“Have you considered it might be a she, not a he?”
“Isit a she?”
Henry laughs again. “It’s a he.” His eyes narrow. “You met him. At the presentation last week. Fresh off the plane from Zermatt. The new guy in the office.”
“Ahmed Waheed? The guy from NorthAfrica?” Jon is stunned. His mind reels back to meeting the new arrival last week. “What in the hell does Waheed know about running a ski resort?”
“A lot. He might have been born in Africa, but as a kid, he moved all over Europe with his family. His father was a diplomat. Waheed learned to ski in Italy. Speaks five languages, including Arabic. Graduated from Grenoble Ecole de Management, which, as you know, is renowned for teaching innovation in management. He’s worked his way up the ski industry chain—hands on—from Kitzbühel, Val d’Isère, to Chamonix. He’s also an ace snowboarder.”
“Snowboarder?”Fuck. “Is that why he was brought into the head office? He’s already been pegged for my job? Did this happen on Labden’s watch, because the timing...It did, didn’t it? My own father-in-law, who promised me this job, who lured me and Daisy back out here—he brought in someone else.”
Henry sits back and swirls his drink. Coppery light dances in the liquid.
“It’s goddamn deception, not perception,” Jon snaps as he grabs his glass. He throws back his entire shot of whisky, wincing as it burns down his throat. “It’s about political correctness. Give the brown boy the top job because he’s brown. We all know it. It has nothing to do with experience and suitability for the position.”
The waitress arrives with fresh drinks and a fresh smile. Fresh, dewy complexion. She reaches across the table for the empties, and Jon catches the soapy scent on her skin. He notices a tiny tattoo on the inside of her wrist. And briefly he feels incredibly old. Not old like Henry, but washed up and angry about the cards he’s been dealt. The instant the waitress leaves, Jon reaches for his new drink. As he tilts back his head to take a swig, he becomes aware of a woman at the far end of the bar. Watching him.
She’s a brunette. Pale skin. Long, thick, wavy hair. Her eyes meet his across the pub. Electricity crackles over his skin. She holds his gaze, and for a brief moment, they’re connected by an intangible current across the busy establishment. The live music fades into a blur, and so does Henry. She’s beautiful. She’s interested in him. It’s like old times. When he was an Olympic ski god. A golden stud. She breaks the connection and turns her head away. Jon is dropped back into reality. But his heart beats faster now. He feels a lingering zing. Then he realizes Henry is watching him.
Jon clears his throat, sips his drink, and meets Henry’s eyes. And all Jon wants in this moment is to bust out of the confines of his own skin, to release this pent-up fire he tries so hard to hold inside. Hecraves the exhilaration, the explosion out of the start gates at the top of a mountain, the roar of the wind past his face, the clanging of cowbells as he plunges down the course. He wants that old feeling of standing on the podium, his fists held high. Number one. Golden Boy.BergBomber.The crowd chanting,JonJon JonJon JonJon JonJon. Girls clamoring to get close to him in the clubs at night. He’s in a prison. Trapped. In an increasingly dull marriage. Living in a place called “Rose Cottage.” A baby on the way. The shattering responsibility of somehow becoming a father. How is he supposed to do that? His own dad never figured it out. His dad busted free of his marriage shackles and abandoned Jon with his mom. Sure, his dad sent money from Europe, where he was shacking up with one young model after another, but it cost his mother. Dearly. She sought solace in the bottle, which tumbled her into a complex set of affairs that killed her in the end.My dad killed my mom.The only time his father called was when Jon did something amazing, like winning Olympic gold. That’s when his dad wanted to say to the world,Look, that’smyboy.
“Look—” Henry is saying. “I know you felt this was your due right now—”
“It’s why we moved back,” Jon says quietly as he raises his hand to call for yet another whisky. “It’s why Daisy and I relocated from Colorado. It’s why I slaved all those years for TerraWest at the resort in Japan. It was all in preparation for this next step.”
“Times are a-changing, Jonno.”
Jon sits back as the server brings more drinks and takes his plate of barely touched food. What will Daisy say? What will everyone think? It’s a public humiliation. Jon has practically ordered new business cards already. He’d never have returned to this city if not for Labden’s promise. Now Jon feels things closing in. Henry’s eyes are boring into him. Jon refocuses and notices a wicked little glint in those eyes—mischievous and dark.
“You’re...looking at me like it’s not a done deal, Henry.”
“Nothing is ever a done deal, Jon.”
Jon moistens his lips. He sees the brunette watching him again. She glances quickly away, her hair falling across her profile. He feels a dissonance. The end of something. Or a beginning?
“You mean I still have a shot? Realistically?”
Henry leans forward. His tone changes. “I tell you what, lad. Never let people decide what you can and cannot have. You might not be as old as I am, but I know you, Jon. I know you well.” He lets that sink in. Jon wonders if Henry is referring to a particular dark incident in his past.
“Guys like us,” Henry says, “whether we want to or not, we belong in the same club, and we are under assault. Us middle-aged and older men, because we were born white, and born male. And born at a time when we were told to grow up and be a man. To ‘man up.’ It’s an impossible situation. We need to stick together in the face of this rampant affirmative action that lauds skin color over experience.” He raises his glass and points it at Jon. “You need totakewhat’s yours, boy. Fight for what you want.” A pause. His eyes laser deeper into Jon’s, into his soul.
“Why did you even invite me here to tell me this?”
“To give you a heads-up. You’d have been blindsided.” He leans closer. Jon can smell his meaty, boozy breath. “Iwanted you for that job, Jon. But I was voted down. So now I want to give you this small window of opportunity to strategize. You used to know how to fight,JonJon.You used to fight dirty. You never took shit when people tried to cut you off at the knees. What did you do when they said you wouldn’t make the gold? You showed them. You brought home not one medal, buttwo. Or hasBergBomberlost his edge?”
Tension straps across Jon’s chest.
Henry leans back. “Everyone has a crack. A weakness.” His gaze holds Jon’s. “Everyone, Jon,everyonehas a past. Everyone has made a mistake. Everyone has a secret. A vulnerability.” He pauses. “Especiallyyoung men like Ahmed Waheed.” He slides a small white card across the table. “Find his.”
Jon picks up the card. It displays a simple logo.PRESTONPRIVATEINVESTIGATIONS. His mobile rings on the table. It’s Daisy. Jon lets it go to voice mail. How is he going to tell Daisy that her father has let them both down? He feels tricked. Baited and switched. He stares at the card.
“What’s this?”
“Someone who specializes in such things. Ex-cop. Knows what he’s doing. When you call, ask for Jake. Tell him Henry Clay sent you.”
Henry gets up and leaves.
Jon stares at the card. The woman at the bar watches. He feels as though he’s sitting on a bomb counting down, waiting to explode.
