The Accidentals(64)

Alice pales. Then she gets up off the bed and leaves the room.

I wait until her footsteps retreat down the staircase before I put my face back down in my arms and cry. Because Frederick has finally done the thing I’ve been afraid he’d do.

He bailed on me.





My father doesn’t even call me until the next morning at nine. I’m lying in bed, trying to decide whether it’s worth getting up when my phone rings.

“Rachel,” he says, his voice gruff in my ear. “I owe you an apology.”

Or ten. Or a million. I’m not ready to accept even one. “Where are you?”

“Standing on the beach. It’s still dark.”

Why didn’t you take me too?

“Rachel, what did you say to Alice?”

“Why?”

He chuckles. “Whatever you said, it was very effective. Either that, or zombies got her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night she came over to Ernie’s, and then drove me to the airport. She said she was sorry.”

“Really?”

“I owe you big.”

Then why don’t you come back?

“I like the hat,” he adds.

“Oh. Good.” I’d noticed that he never wore one, even on the coldest days in New Hampshire. I’d found him a sort of wool Stetson, it’s cool-looking, but also warm. I’d been so eager to give it to him, and now it’s hard to remember why.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper, and hang up.





I’m reading an old biography of Eric Clapton that I found in Frederick’s room, when my phone rings again. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

“Hi Rachel. It’s Ernie.”

“Hi.” I hope he won’t apologize too. I’ve had enough awkward conversations to last years.

“You busy?”

I smile. “No. Why?”

“Are you up for a little adventure?”

“Um, sure? What kind?”

“Frederick left you a present in his closet. Open it and bring it outside with you. I’m on my way over.”

“That’s very mysterious, Ernie.”

“You’ll see,” he says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

I go into Frederick’s room and open the closet door. Sure enough, there’s a big box, wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a fancy ribbon, but no card. I kneel down in the closet doorway and pull the ribbon off, then tear the paper.

Inside the box I find a pair of waterproof gloves, a fleece neck gaiter and a pair of surprisingly bulky goggles. Also, I find a pair of North Face snow pants just like Aurora’s. At the bottom of the box there’s a note in Frederick’s handwriting.

Come with me to Snow Creek this week. Even girls from Orlando can handle a Missouri “mountain.” We’ll have you skiing the wilds of New Hampshire in no time. — Dad Stung, I flick the card aside. Then I pick up the box and run downstairs, shoving my feet into my boots. When I open the front door, I see a Buick pull up in front of the house, exhaust wisping from its tailpipe.

I run down the walk, fling open the passenger door and jump inside. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Ernie’s hand pauses on the way to the gearshift. “Why?” He’s wearing black snow pants, a bright orange parka, and the same look of gentle surprise I often see on his face.

“He sent you to take me skiing. And you said, ‘Sure, dude, I’ve got it.’”

Ernie hesitates. “I like skiing.”

“That’s not the point!” The pitch of my voice approaches hysteria. “He sent you to babysit me, to clean up his mess. Why do you put up with his shit?”

And why do I?

Ernie doesn’t say anything. He just waits.

“Damn him,” I swear. “I can just hear him now. ‘Too bad I put that note in the box. But I’ll just get Ernie to cover for me. I’ll tell Henry to pay him rehearsal scale for the afternoon.’”

The low burble of Ernie’s chuckle fills the car. “You’re funny when you’re pissed.”

“Then I’m having a really funny week.” I smack my hands on the dashboard. My eyes have begun to burn.

“It’s complicated, Rachel,” Ernie says, turning the key to shut off the engine. “Frederick and I have been covering for each other for a long time.”

“Really?” I press. “How come you wrote so many songs with him, but it’s his name on the front of the albums? You’re his enabler.” I can hear myself going too far, taking it out on Ernie. But yesterday I’d defended Frederick. Now I feel like pounding my own head against the dashboard.

“Can we go skiing now?” he asks quietly. “Just go get your coat. This will be really fun.”





“Turn, turn, turn!” Ernie calls as I accelerate toward the tree line.

Just before it’s too late, I force my weight onto my right leg and roll my feet. Miraculously, I turn.

But then my skis cross. And I fall. Again.

Two little kids, probably about five years old, zip past the spot where I lay in the snow.