Tough Cookie

“Arthur,” I began, “I know this day is significant for you, I mean with your mother—”

“Wait a minute, I know you!” Marla cried. Folks at neighboring tables glanced our way. Marla, unfazed, continued: “Your mother was Fiona Wakefield. Fiona and I used the same hair colorist in Denver.”

Arthur unscrewed the flask. “How long ago was this?” he asked evenly.

“Four years.” Marla reflected momentarily, then plunged on. “So you’re the one who works with Goldy on the PBS show?”

Arthur nodded and poured equal amounts of red wine into the bowls of two wineglasses on the table. “A robust Cotes du Rhone,” he intoned reverently, placing a glass in front of me. Well, I guess this was going to be one of those rare times when I had wine with lunch. Anything for the client, as they say.

Marla exclaimed, “Now I’m putting it all together! Fiona used to tell me about your work. These days, Goldy keeps me up to date. I just didn’t connect the two.”

Arthur lifted his glass. “To the memory of my mother Fiona,” he intoned.

Marla snagged her water glass. The three of us clinked glasses solemnly. The wine was very good. Arthur used words like fruity, perfect for a picnic. After a few swigs, even Arthur’s ability to irritate me faded. I had a sudden warm vision of the three of us enjoying a wine-tasting tour of France. Another sip or two, and I was thinking maybe I could beat Marla if we took that advanced run again!

“How well did you know Mother?” Arthur asked Marla.

“Not that well,” Marla replied. “I remember how proud of you she was. Fiona used to say there were only a handful of people in the world who were able to make the kind of wine-tasting distinctions her son could.”

Arthur blushed. Why had I never thought of laying a little flirtatious flattery on my wine-importing floor director? No question about it, Marla was in her element. Flirting with Arthur was her way of playing bodyguard.

I smiled a little too broadly and a headache loomed from nowhere. Unfortunately, no basket of bread and plate of butter pats graced our table. I’d skied four runs and chugged a glass and a half of red wine on an empty stomach. Tipsiness, apparently, was one of the consequences of stupidity.

Which brought me to the question of exactly how much wine Fiona had drunk just before she died three years ago. I wondered what the chances were that Arthur would share that information with me.

“Ah, Arthur,” I asked, forcing myself to focus on the business at hand, “didn’t you want to talk to me about this week’s show? We wouldn’t want to repeat what happened last time, when there was so much disorganization, and then Doug Portman—”

“We can’t tape on Friday, which is Christmas Eve.” He stopped to pour himself more wine. I covered my glass with my hand.

“Not tape Christmas Eve,” I repeated. “Good idea. So—?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” replied Arthur. He tore his eyes away from Marla. “Taping will be at four. Arrive by three-thirty. Can you manage it? Also, I’ve been meaning to tell you how well my wine-tasting went.” He dipped into his backpack again and handed me an envelope. “This is your check.”

I thanked him and zipped the check into my ski jacket pocket. “So, tomorrow,” I prompted him, “what will we be doing?”

“We don’t want to guilt-trip folks to buy turkeys at the last minute. Could you do a very simple holiday breakfast? No eggs to coddle, no casserole to bake. An easy bread recipe, if that would work. And your wonderful oatmeal. Then you can wiggle your hips over a big bowl of sliced fruit and some hot, sizzling Canadian bacon. Voila! Merry Christmas.”

“No problem,” I replied, despite the fact that no easy bread recipe leapt to mind. But I had learned not to voice worries to Arthur. I looked around again for our waitress, so I could beg for a bread basket. She was nowhere in sight. My eyes caught a glimpse of someone else, though, and my skin pricked with gooseflesh.

Barton Reed sat hunched at a table next to a window. He was staring out at the gondola, the ski racks, and the folks making their way to the bistro. Just the way he had at Cinda’s Cinnamon Stop, he was clutching something in his hand and seemed to be looking for someone—someone in particular. When he turned to scan the restaurant, I ducked.

The waitress placed sputtering kabobs of grilled shrimp, cherry tomatoes, and onion quarters in front of Marla and Arthur, and a bread bowl heaped with steaming chili in front of me. While she was placing a basket of rolls onto the table, I glanced uneasily at Barton, whose earrings sparkled in the chandeliers’ light. He had poured a bottle of Mexican beer into a tall glass and was sipping it while keeping his eyes glued to the out-of-doors. One of Reggie Dawson’s questions played through my mind: Were you meeting Portman because you wanted him to do something for you?

What exactly did Barton Reed want?’

“Actually,” Arthur was saying to Marla, “I was going to take Goldy to that very spot after lunch. Would you like to come?”

I tried to ignore Marla cooing at Arthur that it would mean so much to her to be included! I spooned up some chili. It was a hearty mixture of corn, pinto beans, black beans, and tomato, all wrapped in a spicy south-of-the-border sauce. I wondered if I could duplicate it.

And it was pretty good with the Cotes du Rhone, I had to admit, although I knew better than to drink any more of the fruity wine. I sipped water while polishing off the chili as Marla told Arthur about her pre-heartattack holiday in Provence. Arthur listened devotedly, asking if she’d tried this, that, or the other wine. We ordered coffee as Arthur delved into a narrative of a tasters’ boat ride he’d done in Germany, along the Rhine.

“Don’t fall for this guy,” I murmured to Marla as we retrieved our ski boots. “I’m not sure he’s aboveboard.”

She tugged her purple-and-yellow hat over her curls. “Jeez, not to worry! I’m trying to protect you!”

Arthur joined us before I could reply. “Now, where’d I leave my skis?” he asked as we came out the bistro door.

Just then, a gaggle of boisterous six-year-olds pushed toward the three of us. Marla teetered away as two of them elbowed past. Arthur reached out to help Marla get her balance. Unfortunately, he miscalculated his momentum, overcompensated to avoid collapsing on the kids, and careened into me instead. With a clattering of ski boots and a flurry of hats, goggles, and mittens, Arthur, Marla, and I spilled ass-over-teakettle down the metal steps.

“Wipeout!” the kids chorused gleefully.

Arthur muttered evil words in the direction of the ski school instructor, who swiftly shepherded his young class away before more damage could be done.

“Maybe you should have some more coffee,” I said to Arthur. “After all that wine—”

“Maybe that instructor should control his group!”

“Arthur—”

“Let’s go!” As if to prove he was fine, he took wide, purposeful steps in the direction of the racks.

Once we were buckled into our skis, Arthur announced that we needed to head down Bighorn, a black run, to get to the overlook. He added that we’d be able to switch over to a green—easy—run, aptly named Easy-as-Pie, once we left the overlook. To my surprise, he schussed expertly to the top of Bighorn and waved for us to follow.

“As long as it gets us to Big Map by two,” Marla replied loudly.

Bighorn turned out to be a precipitous mogul field. The bumpy slope was so steep you couldn’t see past the first two hundred feet, where it curved to the right. Taut cords marking the out-of-bounds wooded areas bordered the slopes. When surveying the moguls, I tried to rid myself of the unhappy thought that each one represented a skier’s grave mound.

Arthur maneuvered nimbly through the bumps. He jumped and turned, jumped and turned, as if he were having great fun. I knew the strength it took to keep one’s skis rigidly parallel, as he did, to plant one’s pole with