Coming in from the Cold (8 page)

He’d learned on past trips that the fickle Gods of rural cell phone coverage smiled on this parking lot, and so Dane delayed the inevitable by calling Coach.

“Where are you?” Coach said quickly, always wary of Dane’s disinclination to show up for flights on time.

“I’m going to be a day late,” Dane said quickly. No point in beating around the bush. “Sorry, Coach. I’ll catch a night flight, and be there in time for course inspection.”

“Aw, kid. They’re going to shoot me on sight,” Coach complained, “when I turn up with more excuses for you.”

“So take a later flight yourself. Or tell Coach Harvey to go fuck himself. Seriously.”

“Where are you?”

“I just pulled into the nursing home. I’ll be a couple of hours here, then I’ll shoot down to Boston. I got the Jeep stuck last night and couldn’t get dug out until midmorning. Honestly. Show Harvey a fucking newspaper. We got two feet, and Logan was shut down for a few hours. I heard it on the radio. I’ll be there on time, and I’ll ski fast. And then he can kiss both of our asses.”

Coach sighed into the phone, and it sounded like a hurricane gale. “See that you do.”

“Have a beer on me, Coach. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have
too many
beers because of you, kid. If you would just
explain
to Harvey that you’re having a family emergency….”

“No can do,” he said. “But how about I just win the race, instead?”

“See you over there,” Coach sighed. And then he hung up.

* * *

Dane tucked his phone away and walked into the home. He was greeted by the nauseating smell of floor polish mixed with antiseptic, and the glare of fluorescent lighting.

“Hello, Mr. Hollister,” the receptionist called. “I have a letter for you from Dr. Brown.” She held out an envelope.

That was not a good sign.

“Thank-you,” he said, taking it. He gave her a salute and strode past, down the hall and to his brother’s door. Pausing outside, he slid his finger under the flap and opened the envelope. The letter was just as discouraging as he assumed it would be.
Dear Mr. Hollister…still trying to get his infection under control. New antibiotics…haven’t given up hope…

Dane shoved the letter into his pocket and steeled himself before pressing the door open. His first view of Finn was always a shock, and he’d learned to smile as a cover.

When he walked in, his brother’s eyes flicked up to his from an unbelievably emaciated face. “Hey!” Dane said, taking three long steps toward the wheelchair, keeping eye contact like a champ. Even though Finn’s chin sagged toward his chest, his brother’s face contracted with a tic of recognition.

Or, maybe it was just a tic.

Dane couldn’t be sure. The wall that the disease had built between them had started out low enough that it could be stepped across, if not ignored completely. But layer upon layer had grown these past fifteen years. Now it was so high as to be impenetrable.

“Hi, Finn.” He took his brother’s fragile hand into his and straightened it out as best he could. This hand, once incredibly strong and lithe, had helped Dane into his first ski boots, snapping the buckles into place. Now it was bent like a discarded piece of cardboard, cupped onto itself, useless.

And feverish.

Dane felt the pressure settling into his chest—the inescapable pain that always hung on him in this place. He looked around and found Finn’s copy of the
Boston Globe
, unruffled, on the bedside table. “Let’s find the sports section,” he said, opening up the pages. “Who’s on top of the basketball standings?” he asked. Then he began to read.

He read every article in the section out loud. Before Finn had deteriorated so far, Dane used to tell him things about his own life. His brother had given him drool-y smiles after hearing all of Dane’s antics on the ski hill. But things were looking so desperate now, the feeding tube snaking out of Finn’s blankets, the IV that delivered the newest antibiotic. It seemed unfair to talk about all the good things Dane enjoyed that Finn did not.

Or maybe he’d stopped telling Finn good news because talking to his brother felt too much like looking in the mirror. Now that Dane was knocking on thirty, his own unfortunate future loomed large. How long would it be before he was in Finn’s shoes, perhaps in this very room? Dane had chosen this nursing home because it was the nicest he could find. At fifteen grand a month, it was expensive. But when Dane visited, his brother was always well cared for. He was clean and well tended, and the nurses who came through were cheerful and quite obviously well paid.

The best nursing home in New England. Now there was a dubious honor.

The sports section completed, Dane was fast running out of things to talk about. He watched Finn’s eyes flicker across his face. There was still a person in there, paying attention. The disease had a marked effect on the sufferer’s personality, but dementia didn’t hit every victim the same way. He had no way of knowing how much his brother still understood, because the muscular deterioration had taken away his ability to speak more than a year ago.

Dane hesitated, wondering what to tell Finn next.
So, I met a girl
. Some part of Finn might still like to hear what his little brother was capable of pulling off in the back of a Jeep. But Dane wouldn’t tell the story. Because if Finn were still able to understand it, then both of them would be depressed by the inevitable conclusion. Dane couldn’t see the girl again because fate had determined that he would likely also be a loser in the same harsh game of genetic roulette.

Fate was a tricky bitch, anyway. Because if it weren’t for Finn, Dane would have never met Willow. He would never be training in New England, and he wouldn’t have crossed her path. Heads you win; tails I lose.

This kind of math—disease math—was always on his mind. How many years until his brain faltered, and he began to forget things? How many people would assume he was a drunk when his gait went goofy?

Lost in thought, he hadn’t spoken in a couple of minutes. “Sorry,” Dane said, his own voice echoing into the silence. “I’m shitty company today.” He ruffled the newspaper again. “Let’s see what’s happening in the TV section. Maybe there’s something good coming on for you this week.”

“I really appreciate this favor, Willow.” Her friend Travis swept his hand across his head again, trying to keep his wavy blond hair under control. “I really don’t want to miss the big game.” When he smiled, Travis’s eyes crinkled at the edges. He had the open face and friendly gaze that a good bartender required.

“It’s no problem, Trav,” she said, tying the half apron around her waist. “I think it will be fun.”

“Hope so,” he said, looking up and down the bar, which was nearly empty, except for three ski-lift operators at the far end, and Willow’s friend Callie at the other. “Wednesdays aren’t too bad,” he said. “And I’ll be back before the bowling league guys come in. If there’s something you can’t find, ask Annie.” He dropped his voice, even though the waitress was out of earshot in the adjacent dining room. “She’s kind of a bitch, but she’s worked here a long time.”

“Gotcha,” Willow said, smoothing the apron down. “Have fun and don’t worry about a thing.”

“If she gets slammed, I’ll help out,” Callie volunteered from her bar stool.

“If she gets slammed, I wanna watch,” one of the lifties muttered, and his friends guffawed into their beers.

Travis leaned close to Willow’s ear again. “They’re disgusting, but probably harmless,” he said.

“I’ve heard worse.” She flashed him a smile.

When Travis went out, Willow did a little twirl in front of Callie. “This
is
kind of fun. Like playing lemonade stand, but with alcohol.”

The waitress, Annie, came in from the dining room, slapping an order slip down on the bar.

Willow picked it up to read it. “Annie, I think this says: one book, one corn and a bird.”

Annie snorted. “A Beck’s, a Corona and a Budweiser.”

“Huh, okay. Coming right up.”

When Annie huffed out of the bar, Willow grinned at Callie. “See that? I get to say things like ‘coming right up!’”

“I guess Travis asked the right girl for this favor.” Callie sipped her beer. “Is he paying you for this gig?”

“I won’t let him,” Willow said. “He’s helped me out a lot since John left. He recommended me for my temp job, he found someone to patch my roof for cheap. He’s been a good friend.”

“You know he wants you, right?”

Willow uncapped the Beck’s and the Corona and looked up. “What?”

“Travis,” Callie said. “He likes you. A lot.”

Willow frowned, adding a wedge of lime to the Corona’s bottleneck. The Bud was on tap, so she grabbed a pint glass off the rack and dispensed it with a flourish. “I don’t see that.”

“Then you’re blind.”

Willow set all the drinks on a tray and then leaned on the bar in front of Callie. “In other news, I had a small bit of luck last week.”

“You mean, other than getting lucky?”

Willow put a finger to her lips. “Don’t make me regret telling you about that, Callie. It’s not a story I’d share with anyone else.”

“We can’t have drivers of Jeeps everywhere propositioning you.”

“Right.”

“Oh, Willow,” Callie sighed. “I’m just jealous. I’m single for the first time in three years, and life at the hospital is all drudgery.”

Willow reached across the bar and rubbed her arm. “I’m so sorry.”

“Wait, I’m so busy whining I forgot to hear your lucky news.”

“I rented out the apartment.”

“Hurray!” Her friend applauded. “That’s great. How?”

Willow shrugged. “I was going to make a new sign, but I got the call first. My new tenant is some kind of coach working at the mountain until spring. He was very apologetic that he only needed four months. And I’m jumping for joy, of course, just to have someone for that long.”

“Is he hot?”

Willow smiled. “I’m happy to introduce you. He looks to be about sixty-five years old, but with a nice, friendly face.”

Callie rolled her eyes. “Figures. But still, I’m so glad for you. That’s a big relief, isn’t it?”

“It will keep the bill collectors at bay. Maybe he can recommend another tenant by the time he goes.”

Annie came into the bar again, with another of her illegible order slips. Willow hopped down to look at it before she could leave. “Does this say a White Russian? A Dirty Martini…and what’s this last one?”

“A Shirley Temple.”

“Right.” Willow looked around, wondering why there weren’t any cherries alongside the lemon and lime wedges that Travis had left for her. Where were the cherries? Willow squatted down to inspect the shelves below the bar. Travis had all manner of ingredients down here—Worcestershire sauce, different sorts of olives in jars. “My kingdom for a jar of cherries,” she grumbled. “Who knew I could be undone by a Shirley Temple?”

“Wills?” Callie called her. “You have another customer.”

“Just a sec…” Willow put the olives back onto the shelf and stood up quickly. There was now a man seated a couple of seats away from Callie.

Holy hell
.

It was Dane. And he was every bit as surprised as she was, his bright blue eyes opening wide. Willow froze for a moment, her heart stuttering. She took a half step back, bumping into the beer cooler. Grabbing a tap to steady herself she accidentally dispensed a short stream of ale before righting herself. Her face began to flush to a deep red.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Hi.” She stared at him.

“You’re not Travis,” he said.

“Right.” She cleared her throat. “I’m just covering for him so he can see his kid’s peewee hockey game.”

Their staring match was interrupted by one of the lifties. “Hey, hottie! Get down here a minute.”

Willow wiped her hands on her apron. “And no good deed goes unpunished,” she said. “Excuse me.”

“I’m thirsty.” The lifty waved her over. “Another Guinness, honey?”

“Coming right up,” Willow sighed. At the taps, she began pulling a Guinness into a pint glass, tipping it carefully to avoid a head. “What can I get you?” she asked Dane over her shoulder.

“Um,” he said. “I’d love a cheeseburger,” he said.

“Food…” she said. “Tricky. Give me a minute.” She took the Guinness down to the asshole at the end. Then she leaned over the bar to call into the next room. “Hey, Annie!”

A moment later the waitress appeared. “Where are my drinks?” she said by way of a greeting.

“Almost there,” Willow promised. “Do you happen to know where Travis keeps the maraschino cherries?”

“Did you check the fridge?” she asked.

Willow felt herself flush again. Where was her brain? “As a matter of fact, I did not.”

Annie snorted.

Willow leaned down for the bar refrigerator. “I thought they were indestructible,” she said under her breath. “I think they found some at Pompeii. I’ll have your cocktails in two shakes,” she grabbed the cold jar of cherries. “Could you take a food order for this gentleman, please?” She nodded at Dane, as if he were a complete stranger. If he wanted to pretend their night together never happened, then that’s what she’d do, too.

Annie lumbered over to him, jutting her boobs into his face. “The usual? Cheddar burger medium rare, onion rings and a Corona?”

“Great,” Dane said, leaning back an inch or two.

To Willow, Annie said, “If I’m taking his food order, I’m going to put the beer under my number, too.”

“Knock yourself out,” she replied without looking up.

When Annie left, Callie spoke up. “I wonder if she delivers the food on those things, too?”

Willow heard Dane snort from behind the sports section.

She made a Shirley Temple, putting two cherries into the glass. “The kid will thank you for that,” Callie said.

“Right?” Willow asked, trying to keep her cool. “That’s the whole point of ordering a Shirley Temple. The cherry. So, why not an extra?” She put the drinks on a tray, then carried them down the empty expanse of bar. “It can be my signature drink. The Shirley Temple, with an extra cherry.” Now she was babbling.

When Willow put the tray of drinks back down, the lifty nearest to her clamped a hand down on her wrist, trapping her there. “I’ll take your cherry, honey,” he said, leering up at her.