So I’d said yes to show business. The Killdeer Corporation had offered free season ski-lift passes to me as well as to my fourteen-year-old son, Arch. Shot through with new enthusiasm and hope, I couldn’t wait to cook and ski. I gave up herb tea for shots of espresso laced with whipping cream. In November, I plunged eagerly back into work.
Every Friday morning, I would appear at Killdeer’s Summit Bistro to do my bit before the camera. At first I was nervous. And we did have a few mishaps. Thankfully,
On the upside, I told jokes on-screen and mixed cream into smashed garlicky potatoes. I chatted about the rejuvenating properties of toasted, crunchy almonds while folding melted butter into almond cake batter. I gushed about the trials and joys of learning to ski as I chopped mountains of Godiva Bittersweet Chocolate. I swore to my viewers that my recipe made the darkest, most sinfully fudgy cookies on the slopes. I even assiduously followed Arthur’s tasting instructions:
All in all, the first four weeks of taping went well. By Week Four, though, my personal-chef business still had not taken off. I only had one upcoming job. Arthur Wakefield himself had offered me a gig the following week: preparing food for a holiday in-home wine-tasting. Arthur supplemented his floor director income by working as a wine importer. He needed to showcase some new wines—and serve a gourmet meal—to high-end customers and retailers. So, even in the personal-chef department, things were looking up.
Unfortunately, in Week Five,
“Don’t get hysterical on me, Goldy!” Arthur wailed into the telephone December the sixteenth, the night before we were due to tape the fifth episode. I held the receiver away from my ear and pictured him: Short, slender, with a handsome face and a head covered with wiry black hair, Arthur was single and, with the income from two jobs, well-off. Unfortunately, no matter whether he was fretting about the show or his precious wines, he wore an air of gloom. Sporting a band-collared black shirt, black pants, and brown rubber-soled shoes, he strode everywhere hunched forward with apprehension.
Without taking time to say hello, he’d launched into his late-night communication with a grim update on the severe winter storm bearing down on us. The weather service was predicting four feet of white stuff. Nevertheless—Arthur tensely informed me—despite problems with transportation and prepping, Front Range PBS
“Then leave an hour early so you can deal with the
I gripped the phone and glanced out the bay window Tom had installed during our remodeling. An old- fashioned street lamp illuminated fast-falling flakes swirling from a black sky. In the living room, wind whistled ominously down our fireplace flue. I sighed.
“Sorry I snapped,” Arthur moaned. “I’ve got a blizzard and a crew in revolt. Plus, my boss says our show has to raise money. The annual fund-raiser got canceled, so we’re up.” He moaned again, pitifully. I registered the clink of a bottle tapping glass. “One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We
I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn’t ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk
“Killdeer’s been dumped big time,” Arthur reported dourly. “We’ve already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn’t open my door this morning.” He stopped to drink something. “Are you getting any?”
In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. “About a foot today,” I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six- month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer—all ski resorts west of the Divide.
Arthur groaned. “The snowboarders and skiers? They’re ecstatic! They’ve got an eighty-inch base in December! How’m I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew’s having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast.” I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. “Know what that crew’s thinking, Goldy? I’ll tell you. They’re thinking
Tucking the receiver under my ear, I started heating some milk: It was definitely a night for hot chocolate. “Arthur,” I answered calmly, “why does the show have to be
“Look.” I heard another gulp. “High winds closed the bistro early tonight. Whenever gusts reach forty miles per hour, Killdeer Corp closes the gondola, so tonight’s telethon was canceled. That’s why the kitchen crew couldn’t do your prep.”
I tapped the gleaming new Carrara marble counter and glanced at my watch: half past ten. “So we have to
He cleared his throat. “The show was an annual telethon. It brings in about ten thousand bucks each year, and the station uses the money to buy equipment. So tonight, when the telethon got canceled, my boss announced to viewers that instead of seeing
“You said it was a memorial,” I reminded him.
“Haven’t you ever watched it?”
“Never. I can’t take telethons. Too much tension.”
“It’s in memory of Nate Bullock.
“Wait a minute,” said Arthur. “My other line’s ringing. Probably a supplier telling me he slipped into a ditch with a truckload of champagne. Can you hold?”
I said yes. I gripped the phone cord, glanced out at the snow, and thought back. Eleven years ago, Nate and Rorry Bullock had been our neighbors in Aspen Meadow.
Tragically, Nate had been killed in an avalanche three years ago—tracking lynx for one of his own shows, reports said, although the television station denied knowledge of such a dangerous project. The papers had reported that the cause for the avalanche, and the reason for Nate’s being in its path, were a mystery. Investigations had led nowhere, and his death remained shrouded in unanswered questions and pain. Poor Rorry. The thought of my widowed friend brought sadness. Although I’d written to her after Nate’s death, I’d received no response.