Soon the ski slopes came into view. Dozens of white trails flowed in all sorts of crazy directions from the snowcapped summit; they followed the grooves between the dark forested ridges the way meltwater streams will find their own zigzagging paths downhill after a storm. There seemed to be a lot of empty seats on the chairlifts.
The big hotel in the middle of the village loomed into view: the hub of activity for everything going on at Widowmaker. I hadn’t expected to find a parking spot this near the top at the height of the season, but, to my surprise, a Volvo wagon was pulling out as I pulled in.
It was colder here than it had been at home. The air had a sharpness to it that promised imminent snowfall. As I crossed the lot, I noticed that I was one of the only people not dressed for skiing. Just about everyone else was clomping around in ski jackets, pants, and boots, as heavy-footed as Frankenstein’s monster. Unencumbered, I sprang lightly up the stairs that led to the center of the resort’s little village.
A recently shoveled sidewalk led between two big buildings: the Widowmaker Hotel and a plazalike strip of stores and restaurants. I saw signs for a market, a Laundromat, a coffee shop, and a few restaurants. You had to pass through an alley to reach the base lodge. It was a big post-and-beam building with wide doors. I followed a family of skiers inside.
I paused to remove my sunglasses at the entrance. At first glance, the great room seemed like a cozy-enough space; it was lighted by elaborate chandeliers and warmed by an enormous river-stone fireplace. But a closer inspection revealed that the carpet had been scuffed down to the backing in spots, and on the ceiling there were water stains shaped like prehistoric continents. Drafts blew about the room, carrying clattering echoes from the cafeteria and voices from the changing areas, where people were putting on and taking off their boots and helmets.
A sign for the Sluiceway pointed me up the stairs to the second floor.
Inside an arch, a teenage hostess stood behind a podium. She had a skier’s tan, which made her gray eyes look grayer, and she was wearing a tight sweater, which accentuated the muscles in her firm little arms. She showed me the braces on her teeth when she smiled.
“One for lunch?” She lifted a menu from the stand.
“Is Amber working today?”
“Amber? She should be here somewhere.” She glanced around the room. Only the bar itself seemed to be illuminated by artificial lights. The rest of the place was awash with natural light from a wall of windows. The air smelled of french fries.
A shout went up from a table of guys in plaid snowboarding jackets. “No, she fucking didn’t, dude! That’s not what she fucking said!”
It wasn’t even noon yet, but those shredders were already buzzed.
The hostess blushed. “If you want to sit at the bar, I’ll send her over.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled brightly again, and I wondered how many drunken men mistook her innocent friendliness for flirtation. If I had been her brother, I wouldn’t have wanted her working at a place where guys got wasted before noon. I took a seat at the bar, positioned so I could keep an eye on the rowdy snowboarders.
I had never skied Widowmaker during my Colby years. East Kennebago was the runt of the local ski mountains, with no interesting geological features—no horns or windswept snow plains—to amp up its sexiness. Because its trails had been built on the southeast-facing slopes, the sun had more time to melt whatever snow fell, turning powder into water, and water into ice. The ski term for the mountain’s characteristic surface was frozen granular, but my classmates who had skied Widowmaker called it “death cookies” and warned me away.
I hadn’t needed the excuse. The real reason I had avoided Widowmaker was that I hadn’t wanted to run into my father unexpectedly. I knew that he frequented the roadhouses and saloons between Rangeley and Solon: a drinking territory that he roamed the way a predator will mark as its own a certain chain of mountains, or expanse of forest. The prospect of my wandering into a barroom and seeing my dad on a stool, unshaven, with a shot and a beer in front of him, had scared me off. It was easier to stick to Sugarloaf, where I knew he had already been banned for life, and where I didn’t have to worry about being humiliated.
The bartender came over. She was an athletic-looking woman with short hair the color of squid ink. She was dressed in jeans and a black fleece sweater with a W on the breast. “Beer?”
“Coffee.”
“I’m making a new pot, if you can hold tight for a few minutes.” She pushed a basket of popcorn across the bar. I took a handful. It was almost inedibly salty.
Glancing at the wall of windows, I saw tiny flakes of snow beginning to fall—the innocent-seeming vanguard of the coming storm.
“Mike?”