Tough Cookie

There was no telling Scout it was too early for anything.

While dripping copious amounts of hot candle wax on my right hand, I managed to spoon out cat food for His Majesty. Tom pounded down the stairs. He was carrying another candle along with boots, mittens, and a heavy jacket. He was going to start a fire and clear Julian’s car of snow, he announced. While I held my candle up to the dark depths of the still-cool walk-in, Tom, whistling happily, wadded newspapers, snapped kindling, and piled up logs in the living room fireplace. By the time I had the food loaded in a Styrofoam box, my dear sweet husband had a blaze crackling. I came out to warm my numb hands and saw that he’d also filled his antique black kettle with water and hung it on the post he’d installed in the hearth while he was redoing our kitchen. Steam spiraled from the kettle.

“Listen,” he told me, “I have a meeting this morning I can’t skip. But if you can be back by four, I’ll drive Arch back down to see his dad.”

For heaven’s sake. I had forgotten it was Saturday, Arch’s regular jail-visit day. Taking Arch to see The Jerk always put me into a rotten mood, so whenever someone else offered to escort Arch on this dreaded mission, I jumped at the offer.

“Thanks, Tom. That’ll really help.”

He nodded and shuffled outside with Arch. Moments later, a sudden blaze of headlights lit the driveway and the Rover engine roared to life. Inside, a stiff wind howled down the flue. I could just make out Tom and Arch whisking what looked like ten inches of powder off the Rover. I strained to hear a faraway rumble that signaled the approach of a county snowplow.

“Ready to roll?” Tom, covered with snow, was halfway in the front door. “Got a box ready?”

“Yes, but I’ll carry it out, thanks.”

“Not with that arm, you won’t.” He stomped into the house, yanked off his boots and tossed them onto the mat, and sock-footed his way to the kitchen. Who was I to argue with a cop, especially one who was much bigger than I was?

Fifteen minutes later Arch and I sat in the Rover, travel mugs of creamy chocolate steaming between us. Tom’s makeshift version, composed of kettle-dipped water, cocoa, sugar, powdered creamer, and milk, was actually quite luscious, like a hot chocolate gelato. Of course, as my mammoth fourth-grade teacher had told us, Hunger makes the best sauce. That teacher ought to know, my mother had commented drily.

Main Street had not lost power, and the thermometer on the downtown branch of the Bank of Aspen Meadow read four degrees. Snow had filled the street’s gutters with two-foot drifts that had been wind-sculpted into sharp- edged peaks. Streams of Christmas lights whirled in the snow and battered the windows of Darlene’s Antiques & Collectibles and the Grizzly Bear Saloon. Seeing Aspen Meadow Arts and Crafts reminded me of the years when Arch and I had spent hours buying presents for his teachers. Arch had agonized over framed solitary gold- plated aspen leaves and pieces of bark painted with images of bull elk. When I’d asked him last week what cookies he thought I could make for his teachers this year, he’d curtly replied that The other kids aren’t bringing the teachers gifts. Now I glanced at the decorated windows, and ached for those old times with my son, before what the other kids are doing dominated our lives.

“Arch,” I said tentatively as he sipped his cocoa, “does Lettie have pierced ears?”

“Oh, no, Mom, don’t start. Do not buy Lettie anything.”

“I just asked—”

“Why do you want to know? Are you going to pierce them for her if she doesn’t?”

“I just thought—”

“That you’d buy something for her for Christmas. The way you always do.”

“Arch! I have never bought a female friend of yours a single thing for Christmas!”

“Remember those two Valentine’s Days, when you went out and bought big baskets of candy and stuffed animals for girls you thought I was going out with?”

“But you were—”

He turned to face me. “I was not going out with them,” he said fiercely. “I wanted to buy them bags of M&M’s. But oh, no, good old Mom had to buy the most expensive baskets possible.” His tone was scathing. “And then you were all upset when you found out I wasn’t going out with the girl you just bought all that stuff for. Mom, you can’t buy me a girlfriend.”

I took a slug of cocoa and told myself to be patient. “I thought you told me Lettie was your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, and I wish I hadn’t told you anything.”

“Arch!”

“Don’t buy her anything!”

“Don’t worry!” I shot back.

Arch turned toward his window with much aggravated shuffling of his down jacket. Suddenly I deeply regretted offering to take him snowboarding this morning, especially since I had just remembered Arthur Wakefield informing me that the mountain would be closed for a few hours for the Forest Service investigation into Doug’s accident. I sighed and glanced at Arch. If he’d been so worried about me last night that he’d canceled his overnight with Todd, why wasn’t he being nice this morning? Ah, adolescence. In any event, if Lettie wanted little silver pine trees dangling from her earlobes, the girl was out of luck.

We passed the lake, and I tried to put Lettie out of my head. Streetlights ringing the snow-covered sweep of ice revealed a lone fisherman with a lamp attached to his cap. I could not imagine how cold he was. No fish could taste that good.

I snuggled into my warm leather seat. The gorgeous Rover boasted every possible amenity, and gave a smooth ride, to boot. Julian had been wonderful to loan it to me. When it struck me that Julian could find out what Lettie wanted for Christmas, I instantly banished the thought. Perhaps I was trying to buy a Christmas present, a girlfriend, and happiness for my son.

No more.

CHAPTER 9

By the time I gingerly pulled the Rover onto the interstate, ski traffic was flowing steadily westward. Cars and trucks hummed through the Eisenhower Tunnel. Arch was asleep, or pretending to be. West of the Divide, the snow had finally stopped. A bank of thick white clouds clung to the far mountaintops. Above it, an azure-tinted sky promised sunshine. From the high drifts lining the roadway, wide swathes of snow blew across the lane dividers and obscured them. I was too timid to take my eyes off the road to see if there were any signs of my accident. The last thing I needed was to total another vehicle.

Tom had called the wrecker service that dealt with near-the-tunnel mishaps and asked them to tow my van to a secure storage lot in Dillon, near the tunnel. After I finished in Killdeer, I would pick up the historic skis on the way home. We wouldn’t try to sell them again—of that I was absolutely certain.

When I made the turnoff for Killdeer, a red-tailed hawk swooped close to the Rover. I braked and Arch woke with a start. After a moment of getting his bearings, he pointed to a herd of elk along a rocky stretch of road only sparsely covered with snow. Since he’d turned fourteen, he’d ceased giving direct apologies. He simply resumed speaking as if nothing had happened. While I found this disconcerting, at least it was better than silence. Eileen Druckman complained that Todd gave her the silent treatment on a daily basis.

I turned onto Camp Robber Avenue, named after a wild bird frequently seen on the slopes. The killdeer was also a bird commonly seen in our state, and its distinctive “kill-dy, kill-dy, kill-dy” call could be identified by even the most inept birders, among whom I counted myself. But the loud, invasive camp robber ruled the slopes, boldly hopping onto picnic tables, pecking at leftover hamburgers, then carrying off its booty to nearby pinetops.

I passed a series of gray, white, and beige clapboard double-wide houses, actually massive duplexes marketed as condominiums. This was a misnomer, of course. Any half-house here possessed more floor space than our Aspen Meadow home.

I was surprised to see Eileen watching at a window when I pulled into her driveway. She wore a robe