the lodge includes an elegant modern kitchen and a sunken living room with burnished wood rafters, a stone fireplace, plush leather sectionals covered in faux fur blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out at the mountains and miles of already well-carved ski trails.

“Of course, Cookie has a hot tub suite all to herself,” Philippe says. He waggles his eyebrows at me and says, “I bet Adam does too. Maybe you can trade up.”

Instantly, I imagine Adam in a hot tub, water pooling against his lean, muscled body. Then the two of us, slick bodies twined together.

I tamp down those thoughts and remind myself he’s not who I think he is, or he’s not
all
that I think he is, and I’m afraid to drag those shadowy parts of his past into the light.

Only, I promised my father I’d do just that.

“I wonder who your roomies are,” Philippe remarks.

As if summoned, Pippa and Sadie come giggling into the room, pushing by Philippe to launch themselves at the bunk bed opposite me.

“Hey,
Roomie
!” Sadie says, flopping onto the bed and using her tapestry carpet bag as a pillow. Her long black hair fans out in all directions and spills off the edge of the bed like a waterfall of ink. “What do you think of the accommodations?”

“They’re fine,” I say. And they really are. I’ve mucked out horse stalls, picked pebbles out of hooves, and scraped barnacles off the
Ali Cat
. I’ll be fine. Just uneasy. And uneasy won’t kill me.

“Aren’t the mountains glorious?” Pippa asks, sitting on the lower bunk with her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees. She’s wearing a long skirt over long johns, and the effect is adorable. She looks like a little girl, all huge blue eyes and delicate limbs, but she’s got a savant’s talent at visual arts and those eyes take in everything.

“They really are,” I say. “My family has a place in Aspen, and it’s beautiful there, but Jackson Hole is amazing.”

“Are you a big skier?” Sadie asks.

I nod. “Yes, I love it.” Next to horseback riding, it’s my favorite outdoor thrill. I love the feeling of flying over the snow, everything white and glittering and soaring past.

The thought of
indoor
thrills brings Adam to mind again, and I busy myself with my bags for a moment, trying to hide the blush I feel rise to my cheeks. It’s so strange to feel rooted in two places at once. Part of me is in the stable, locked together with Adam, and part of me stands at a distance from all of that, measuring, trying to establish for myself what’s real and what’s not.

Philippe says, “Not me. Going downhill, fast, on ice, while strapped into metal blades is
not
my idea of a good time. But I’ll keep the lodge cozy for you all.”

“I’ll definitely keep you company,” says a voice behind him, and Mia slips beside him into the room. She’s wearing fitted jeans and purple suede boots with a chunky high heel—totally impractical for the snow but somehow so suited to her. “I’d just be a hazard to myself and everyone else if I got on skis.”

She climbs up the bunk to the top. “Sorry if my stuff kind of exploded around the room.”

“It’s all right.”

“Where’s Adam?” Philippe asks, supplying the question he knows I’m dying to ask.

“He got here early,” says Sadie. “I think he went for a ski, but he should be here soon.”

I wish I could go out and join him on the slopes. I’m sure he conquers a mountain the same way he conquers everything else—like nothing else is possible.

“He’d never miss
Jasmine,
” Pippa says.

“Who’s Jasmine?” asks Mia.

“Newbies!” Sadie says. “She’s the camaraderie expert.”

“What’s a camaraderie expert?” I ask.

“Do you know Luna Lovegood from
Harry Potter
?”

I nod.

“Imagine that but, like, old,” says Pippa. “Like fifty.”

“Wow,” Mia says, her tone amused. “Ancient. But what does she
do
exactly?”

“She conducts the team-building sessions,” Sadie replies. “And dude, she’s tough. It’s like if a pixie and Arnold Schwarzenegger got married.”

Pippa giggles. “Oh my God, it is
just
like that! Except if they had a baby.”

“What?” Sadie asks.

“If they had a baby. If they just got married, it would still just be a pixie and Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“Right. If they had a baby. And that baby was in charge of making you climb trees and fall on top of each other.”

“Falling on top of each other is a team-building exercise?”

“Well, like a trust exercise. Like stage-diving, only into a group of your coworkers.”

The thought horrifies me.

“Shit,” Mia cries. “My purse!”

A torrent of objects spills down in front of me: a cosmetic case, wallet, various papers, birth control pills, and her phone, which strikes me on the knee and bounces on the floor in front of me.

I bend to retrieve it and see that of course the wallpaper image is of her and Ethan, dressed in their Halloween costumes. They’re standing in front of a window with a blazing sunset creating a tangerine halo around them, highlighting Mia’s blond Marilyn wig, her smooth olive skin. Ethan’s behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. His mouth is close to her ear, and I imagine he’s whispering something to her—something to make her laugh, to make her whole face brighten with joy.

They’re beautiful together, and the sight creates an ache in me. For Adam. For that night. For endless hours in that car and garage doors that never open.

Everything’s a flurry of activity as we help Mia reassemble her possessions. Then we’re quiet for a moment.

My phone rings in my purse again, but I ignore it.

“Hey,” I say to Mia and the others. “Let’s go make a fire in the living room and have a drink or something.”

I want to be there when Adam comes in, I decide. I just need to
see
him. My father laid out my mission, and it’s one I plan to carry out if I can, but more than that, my own need drives me. I
have
to
know him. I have to know his secret, yes, but more than that I have to know
him
. Know his heart. Know what beats there beneath his bravado and his beautiful smile.

“A drink sounds like a brilliant idea,” says Philippe.

“I make a mean Irish coffee,” Mia offers.

I look at her and smile. “Let’s go,” I say.