Part 19 (1/2)
”Nonsense. No instructor. Gwyn will show us how it's done.”
She directed our waiter to bring us another bottle of wine, then with a delicate flip of her fingers, expertly cracked and removed another length of crabmeat from its sh.e.l.l.
I was up by seven the next morning. I could have slept a little longer, but Trevor wasn't being exactly quiet, singing in the shower, using his electric shaver with the bathroom door wide open, and clomping around the bedroom in ski boots.
I looked up from the covers and smirked at him, dressed only in men's briefs and the boots. ”Should I ask what you're doing? Is it really going to be warm enough for that outfit?”
”I'm breaking the boots in a little, so my feet don't hurt later. You'd be wise to do the same thing.”
”I'll take my chances.” I sat up in bed. ”What are we doing for breakfast?”
”I don't know. I don't want to take a long breakfast. And the lines could be bad. There's food in the fridge. Eggs and English m.u.f.fins and cereal.”
I climbed out of bed. ”Okay, then I'll make breakfast.”
The sun was s.h.i.+ning through the blinds promising a beautiful day for skiing. I opened the front door and looked up toward the steep intimidating face of Aspen Mountain-also known as Ajax-then shut the door against the incoming rush of freezing air. ”It's cold out there,” I called to Trevor. ”Better dress warm, honey.”
”I plan to.” He stepped from the hall and held up two outfits he'd brought to ski in, a royal blue ski suit, and a maroon jacket and ski pants. ”Which do you think?”
”Which one is the warmest?”
”How would I know? I've never worn either one.”
”They're probably both good, just wear a thick sweater underneath, a wool one. Which one would you rather wear?”
”I think the jacket. It would be easier to take off when we go inside to eat, but I like the ski suit. You know, I think I'll wear the ski suit.” He walked back out of the room.
So glad I could help, I thought, then headed to the kitchen and pulled a carton of eggs and m.u.f.fins from the refrigerator.
The plan was to meet at the gondolas. We arrived before Bob and Sylvia, and at eight forty-five in the morning, there was already a long line.
”I can't wait to try these skis,” Trevor said. ”Where are those guys anyway?” He slid his skis back and forth in place on the snow. ”The wax seems good. It's not sticking. How's yours?”
”Great, so far.”
He pointed at my skis. ”Those are the exact same skis a lot of the women World Cup skiers were using last year.”
”I know. I'm sure I'll absolutely love them. Good choice.”
”You'll have to slow down just so the rest of us can keep up with you.”
”Trevor,” I said, looking around to make sure Sylvia and Bob hadn't skied up without me noticing, ”she's not really expecting me to try and teach her to ski, is she?”
”I have no idea. But don't worry about it. Give her a couple tips and leave it at that.”
”I know how to ski. I don't know how to teach people. There's a big difference between skiing well and having the proper training to instruct someone.”
”She probably just said it to make you feel good.”
”I doubt that.”
”What?”
”Nothing. Is she going to be able to ski here? There's a lot less beginner terrain on Ajax than there is over at Snowma.s.s or b.u.t.termilk.”
”Maybe she was exaggerating. Maybe she's a better skier than she let on.”
”She'd better be.” Then I realized Trevor wasn't listening.
”Hey,” he shouted. ”It's about time. The lifts close at three-thirty.”
”It's nine a.m.,” Sylvia called back. ”We're right on time.”
She was wearing red again, a red ski suit that emphasized every curve, and so tight I wondered how she moved. She didn't intimidate me though. My own navy stretch pants and silvery-blue ski jacket looked just as good, better in fact.
Sylvia sidled up to me, but smiled at Trevor. ”What a glorious day.”
”Incredible,” Trevor agreed.
Each of us reached down toward our ski bindings, unsnapped our boots from the skis, then brought our skis upright. We quickly moved into the line for the gondolas, the crowd so thick now that skiers' bodies pressed against one another, jostling for position. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that I'd already become separated from the group. I suspected Sylvia was responsible for that move. I stopped and waited for the three to catch up, letting the crush of skiers carrying skis and poles push past me.
”The joys of being first on the lift,” said Trevor. ”It will be better once we're on the mountain.”
”I don't know. This isn't so bad,” said Bob, ”depending on where you're standing.” He was positioned behind a tall Nordic-looking blonde. ”Anywhere else I could get sued for this.”
”Shut up, Robert,” said Sylvia.
”What'd I say?”
Finally, it was our turn and the gondola swung in and slowed. Trevor, Bob, and I jumped inside. But Sylvia took so long at the door putting her skis into the slots outside the cab that no other skiers were able to hop on.
”I did that on purpose,” she said, stepping in just before the door closed and the gondola picked up speed, ”so we could ride with each other in private.”
”I'll bet you did,” said Bob.
”I did.” She stared at us all.
For a while, I ignored their conversation and simply enjoyed the view from the gondola as it smoothly swept us high up the mountain. Tiny skiers seemed to dance on the slopes below, the town of Aspen disappearing behind us as the cab ascended a rise and sailed past colossal pines toward the farthest reaches of Aspen Mountain.
Finally, the gondola slowed again at the top. We exited and retrieved our skis. The four of us stood there, surveying our trail maps.
”Looks like we can get over to Spar Gulch from here,” said Bob, ”and that's an easier run. But all the other runs are difficult, true blacks or blues.”
”And that's what I'll be if we take them,” Sylvia said.
Trevor leaned on his poles, taking in the panoramic view of the mountains. ”It would be good to warm up on something easy. I'm for that.”
”So am I,” said Bob.
”Sure,” I said.