“No, you don’t. What you hate is not knowing the surprise.”
“I must be doing something wrong in this relationship because you understand me. I’m supposed to be the mystery woman, capable of shocking. To be an enigma. To keep you constantly on your toes. A true paradox. I want you to look at me and see fine wine, hundred-year-old Scotch. Smooth and unexpected.” She frowned at him. “Instead I’ve become boring. Like milk.”
“I like milk, and you’ll never be boring. Let’s go.”
He pulled their gear from the back of the wagon, slung the large bag over his shoulder and carried the rest. She took one canvas duffel bag from him, then locked her cold fingers through his and trudged alongside.
In the complete silence of freshly fallen snow, the slick fabric of their winter wear rubbed together and made a scratching sound. The air was cold and tasted pure. Mike was quiet, a million things running through his head and all of them centered on the fact that now it was too late to go back.
After a few minutes she said, “This better be good.”
“Are you warm enough?”
“Depends on what for. I won’t know until I see where you’re taking me.”
“It’s a surprise,” was all her single-minded questioning would get out of him. He took her to the maintenance building—a trio of oversized metal garages where the snow had already been packed down. From behind came the sound of a snow plow engine and a big yellow Cat chugged and coughed around the corner, stopping in front of them.
The engine died and Rob Cantrell jumped down into the soft powder. He pulled off his ice-crusted ski mask, sending his black frizzy hair in every direction and walked toward them, ski vest open over a flannel shirt, a leather bouda bag with a red plastic cap hanging from his waist. “Mike! Hey, cousin. You made it. Great.”
“Rob. This is March.”
Rob stared at March for longer than a couple of deep breaths and said, “I think I’m in love.”
She laughed and Mike punched him in the arm. “Back off. I saw her first.”
“You always were a lucky stiff. Although I’ll tell you something, March. He’s the blackest sheep in the family.”
“Really?” March threaded her arm through his in a way that said everything Mike didn’t have to. “The black sheep? I’m glad to hear it. I would hate to think I ruined one of the good ones.”
One thing about March, she wasn’t easy to fluster. She seldom lost a word battle, seldom missed a beat.
“I like her,” Rob said, recovering well for a first meeting with March Randolph. “And, I guess I was wrong. Your brother Big Brad earned the blackest sheep distinction. Any word from the family draft dodger?”
“Last I heard he was hitchhiking through British Columbia. But that was a few months back.”
“And Uncle Don?”
“Still an asshole.”
“That’s my father’s brother,” Rob said. “Same gene pool. Same personality pool. The war hero in my dad still can’t forgive me for being 4-F. Look. Put your gear in the cab and climb on board. I’ll help March up.”
“Just keep your hands where I can see them,” Mike said.
Minutes passed as they rode the Cat around the base of the mountain, and Rob told March every stupid when-Mike-and-I-were-kids story he could muster up: the time they stole penny candy from the neighborhood market, were picked up by a squad car and brought home with sirens blaring; a Sunday when they put Milk of Magnesia in their grandmother’s famous butter cake; how loud Mike had screamed the day their grandfather chopped the head off a chicken and the headless bird came right at him; and the day they were fishing for snapping turtles and were cornered by their grandfather’s prized bull, an animal Rob swore was the size of Godzilla.
Mike tossed out some terrible Rob-tormenting-his-younger-sister stories, until, shaking her head, March said, “You both have no idea how glad I am I never had any brothers.”
The Cat took a sharp turn and easily rumbled down through the trees and into a clearing where there was a short steep run with a rope tow, chained off with a “Closed” sign. Mike’s cousin killed the engine and hopped down. “Here, pretty baby. Jump into my arms and run off with me. Leave this weird geek. I swear I’ll be sweet to you.”
“Sweet like you were when you locked your poor sister in that trunk.” March jumped down on her own and gave Rob a quick pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think I’m terrible. She only cried for an hour. Hell, I couldn’t sit down for days.” He raised his hand to Mike. “Give me a minute. I’ll unlock that chain and start the rope tow. Then the run’s all yours.”
Mike dropped the bags. “I brought three boards. You staying?”
Rob turned around, walking backwards and grinning. “Absolutely.”
“What boards?” March looked over his shoulder as Mike dug through the gear, grabbed his goggles, and pulled on his ski gloves. She leaned closer. “Are you going to tell me what we’re doing now?”
“No.” He unzipped a long ski bag and pulled out three of the latest and best skiboards he’d made in his garage during the summer. The skiboards, wide and formed like a skateboard without the skates, had foot plates and buckled straps to hold regular leather snow boots, and he’d crafted the edges of each board as close as he could to the metal edges on his Rossignol skis.
“Mike?” March asked, frowning.
He slung a board over his shoulder. “We’ll show you. Watch us.” When she started to argue he added, “Stay here, woman, and watch.”
She saluted him irreverently, then gave him the finger.
The rope tow was glacier-slow and seemed to take forever to get to the top of the run. But once there and poised at its crest, a wide chute of white before him, the air like fresh laundry, the sun gleaming almost too white on the powder below, Mike adjusted his goggles and looked over at Rob. “Ten bucks says it takes us twenty passes to the bottom, and you fall first.”
“You’re on.” Rob pulled down his own goggles and they took off a heartbeat apart.
The snow was perfect, the new board design much improved, and better than his skis in deep powder, which showered up and over them. It was something to be on the mountain again. He shouted out, unable to keep his excitement inside, and shook his fists, crossing Rob twice and edging ahead down the run.
The new board turned more easily, cut well, and gave him more control than on these same slopes last spring, when he’d ridden so often his old board felt like skiing on a cloud, a natural extension, floating on the snow, almost like flying.
Years ago, for only a short time, there had been a ride at Disneyland called the Flying Saucers. Inside a huge circular pit in Tomorrowland, the saucers were big, flat, round and rubber. They hovered off the ground just a few inches and could race across the pit when you leaned into the direction you
