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“I didn’t know you skied.”
“It’s been a while. Ten years,” I said, reminded that my old skiwear was probably horribly out of date. “You ever ski?”
“Nope. Southern boy born and bred. I’m still amazed by snow, when we get it. Take pictures, will you?” he asked. Then adopting the deepest of Southern accents, he added, “ ’Cause I ain’t never seen no big mountains ’afore in my en-tire life!”
Staring up at Whistler Mountain three weeks later, centering it through a viewfinder for a photograph, I had to admit I’d never seen a mountain this big either. In Michigan we skied on hills—high ones, steep ones, but hills nonetheless. They had names like Mount Brighton and Mount Holly, but they weren’t full-on mountains. Not like this. Despite the fact that it was a clear day, I couldn’t even see the top, and yet for January it wasn’t nearly as cold here in British Columbia as Michigan winters could get. In fact, I began to curse my brand-new baby-blue one-piece suit because I had to unzip the jacket and let it collapse around my waist to get some relief from the heat generated by the beating sun. I was sure I looked like an oddly colored tulip with wilted petals. My white toque and white mitts soon became dotted with coffee and hot chocolate because it took a day and a half of pacing at the foot of the mountain before I got the nerve to take the chair to the top.
I’d spent some time in Canada, in Windsor, Ontario, in particular, because the drinking age was lower than Michigan’s and I was dating Scott, a man who drank a lot even before I married him. I remember for a while trying to keep up with him, but I just didn’t like the effects of all that alcohol on my body. Still, it was the hallmark of our courtship that everything Scott did and liked, I would find myself doing and liking as well. He drove Fords, and so a Focus was my first car. He liked Thai food, so I became a fan myself. Scott was an avid skier, so I became one too. But skiing was about the only thing he introduced me to that I actually liked and eventually became pretty good at.
At first we skied together, Scott never more in his element than when he was telling or showing me how to do something. But I was a willing partner, so wanting it to work, for us to bond and click, that I risked breaking my neck on moguls after only three days of lessons. I was a natural, something that pleased Scott at first and then slowly began to bother him. Eventually, while I’d hit the slopes in the morning, Scott would stay back and keep a couch warm in front of the fire and a brandy ready for when I returned. Skiing alone, I felt a sense of independence and the thrill that comes from courting adrenaline rushes. I loved going fast and the feel of my thigh muscles working hard in the cold. But this newfound hobby was short-lived. Once Scott saw that I was actually enjoying myself, and sometimes even drawing a bit of male attention my way, we stopped skiing altogether.
Now, trudging through Whistler’s crowded main square in my new ski outfit, I felt some bad déjà vu, but also some good. Before Scott got sicker, I had to admit some of our happiest days as a couple were spent on those weekend trips to the Upper Peninsula. Maybe this is what it felt like to begin forgiving Scott, to let go of my resentment towards him and his selfish decisions, the ones that had left me a widow at twenty-nine. I hoped so. I was done blaming him for my aloneness, done feeling sad about it. And on days like today, when the sun was bright and the snow was sparkling, I could even say I loved my life more because it was finally, completely my own. I looked up at the mountain. I would never take this kind of beauty for granted, even if I lived here and saw this every single day. It wasn’t just gratitude that flooded my heart at that moment, but unadulterated joy.
“Here, let me take a picture of you in front of the mountain.”
I was startled by the voice and the hand, which before I could protest was wrapping around my camera.
“Whoa!” I said, pulling
it away. It took me a couple of seconds to take in the young man with a dimple in his left cheek, and the shaggy brown hair peeking out from under his black toque. I detected a slight French accent.
“I wasn’t trying to take it,” he said, his palms open to me in surrender. Then he smiled, his teeth bright white against his sun-kissed face. “I thought you’d like to be in the picture. My name is Theo.”
“Hi,” I said, cautiously offering a hand, the other one still holding my camera out of his reach. He couldn’t have been more than thirty years old. But this was a face that basked in sun and wind all day. The sexy wrinkles around brown eyes gave him a patina of maturity despite his youth. “Cassie.”
“And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I work here. I’m a ski instructor.”
Hmm. I had been alone for two days, and I’d enjoyed those days a lot. But here was this gorgeous man in front of me. In all likelihood he was one of Matilda’s. I decided to cut to the chase.
“So you work here, in Whistler? Or are you one of the … you know …?”
He cocked his head at my question.
“One of the … you-know-whats? … One of the … men?”
He glanced around the crowded village square, a confused look on his face. “Well, I am … a man,” he said, clearly drawing a blank.
It occurred to me then that he could be just a guy, a random guy, someone very cute who happened to come up to talk to me, someone with no relation to S.E.C.R.E.T. at all. This seemed less impossible to imagine, and I smiled at that thought.
“Okay,” I said. “Now I’m sorry. And I didn’t mean to assume you were a camera thief.” I was participating in the Canadian pastime of apologizing to strangers, something referred to in my guidebook.
“How about a free ski lesson to make it up to me?” the man offered. Yes, there definitely was a slight French accent—or rather, Québécois.
“What if I don’t need a lesson?” I said, feeling a little confidence return.
“So you’re familiar with these slopes?” He smiled an irresistible smile. “You know the conditions and can spot the black diamond runs, know which lifts take you where, and which beginner runs turn treacherous if you’re not paying attention?” Who was I kidding?
“No, actually,” I admitted. “I’ve been circling the base for a couple of days. I don’t know if I have the nerve to go up.”
“I’ll be your nerve,” he said, giving me his arm.
Theo was a natural teacher, and though I resisted the scarier black diamond runs, after an hour of easily carving up the Saddle, the cold glacial slope where the snow is as sharp and crisp as I’d ever known snow to be, we took an express lift to the Symphony Bowl. Theo promised me a mix of challenging drops with easy ridges to give my quivering thigh muscles a bit of a break, then a leisurely five-mile run to the village. I was glad for my nightly running routine in New Orleans. Had I hit the slopes with no prior conditioning, I’d have been paralytic in front of a fire for the rest of the weekend.
At the rim of the Bowl, I had to stop. Yes, the white rippled snow, which stretched to meet a sky so blue it hurt to look at it, was utterly breathtaking. But I also marveled at how my world had changed with a simple “yes.” Over the last several months, I had been able to do things that would have been utterly inconceivable a year ago. Not just the sex with strangers, but volunteering for the Ball, taking up running, dressing a little sexier, being more outgoing with people, standing up for myself, and now, coming here, alone, with little idea of how my four days would unfold. I never would have done these things before accepting the gift of S.E.C.R.E.T.
When this young man balancing skis on his shoulder had approached me in the square, instead of recoiling from the advance, or questioning it, I tried to accept that this was possible, that I might be worthy of this man’s attention. An hour later, quite literally on top of the world, I began to feel transformed. Yet there was still part of me that doubted the spontaneity. Part of me was still waiting for us to reach a crest and share a lingering look, and for Theo to ask if I’d accept the Step.
“Beautiful,” Theo muttered, stopping next to me and taking in the view I was admiring.
