A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain #1)(61)

But that was na?ve, wasn’t it? I don’t even know if this place will still be called Madigan Mountain next year. The sign out on the highway might say Sharpes’ Snake Lodge for all I know.

“I hope we do this every year forever,” is all I can tell Bert. “If I have anything to say about it, we always will.”

He gives me a mock salute and a smile. “I’ll shut the lift down in—” He checks the time. “—ten minutes.”

“Wait for us!” a voice calls behind me.

When I turn around, I see Raven and Sutton running toward me with their gear. “Cutting it a little close, girls.”

“We like to live on the edge,” Sutton says, tossing down her skis to clip in.

“See you up there.”

“You know it,” Raven says as I juggle my poles and my torch and then scoot into position for the chairlift.

The next bench glides around and scoops me into its embrace. I sit back and tip my chin upward. The storm has moved past, and the night is clear enough to light the sky with stars.

It’s chilly in spite of the toe warmers I put into my ski boots. I don’t use them often, but I think of Reed every time I touch one. He gifted me a whole box of them before that fateful night when I first said yes to “pizza” at his place.

Some girls get roses. I got toe warmers. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

I can’t believe I slept with him this week. And now he’s leaving. What a stupid thing to do. Now he’ll live rent free in my head for another ten years.

As the lift climbs, I can hear Sutton’s excited chatter on the breeze behind me. The little girl was born here a few months after Callie came to work at Madigan Mountain. This is the only home she’s ever known.

That means Sutton and I have a few things in common. She was born here, and I was reborn here. Not to be dramatic, but this is the place I’ve lived my entire adult life.

I hope the Sharpes don’t ruin everything. It’s not my resort, and it’s not my money at stake. I don’t have any right to tell the Madigans what to do.

Reed and his father both accused each other of not giving a damn. There’s an argument in there either way, right? Reed stayed away from opening night for ten years. Who does that?

A traumatized person, I guess. In my heart I understand, but that doesn’t make this any less heartbreaking. Madigan Mountain is my safety net. But it isn’t Reed’s. And if his father doesn’t change his tune, it can’t ever be.

That’s just depressing.

The lift climbs smoothly to its natural terminus—at the edge of the learning area, about a third of the way up the mountain. The lift to the peak is just off to the side, but it’s shut down until morning. This is as high as we need to go for opening night.

I glide off to where my colleagues are poised in front of a stand of fir trees, chatting in the darkness, waiting for the signal to turn their torches on.

Raven—whose day job is managing the skier education program—is only a minute behind me.

“What time do you have?” I ask her when she and Sutton ski to a stop beside me.

“It’s a couple minutes till the hour. Bert will call me when the band starts playing.” She waves her phone at me. “Don’t stress, Ava. It’s all under control. And I’ve got a flask of rum in my pocket for our hot cider at the bottom.”

“You are prepared.”

“Always.” She grins.

“Good deal.” I clap my hands three times. “Line up, everyone! Two by two, behind Raven and Sutton.”

“Omigod, we’re first in line?” Sutton clucks. “This is everything.”

The clump of employees straightens out into a loosely organized line. Raven’s phone rings not long afterward, and when she turns on the speaker, I hear a drumbeat. “It’s happening!” she calls, handing me the phone. “Get ready to light up! Two by two. Count off with me, Sutton.”

Nobody at the bottom of the hill is going to demand their money back if we don’t do this perfectly, but it’s still fun. “Starting on four!” I call so that the back of the line can hear.

Together, Raven and Sutton count off the beat. And on four, they both turn on their torches. Four beats later, the pair behind them does. Then the pair behind them, too. And so it goes.

Meanwhile, I sidestep up the hill with the phone so that every pair can hear the beat when it’s their turn.

My plan is to join the end of the line like I usually do. But after the last pair, I’m startled to find Reed standing there in the dark. “You still ski?” I blurt out.

“Count of four, Ava,” he chides. A moment later he flips on his torch at the perfect time, as I fumble to turn on mine a beat too late.

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “I hope the Sharpes don’t hear about this little wobble.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

He laughs, and I admire the contours of his smile in the torch light. “Queue up, Ava. It’s starting.”

Still trying to catch up, I silence the phone and shove it into my pocket. “I thought you couldn’t ski anymore,” I point out as the front of the line slowly begins to move downhill.

“I can’t ski competitively. But if I wear a knee brace, there’s no reason not to get a few turns in now and then. My rebuilt ACL can take it. I usually ski at least once a year.”