Tough Cookie

avalanche-avoidance safety tips. Shun steep, leeward slopes. Listen for broadcast warnings of avalanche danger. If you’re caught in unstable snow, grab a tree and hold on. And never, ever ski out of bounds.

Too bad Arthur hadn’t run safety tips for cooking live. I felt acutely, painfully embarrassed. You don’t know a thing, Goldy. No kidding.

I looked for Rorry Bullock.

She was gone.

CHAPTER 4

As the credits rolled, I scanned the interior of the bistro. Arthur was talking urgently into his headset. Jack was handing Eileen a champagne glass filled with orange juice. Or perhaps it was part orange juice, part champagne. Eileen cupped the glass in her hands and beamed Jack a grateful smile. No one was hustling up to offer congratulations or tell me how much money we’d made. True, the show had been flawed by the cookie fiasco, and had lacked the public support of the pregnant widow. But there should have been some good news. Wasn’t that what public broadcasting was all about?

Unfortunately, the only news coming my way was in the shape of pudgy, self-aggrandizing Doug Portman. His pate shone in the bright lights as he waved and shouldered toward the set through the dispersing crowd of spectators. I swallowed. How did you greet someone you’d had three dates with, eight years before?

“Hey, Goldy?” Doug bellowed. “You forgot my ticket!”

“Sorry, I—”

“Ready to rock?” he hollered. “It’s really coming down out there!” People stared at him.

“Yeah, okay, I’m coming.” I yanked off my microphone and surveyed the mess on the hot line counter. Fortunately, the bistro staff cleaned up after each show.

“Arch and Todd decided to take a group snowboarding lesson,” said Eileen, suddenly at my shoulder. “Want a mimosa before you take off? Jack made them.”

“No, thanks, I’ve got some business to conduct. Need to be sober. Are you skiing down?” Eileen replied that she was staying to talk to the PBS people.

The kitchen was jammed with folks, so I couldn’t change there. I nabbed my clothes and Eileen and I walked together down the hallway to the bistro’s ladies’ room. While I was taking off my chef duds and slipping back into my ski clothes, Eileen sighed. “Sorry about the butter,” she said ruefully. “It was almost frozen in the walk-in. Our microwave isn’t working, and I was afraid to smash it to soften it, ’cuz that would have looked bad.”

“Not to worry. Is Jack skiing down now? He was awfully nice, and I wanted him to know how much I appreciated his help.”

“He has to do lunch prep, sorry.” She looked at me solicitously. “Goldy, are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, and thanks.” We left the ladies’, then paused outside the Lost and Found and glanced outside. The sky had turned a bright nickel. Swirling snow powdered Widowmaker Run. With a pang, I thought of poor Rorry.

“You can always stay with us, if the weather gets really bad,” Eileen told me cheerfully. “We’ve invited Arch for another night.”

“Thanks. But I promised Tom I’d be back this afternoon. I can pick Arch up tomorrow when I do my contract with Arthur, my one and only personal chef client.”

“Friend, if you make a round trip to Aspen Meadow in this weather, you’ll be one tired caterer.”

“I’ll be okay.” Impulsively, I hugged her. Eileen was always a thoughtful friend, the best kind there is. “Thanks again.”

Outside, I could just make out Doug Portman’s glimmery black metallic ski suit and leather cowboy hat. He was stamping over to the snow-covered ski rack. Before pulling down his skis, he scanned the exterior of the lodge. Seeking me, no doubt. He doffed the snow-gorged cowboy hat and whacked it against his thigh. Ride those skis, pod’ner! Would Doug’s hat make it to the bottom of the mountain, or would it join the fifty other cowboy hats I’d just glimpsed in the Lost and Found?

“Gotta split,” I told Eileen. I zipped up my sensible down jacket and knotted the string on my waterproof hood. Eileen finished off her drink and handed me my scarf. I glanced at her empty champagne glass and hoped she wasn’t skiing down anytime soon.

In the bistro dining room, the arriving restaurant staff was clearing away the last vestiges of the show. The phone volunteers were wolfing down the food, without benefit of forks and spoons, no less. Hey! Fund-raising is an appetite-building business. One of the phone-answerers, a wife of a member of the Killdeer Hunt Club—they shot elk and deer, not foxes—stuffed a Mexican egg roll into her mouth and called out that we’d raised six thousand dollars in half an hour. She added, “That’s pretty good.” I didn’t know if she meant the egg roll or the money. Scooping up two more egg rolls, she yelled to me, “And that was in spite of everything!”

Doug Portman had returned to the bistro and was looking around impatiently. I felt annoyed to be hurried. But I slipped my hands into my new padded mittens—a gift from Tom—donned my ski boots, and walked as gracefully as possible to the front door. Of course, walking gracefully in ski boots is like waltzing on cannonballs.

“It’s snowing harder,” Doug informed me, ever the weather reporter. “We’ll take Widowmaker to Doe’s Valley to Hot-Rodder to the base. I’ll meet you at Big Map.”

“Big Map,” a familiar landmark at the base of Killdeer Mountain, was a large, plastic-covered map of the entire ski area’s terrain. I could find the map without a problem, but when I mentally reviewed the runs Doug was talking about—a mogul-laced “black” run—i.e., a steep ski trail covered with big bumps, designated for expert skiers—followed by a “blue”—intermediate, that would no doubt be treacherously icy under the new snow, followed by another precipitous black slope—I thought: No dice.

“You go ahead,” I told Doug politely. “I’ll take an easier route, probably be a few minutes after you.”

He scowled and shifted in his ski boots. “I don’t have time for you to come after me. I want you to come with me,” he insisted, still macho to the core. “I’m running late already.” He hesitated. “Does Tom know we’re meeting today?”

“Er, sure,” I lied.

“Great. I’ve got something for him in my car. Don’t let me forget to give it to you.” He squeezed my elbow meaningfully. “It’s great to see you again, Goldy, after all this time.”

I pulled my arm away and wordlessly clopped to the door. If it hadn’t meant so much to Tom that he sell the skis to make up for the expense of the new drains, I’d probably be skipping this whole encounter. Great to see me again, sure. I’d go down the runs Doug wanted me to, but very slowly. If he didn’t like that, tough tacks.

Outside the entrance to the lodge, giant icicles hung from the roof, their thick bases as solid as tree trunks. The snow was now falling in thick pale sheets. Doug pulled his skis from the rack, snapped them on, and shoved off without so much as a backward glance. Once he whizzed away, the heavy snow instantly enveloped him.

With more caution, I started down the smooth side of Widowmaker. Weight on the downhill ski, press through the arch of your foot, my first ski instructor had taught me. I’d do my best.

The new powder on the slope, the falling snow, the lack of sunshine, my gray-tinted goggles—all these made seeing difficult. As skiers whizzed past, I concentrated dutifully on the slope five feet in front of my skis. Usually, I found skiing an invigorating escape. This was not true, however, when the slope you were on was too challenging. The curtain of snow enclosed me tightly. I could hear my labored breathing and feel every creak of my bones.

Most runs are set up like slant-sided wedding cakes. Long sloped sections alternate with narrow flat areas. On the flat sections, you can meet up with friends, figure out where you are, or just plain rest. At the first opportunity, I pulled over to a flat area by a sign marking the beginning of two more blue runs. One was Doe’s Valley, where Doug had said he was going. It led to black runs. Right next to it, and feeding into the bottom of Doe’s Valley, was the easier-sounding Teddy Bear Run. I decided to take it. I could catch up to Doug on Hot- Rodder.

Teddy Bear Run was smooth and dreamy, yet still steep enough to present a challenge. Feeling less apprehensive, I let loose with some speed. After the pressure of the show, the release was exhilarating. I surged down the slope, and felt as if I was flying.

I hockey-stopped dramatically, flushed with the thrill of my run, on the last flat area. At the top of Hot-