Читать книгу Blissfully Yours - Diann Walker - Страница 10

The bright morning light floods into my room, causing my eyelids to crack open. It takes me a full minute to get used to the idea that a new day has dawned. Still, with the holiday over, I’m looking forward to a brand-new day.

I spent all of yesterday unpacking and getting settled into my room. I also browsed through some ski books I found on a bookshelf downstairs. It had been a restful day, but I’m ready to check out the area now that it’s back to business as usual.

Not wanting to get up yet, I stare at the ceiling. Thoughts of Lauren and Garrett’s party make me smile, even though Mitch had not been able to stay long. Some last-minute detail for the business had cropped up, and he had to take care of it.

My fingertips explore the tangle of hair on my head, and I groan. How can I work up such a snarl in one night?

Guacamole scoots around on the bathroom tile and pulls my attention to him. “Good morning, Guacamole,” I call from my bed. He ignores me completely.

Reptiles can be so cold.

“Well, it’s time to wake up and smell the coffee,” I say, yanking off the down-filled comforters. I happily step into my red slippers and red polka-dotted robe, and walk over to the window. The view makes my breath stick in my throat. I think I’m on top of the world. Then I remember. Um, no, that would be where I’m going to work at the coffeehouse.

A blanket of white covers the mountain and distant slopes. Coming from the deserts of Arizona, I can hardly believe I’m here. Not to mention the mere thought of Mitch makes me drool. That usually only happens when I think of cashews. Yeah, I know. Most women crave chocolate and shopping. Now don’t get me wrong. I love chocolate, too—would never turn it down, as a matter of fact. Still, if I had to choose between chocolate and cashews, well, chocolate would just lose, that’s all. I’m thinking I have definite issues.

Allowing my mind to wander, I stare outside when I suddenly realize someone is waving at me. To my horror, it’s Mitch. He’s dressed in a thick black coat and ski cap and doing that jock kind of quick hand wave. It makes my heart act as though I’ve skied down a two-mile run. All right, so I don’t know anything about that, but I do know about the heart-racing thing. I jerk away from the window. Not only do I not want Mitch to see me, but I’m afraid a giant bald eagle will swoop down, crash through the window and take residence upon my head.

I walk into the bathroom, step around Guacamole, look into the mirror and try not to scream. The man who marries me will either need strong drugs in the morning—espresso straight up, venti size—or have a vision problem, as in, blind. I’m sure it’s the only way we could cohabitate.

Unfortunately, I don’t see Mitch Windsor qualifying for the position. “What’s the matter with me? I mean, it’s not as though I have a chance with this guy anyway,” I say to Guacamole, who is checking out the shower stall. I look back at the mirror. “Besides, he will hate me once he discovers I’m a fair-weather, feet-on-the-ground kind of gal.” I’m talking to myself in a mirror, and I have a bird’s nest on my head. How good can this be? I sigh and seriously consider going back to bed. I’m not officially reporting for duty today. Still, I can’t be a slug. It’s not in my nature.

I haven’t really had a chance to visit Martha Windsor, Candace’s granny, aka the new cook. She arrived last night, and I stayed in my room to give them some family time together. So I figure now might be a good time to get to know her. Once word gets out on the B and B, I suspect we’ll be pretty busy.

After directing Guacamole back to his habitat—not that he’ll stay there—I grab a bright green sweater and khaki pants, and head for the shower.

The scent of strong coffee and spicy sausage greets me as I descend the stairs. The polished wooden banister still calls out to me, but I ignore it. I am, after all, a grown woman.

Martha brings a tray of breakfast dishes to one of the tables in the great room, as Mitch walks through the front door. He walks into the dining area—his face red, and his eyes vibrant. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he teases me when he steps inside. I like that he teases me. At least, I think I do. I hope he doesn’t think of me as a kid sister.

“Hi,” I say with a smile.

Mitch pulls off his black gloves and rubs his hands together. “Granny, that looks great.” He gives her a peck on the cheek.

Oh, I’ll take one of those, I want to say, but of course, I keep silent.

“Mitch, you’re cold,” Granny says with a mock frown. “Get your coat off and come join us.” She turns and stares at me, and to be honest, she doesn’t look all that friendly.

“Hi, I’m Gwen Sandler,” I say, extending my hand.

She shakes her head. “I’ve got to keep my hands clean while I’m handling the food. I hope you like sausage, biscuits and gravy, because that’s all I’m fixing.”

I look over at Mitch, who shrugs and offers an apologetic smile.

“I love it.” Feeling a little nervous, I scoot into my chair. I watch as Martha lifts the dishes from the tray and arranges them on the table. I would help her, but I figure she’d go into this speech about the germs on my hands. I fold my hands and hide them on my lap. My fingers turn the colored bracelets on my right wrist, a habit I acquired shortly after my thumb-sucking days ended.

Soon the table is spread with a feast fit for a king.

“This looks fantastic, Granny,” Mitch says.

She snaps her head forward. “Well, what did you expect? I’ve been cooking for fifty years.” She throws me a look that says, “Try and top that one, sister.”

I’m wondering if I’ve done something to offend her. I retrace my steps and can’t imagine what. She hasn’t known me long enough. She doesn’t seem rude, really, just a granny with attitude. Sort of the Granny Clampett type. Come to think of it, she kind of resembles her, too. Hair pulled back in a tight bun, her body thin and wiry.

Out of the blue she says to me, “Don’t call me Martha. Everybody calls me Granny.” I almost see the hint of a smile here.

Mitch slips into his chair beside me. I shiver a moment for no reason at all. Well, except for the fact Mitch is so close I can smell his cologne. It reminds me of the great outdoors, fresh and energetic. Intoxicating. I want to lean into him and take a deep whiff, but then I remember my manners.

Without another word, Mitch and Granny join hands, then Mitch reaches for mine. They bow their heads, and he begins to pray for the meal. I try hard to concentrate on the prayer, I really do, but my palm is getting all sweaty, and I’m wondering if he’ll notice. Plus I can feel the pulse in my fingers. And it’s very fast. This is so embarrassing. He’ll think I’m nervous, that I lack confidence. That I’m a wimp—or worse, that I have an artery problem.

I hear him say “amen,” and I lift an apology heavenward for failing to participate in the prayer. I toss a quick smile to Mitch, hide my sweaty palm under the table and quickly wipe my hand on my khaki pants. Probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

Granny picks up the plate of biscuits and passes them.

“So you’re going to Dream Slopes this morning, you said?” Mitch asks as he takes a couple of biscuits and passes the plate to me.

“Thanks.” My bracelets rattle as I take the plate. I remove one biscuit. I’d rather have three, but I want to appear the dainty female, even though I’m not. “Yeah. I wanted to check it out.”

“Great,” he says.

I feel proud that he’s happy with my decision. Funny that it’s important to me to please him. But after all, he is my boss.

He scoops some scrambled eggs onto his plate and smothers his biscuits with gravy. “They have a nice place, there’s no denying that. But ours will be nicer.” He looks at me and winks. “I’ll take you to Cool Beanz when you get back.”

I try to ignore the goose bumps crawling up my arm and take a tiny little bite from my naked biscuit. Did I mention I passed up the gravy? After the meal I think I’ll sneak into the kitchen and lick the pan.

“Monica Howell does a fine job of running the place, but she doesn’t always play by the rules,” he says.

“Oh, don’t tell me that girl is still up to her tricks.” Granny spreads some jelly on her biscuit. “That one sure does need prayer,” Granny says before taking a bite of her biscuit.

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “Sometimes she gets me all stirred up, and prayer is the last thing I think about when it comes to Monica.”

“From what your family has told me, she could try the patience of Job,” Granny says.

They’ve piqued my interest in Monica. I’m wondering how old this woman is, what kind of personality she has, what she does that gets Mitch all stirred up.

He turns to me. “Monica is thirty-four, divorced and drop-dead gorgeous.” Mitch must have read my mind.

Excuse me? Do I want to hear this? I’m thinking no.

“I went to school with her. But her charm is only on the outside, believe me.”

Can anybody really be all that bad? I always believe the best in people. I can’t help it. Innocent until proven guilty is my motto.

Granny and Mitch share a glance.

“See, in high school Monica and I dated. She never quite forgave me for losing interest and moving on. Still, we’ve maintained a civil relationship through the years. It doesn’t help that I now have a business in direct competition with hers.” He plops the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and shrugs. “That quote about a woman scorned sure is true.”

“You got that right,” Granny says with an ornery chuckle. “But in all fairness, from what I hear, she hasn’t had it so easy.”

“Yeah, must be tough growing up with all that wealth,” he says with sarcasm.

Granny raises her eyebrows. “And you’ve lived in poverty?”

Mitch grins. “All right, so you’ve got me there.”

I’m enjoying their conversation, even if I feel a little excluded at the moment.

“Enough about Monica.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Thanks for breakfast, Granny. It was delicious. I’ve got to get back out there and check the rope tow and ski lifts—make sure everything is running as smoothly as a beginner’s slope.” He scoots out his chair and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll see you in a little while.” Putting on his coat, he grabs his hat and gloves and heads out the door.

My shoulder tingles where his fingers had been, and I linger there a moment.

“You want anything else?” Granny asks as she rises from her chair and starts to clear the table.

“No, thank you.” I want to add that I’m stuffed so she’ll think I eat next to nothing, but that would be a flat-out lie. I’m not stuffed. I’m starving. I consider throwing myself on the biscuits and gravy, but decide against it. Instead, I lift some dishes to help clean off the table.

“Nope, this is my work,” Granny says with a possessive edge to her voice.

My hands have been slapped so I will know my place around here. I’ll have to work my way into her heart. In the meantime, I go to my room to get ready for my trip to Dream Slopes. Once inside, I see Guacamole nosing around the handbag that I had left on the floor. “Oh, no, you don’t,” I say, scooping it up. I have to keep everything out of his reach, or he’ll hurt himself.

Which reminds me. I haven’t told Mitch about Guacamole yet. Good grief. He doesn’t know about my iguana. He probably won’t mind, but an iguana is hardly a normal household pet. He also doesn’t know I can’t ski. The man will throw me out. I have to tell him. And soon.

The cold air stings my cheeks as I purchase my ski ticket at Dream Slopes and head for the entrance. My fingertips hide in my gloves and tingle from the chill.

Skiers and alpine trees dot the mountainside, giving the scene a winter wonderland feel to it. The sky boasts a vibrant blue with only a smattering of shredded clouds drifting lazily along. God creates the most incredible color. I take a satisfying breath. Before leaving the B and B, I changed into my new purple ski suit, new gold-colored coat, gold-and-purple stretchy band around my head and matching ski gloves—complete with the leather strip for grabbing the rope tow. I feel quite the skier. My snow boots keep my feet warm as I trudge through the snow toward the rental building.

I could get into this. In fact, this is downright fun. The air invigorates my spirit, and I’m convinced I’ve done the right thing in taking this job. If I were back in Tumbleweed, I’d be in a stuffy old building, standing in front of a class of rowdy fifth graders, trying to make my voice be heard in hopes of teaching them a lesson or two.

I take a deep breath of the mountain air and feel thankful down to my toes. I think there’s something to this whole mountaintop experience thing.

Once inside the rental building, I have to fill out some sort of card, giving my height, weight, experience as a skier, that type of thing. I’m not real excited about telling my weight to a total stranger. I mean, social security number is one thing, but weight? Anyway, the young woman looks nice enough, so I figure I can trust her not to spread the news.

She directs me to the next person, who looks over the card and looks at me as though I’ve lied about the weight thing. I didn’t fudge, not even a little bit. I figure I’ll never see these people again. Who cares if they know I’m not a size two? It’s obvious anyway. With all these winter wraps on, almost everyone could be a candidate for plus-size clothes.

The woman directs me to the ski boots and then tells me how to proceed to get my skis. I admit it. I’m excited. This is totally out of character for me. Not the excited part, but the stepping out and doing something out of the ordinary. I mean, I enjoy a challenge, adventure, all that, but within the confines of my safety bubble. But away from home? Away from what I know and hold dear? That’s a completely new adventure for me. A bit risky. Kind of scary and invigorating all at the same time.

I spot my ski boot size and pick up a pair that seem to match the weight of a cement truck. What do they put into these things? How can I possibly stand up in them? Deep breath, Gwen.

I find an empty spot on a nearby bench, sit down and pluck off my snow boots. Then I shrug on the ski boots. I strap them tightly around my ankles, and I wonder if my legs will turn purple. I’ll never know since I’m wearing purple pants. I look around to make sure no one is watching, and then I attempt to stand. Success. I don’t even wobble—okay, maybe a little. Dragging my feet along, I slog over to the ski station with all the grace of Igor.

A middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and large, brown-framed glasses greets me with a smile. I hand her my little paper with the pertinent information. She reads it, then walks over to a row of skis, and lifts a pair from the slats. I could have brought my own skis, but I want to see how they do things in the rental building and all, so I decide to play the tourist for now. She then goes over and retrieves a set of poles and brings everything to me. “Here you go,” she says brightly.

“Thank you.” I almost fall over with the awkwardness of the skis, the poles and the heavy boots. I smile my apology and trudge out of the way. I have to not only stay up in these boots, but I have to carry all this stuff?

I like challenges, I like challenges, I repeat over in my mind.

Finally, I make my way through the exit and step into the bright sunshine once again. My heart feels lighter, despite my concrete boots.

I see some workers standing nearby and manage to approach them. “I’m interested in a private lesson. Who would I talk to about that?”

A dark-haired man in his thirties with chin stubble and a glint in his eye smiles brightly. “I can help you with that,” he says. He takes my credit card to pay for the lesson and, before I can blink, we begin.

The good news is the bunny slope is small, so my vertigo and fear of heights should be at a minimum. However, five minutes into the lesson, it becomes apparent to me that I’m in over my head.

I’m at Bliss Village, on top of a mountain—well, a hill on the mountain, but I’m at a ski resort, mind you, attempting to ski. That’s right. Me. Gwen Sandler, wearing a pair of skis and actually considering going downhill in them.

Would somebody please call 911? I think an alien life form has taken over my body.