As a single mother, she’d worked as a secretary for a series of construction companies, making a marginal income. She’d met Paul Seay at a trade show in Las Vegas in 1966. He was a custom builder, owner of Merriweather Homes in Santa Teresa. He was a blue-collar success: stable, down-to-earth, and devoted to her and her little girl. Margaret and Paul had married when Sloan was four and Margaret found herself back in Santa Teresa, where she’d gone to school. Paul had been married before and had two sons, now ages thirteen and fifteen. Justin and Joey lived with their mother during the school year and spent the Christmas holidays and summers in Santa Teresa.
As a child, Sloan had pined for the father she never knew. In the photograph of him, which had been taken at the ski resort, he was dark-eyed and tanned, with a flash of white teeth and ski goggles pushed up in his dark hair. While Sloan was growing up, his image had been the source of fantasies—hopes that he hadn’t really perished in the accident. Her mother told her his body had never been recovered and this fact had contributed to her belief that he might still be alive and well. Maybe he’d taken advantage of the avalanche to escape the responsibility of impending parenthood. Sloan wasn’t offended to think he’d abandoned her before birth. Instead, she immersed herself in ski lore, thinking that one day she’d go in search of him.
When she was ten and poring over a stack of old ski magazines, she chanced on an article about Karl Schranz, the Austrian skier who’d competed in the 1962 World Ski Championship. He’d won the gold medal in the Downhill, the silver in the Giant Slalom, and a second gold in the Combined. In the photograph that accompanied the text, the face was Cory Stevens’s. In point of fact, the photograph was a duplicate of the one she kept on her bed table. Sloan was dumbfounded. Was her father actually this medal-winning Austrian skier?
She had gone straight to her mother. “Is Karl Schranz my real father?”
Margaret’s expression was genuinely blank. “I don’t know anyone named Karl Schranz, Sloan. Where did you come up with that idea?”
Sloan showed her the two photographs side by side. “This is Karl Schranz and this is my dad. The two are the same and you lied to me! He’s not dead. He’s been alive all this time.”
Margaret had denied this at first, but Sloan had pushed and her mother finally broke down and admitted what she’d done. The story about Cory Stevens and the winter in Squaw Valley was completely fabricated. She’d clipped the photograph of Karl Schranz and framed it so Sloan would have an image to turn to whenever she needed the comfort of a father figure. Sloan’s real father, said Margaret, was someone she’d known in the past, but with whom she’d had little contact since. Sloan wasn’t sure what to believe. Confused and upset, she’d told Poppy the story in confidence, making her swear she’d keep the secret. Poppy had crossed her heart and hoped to die and two days later the story was all over the school. Poppy had denied telling a soul and Sloan had had no choice but to shrug the matter aside and live with the humiliation.
In point of fact, Margaret’s account changed each time Sloan pressed for information until she understood her mother had no intention of telling her the truth. The only fragment of the original tale that she insisted on throughout was that Sloan’s bio-dad was supportive of the pregnancy and promised generous financial support for the child. Beyond that, she refused to budge. Maybe money was meant as the consolation prize, but since it failed to materialize, there wasn’t much comfort there. Sloan’s fury and disappointment soured the relationship and the bond had never been repaired. Mother and daughter had agreed to an uneasy truce, but Sloan had never really forgiven her. She viewed her mother with disdain, rebuffing even the most well-meaning expressions of love and concern. Paul Seay had stepped into the breech and Sloan had transferred her devotion to him. In another couple of weeks, Paul and Margaret would be driving to Tucson to pick up the boys and bring them back for the summer.
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When Sloan got home from school, her dog met her at the door, barking with joy as though he’d never expected to see her again. Butch was a Pyrenees Mountain dog, a hundred and forty pounds of loyalty, patience, and affection. He was two years old—white with a plumed tail and an overcoat of coarse hair that formed a ruffle at his neck. She gave his woolly head a kiss and rubbed his ears. As she hung her jacket on the hall tree, she glanced into the living room, where her mother was stretched out on the couch, a burning cigarette between her fingers. Sloan hated her mother’s smoking almost as much as she hated the faulty gait and slurred speech at the end of the day. This was late afternoon and Margaret was asleep, stoned to the gills. Sloan removed the cigarette stub, put it out in the ashtray, and then went upstairs to her room with Butch close behind.
She changed into sweats, retrieved Butch’s leash from the mudroom downstairs, and took him out for a walk. This was his favorite time of day and hers as well. Paul had given her the dog for her fourteenth birthday, an oversize bundle of fluff with a big loving heart. At night, he slept in her room at the foot of the bed. By day, he settled in the downstairs hall and waited for her to get home from school. The May sun was lingering a little longer each day and Sloan felt her mood lift as the two followed the road. Half an hour later, when they arrived back at the house, Sloan was startled to see Bayard Montgomery sitting on the front porch in the white wicker rocking chair. He had a big Styrofoam cup in hand, a sixteen-ounce soft drink that he sipped through an oversize straw.
Butch galloped to his side and greeted him with enthusiasm, panting happily while Bayard set his drink aside and gave his big noble head an affectionate shake. “How you doing, boy? Such a fine, great, big old dog!”
Butch was clearly nuts about Bayard, his tail wagging and his mouth open in the equivalent of a doggie smile.
Belatedly, Bayard looked up at her, saying, “Hey. How’s by you?”
“I can’t believe this. You’re actually speaking to me?”
Bayard studied her with mischief in his eyes. “I want to work for your dad again. He’s letting me run his bulldozer and his excavator, which is really cool. I thought it would be smart to butter you up.”
“Are you kidding? I’m a social leper. Austin finds out you’ve talked to me, he’ll consign you to the flames.”