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I fell to the ground, cowering with a sob when a warmth came over me. The noise around me became muffled. Coarse fur brushed my forehead then a stern snort from above forced my eyes open.
Looking up with all the bravery I could muster, there I saw the biggest of the reindeer standing like a bridge over me. Two thick front legs caged my shoulders, his head bowed with steam snorting from his flaring nostrils, driving the rest of the herd back into the far reaches of the paddock.
That reindeer stood guard over me until Papa came looking hours later, the sun just peeking over the horizon.
“That’s Leonardo. He’s the herd leader. And your protector from the looks of it.”
Papa had given me a stern talking to that night, along with a cup of hot chocolate before tucking me into bed and muttering something about upgrading the security system.
From that day forward, Leonardo has been my best friend. Outside of Lucy, of course.
“Carinaaaaa,” Lucy sings my name, still looking at me impatiently while I stand in front of her in towels.
“God damn,” I say with a grimace, “I’m coming. I’ll just throw on my jeans and be right there. Fuck.”
“Stop swearing, trash mouth. No shirt?” She gives me a considering squint. “Gonna be a lively lunch. Let’sgo!” She claps twice, then disappears back into my bedroom as I drop the towel and struggle to stuff my damp legs into the denim, not bothering with underwear. “What do you want for Christmas this year, the girl with an unlimited Black Amex asked of her sister with the same?”
“Donuts and flying lessons,” I call toward the open door. “Same as last year.”
“Grandpa will buy you all the donuts in Canada if you just ask him. But, are you going to eat them?”
“Maybe. If I get a tapeworm.”
She chuckles, but it’s not funny and we both know it.
“Well, the flying lessons you know are a no-go. He would never let you go that far away from here and flying is dangerous. You’ve been asking for flying lessons every year since we got here and it’s a big ole nope from Papa.”
I sigh and a lump lodges in my throat as I tug on my white thermal shirt dotted with red snowflakes. I gave up bras six months ago. My chest is barely there, but still, as I think of the stoic man that will be sitting at the head of the table, my nipples tighten, pushing through the fabric.
My sister is right on both counts as far as the donuts and flying lessons.
The donuts, I’d never eat, but I wish I could.
And the flying, that’s been my stretch life goal since we flew here three years ago over the icy mountains and landed with a bump and a splash as Lucy covered her eyes and I watched out the tiny airplane window with wide eyed wonder.
When we switched from the big commercial jet to the little bush plane, it was a woman who took the seat behind the wheel, looking like a female version of Indiana Jones in her worn bomber jacket and faded jeans. She landed that buzzy little plane on the mirror surface of Lake Harpon, the lake which is encircled by my grandfather’s property; and from that moment forward, I wanted to be like her.
Papa has since built a landing strip on the other side of the lake in case we need emergency flight service for sickness or whatever. At least that’s what he said.
I tug at the hem of my shirt, pulling my shoulders back. I have the chest of a twelve-year-old girl, which is great for ballet, but not great for dangling my forbidden fruit in front of my grandfather in an attempt to garner a lusty second glance.
Not that I would know what to do if he did. I mean, in theory I do, I’ve read enough smut to turn my brain as sooty as a chimney.
It’s more a game of sorts. There’s no possibility in this world or any other that he would desire me the way I do him, but it hasn’t stopped me from a dangerous game of teasing and toying with the man who saved my sister and me from the life of madness and crime that is at the very core of our family legacy.
That legacy took my mother from me, and my stepfather, such as they were. They were loving toward us in their way, but not to each other. They were distant and engulfed in the power struggle of an all-consuming life of violence and chasing down dirty fortunes.
“Comeon,” Lucy calls while I curl my toes on the cool marble floor, swiping the heel of my palm over the steamy mirror, taking in my blushed face and wet hair.
I have my mother’s strange golden-brown eyes and my father’s burnt copper hair. My face is more square than oblong and my cheeks still rival those of any chubby infant. I’ve never been conventionally beautiful like Lucy, but up here in no-man’s-land, there’re no girl cliques or peer groups to set any sort of standard.
I unscrew the cap on the gold and white glass jar on the sterling silver tray between my double sinks and dip my finger into the silky French cream, lathering it onto my face, thankful that my teenage acne has quit being so dramatic.
“I’m starving,” Lucy says. “And you better eat. I don’t want to sit there and watch Grandpa have an aneurysm watching you poke at your food and not take a bite.”
I step out of the bathroom as she stabs her index finger my way. “He doesn’t notice,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth, thinking I should brush them again before lunch, then rustle my hair into loose wet waves with my fingers.
“The hell he doesn’t.” She bounces on the edge of my bed, wearing a red leather jacket, white t-shirt and black wide-leg slacks with combat boots and a pair of red headphones around her neck.
