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“You shouldn’t be on the intermediate slope,” he scolds. “We try to emphasize safety here. Skiers should never take runs that are above their abilities.”
“It’s the number one cause of accidents,” adds a second. “You were lucky this time. Try this again, and you’re not only a danger to yourself, but a danger to other skiers.”
Well, excuuuuuse me.
Now I feel like a complete crap heel.
George—good old, faithful George—is waiting at the bottom. “Are you really okay?” he asks, bending over the stretcher.
“I’m fine. My ego is bruised, but my body seems to be intact.” And, apparently, ready for more humiliation.
“Good,” he says, taking my arm. “I told Amelia we’d meet her in the lodge for an Irish coffee. She’s an old friend of mine from Brown. Don’t worry,” he adds, taking in my expression. “She’s not competition. She’s a couple of years older.”
We clomp into the lodge, which is steamy and loud, filled with happy people boasting about the great day they had on the slopes. Amelia is seated near the fireplace; having removed her jacket, she’s in a tight-fitting silver top and has managed to brush her hair and put on lipstick, which makes her now look like she’s in an ad for hair spray.
“Amelia, this is Carrie,” George says. “I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced.”
“No, we haven’t,” Amelia says warmly, shaking my hand. “In any case, it’s not your fault. George should never have taken you on that run. He’s a very dangerous man to be around.”
“He is?” I ask, settling into a chair.
“Remember that white-water-rafting trip?” she asks, then turns to me and adds, “Colorado,” as if I, too, should be familiar with the incident.
“You were not scared,” George insists.
“I was. I was terrified to death.”
“Now I know you’re joking.” George points his finger at her for emphasis and pats my hand. “Amelia isn’t afraid of anything.”
“That’s not true. I’m afraid of not getting into law school.”
Oh boy. So this Amelia is beautiful and smart. “Where are you from, Carrie?” she asks, in an attempt to include me in the conversation.
“Castlebury. But you’ve probably never heard of it. It’s this tiny farm town on the river—”
“Oh, I know all about it.” She smiles sympathetically. “I grew up there.”
I suddenly feel queasy.
“What’s your last name again?” she asks curiously.
“Bradshaw,” George says, signaling the waitress.
Amelia raises her brows in recognition. “I’m Amelia Kydd. I think you’re dating my brother.”
“Huh?” George says, looking from Amelia to me.
My face reddens. “Sebastian?” I croak. I recall Sebastian talking about an older sister and how fantastic she was, but she was supposed to be away at college in California.
“He talks about you all the time.”
“He does?” I murmur. I sneak a look at George. His face is intensely blank, save for a bright red patch on each cheek.
He determinedly ignores me. “I want to know everything you’ve been up to since I last saw you,” he says to Amelia.
I break out in a sweat, wishing I’d broken my leg after all.
We ride most of the way home in silence.
