A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(2)

Hell, this road is still as familiar as my own hand. The sight of it puts an ache right into the center of my chest. It’s like heartburn, I guess—inconvenient, but ultimately survivable.

I hadn’t planned to reschedule my whole life in order to suddenly fly to Colorado and face down my past, and the higher the car climbs, the worse this idea gets. Even though the windows of the SUV are rolled up all the way, I could swear I smell the scent of pine, and I hear the snap the needles make underfoot when you walk through these woods.

Almost a hundred years ago, my great-grandfather bought this spot at the end of a challenging old logging road. He passed it on to my grandfather, who build one of the first ski resorts in the Rockies.

The location is a challenge, though. When it snows, the road is difficult to plow. In weekend traffic, if someone takes a turn too fast and skids, the resulting fender bender can stop the flow of cars for hours while the tow truck does its job hauling the unfortunate victim away.

That’s why Madigan Mountain never became a sprawling international destination, like Aspen or Whistler. Our vibe was—and still is, I guess—a smaller, family ski mountain. Our customers like it that way. The regulars often book next year’s vacation before they’ve even left the premises.

It’s heartbreakingly easy to picture my mom waving them off with a happy smile. “See you next year!”

Even that brief memory stings. She’s been gone more than a decade, and it still hurts me. That’s why my brothers and I avoid this place.

And it’s not like my dad ever gave his three sons a good reason to visit. After Mom’s death, he became a surly beast. We all fled. Ain’t nobody got time for his bitterness.

But here I am anyway. Dad may be a decent hotelier, but he wouldn’t know a financing contract if it bit him in his grumpy ass. I’m here to make sure he doesn’t get fleeced.

You could argue that Dad’s finances are none of my business. After all, I’ve already made my own tidy fortune. But I have two younger brothers. Weston is a military pilot, and Crew is busy being famous. His daredevil ass could literally be on any continent right now, as long as there’s snow there. He doesn’t like to check in or return phone calls. Who knows if he even saw Dad’s crazy email?

I haven’t always been a great brother. After my mom died, I didn’t stick around for Weston and Crew. I hightailed it back to Middlebury College in Vermont. After graduation, I settled in Silicon Valley, where I made a career for myself with a Stanford MBA and a lot of ambition.

So I’m showing up because they can’t. Or won’t, in Crew’s case. I need to hear what the hell Dad is thinking. I need to know if he’s serious about selling a property that’s been in our family all this time.

It’s also the place where my mother is buried. If nothing else, I can put flowers on her grave one last time.

The road makes a final turn, and the resort comes into view. I find myself slowing down to take a good look.

The sprawling resort footprint hasn’t changed much in decades. The stone lodge my grandfather constructed in the fifties is connected to a three-story hotel that was added on later. That original lodge holds the hotel lobby, restaurants, and offices. And there are fifty rooms in the hotel.

The resort follows a half moon shape, with most buildings facing the mountain. Slanted, late afternoon sunlight paints the snowy peaks a golden color. Down the slope is the big wooden ski lodge my grandfather built in the eighties. That’s where the day skiers go to rent their skis, book a lesson, or buy a bowl of chili.

And in the other direction—behind the hotel, and beyond my current view—there’s a spa, a heated pool, and a couple of hot tubs. There’s an outdoor pavilion where weddings are held during the warmer months.

All the buildings have peaked roofs and about a million shutters painted a color called Heritage Red. The summer after eighth grade, I painted a bunch of those damn shutters myself. For weeks, my hands were splattered with Heritage Red, and so were my shoes. But a guy has to earn money somehow, and there was a sweet pair of Rossignol skis that I just had to have.

The rest of the resort spreads farther along the mountain’s base. The foothills are dotted with fifty or so condo units that my family sold in the nineties. They have red shutters, too, which gives everything a unified appearance.

I’m a little stunned by how gorgeous everything is. I’d honestly forgotten just how striking the rugged mountain range looks against the blue sky. The resort looks well kept, too. The shutters are as fresh as ever. The gravel parking lot is well graded and carefully plowed.

My father had been such a wreck after my mother died that I wasn’t sure what to expect. If the place had crumbled to the ground, I wouldn’t have been shocked.

There are no indications of crumbling, though. Two new signs direct visitors to Skier Parking or Hotel Check-In. Each sign features a cheerful mountain goat—on the first, he’s driving a SUV with skis mounted on top, and on the other, he’s carrying a backpack toward the lodge.

I stare at these signs a little longer than necessary, because there’s something vaguely familiar about the art. I can’t quite put my finger on why.

But I’m not here to see the sights, so I pull up to the hotel. A young man hurries outside to greet me. He’s wearing a Madigan Mountain jacket in a snappy design. That’s new, too.

“Checking in, sir?” he asks.