Snow Ghosts

All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Bonny Alonzo

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase presented by Writer’s Digest an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse.com, Inc. 5220 S 16th, Ste. 200 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

The characters, business establishments and geographic locations in this fictional book are products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, businesses, locations or events are purely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-12058-X

ISBN: 978-1-4697-1618-3 (ebook)

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For my Mother

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to acknowledge the friends and relatives who not only assisted with critiques, proof-reading, suggestions and unconditional support, but who lent variations on their names and personalities to help make this work of fiction and its characters a pulled resource of mini-memories. Alphabetically, they include: June Beatty, Sylvia Bunn, Jeanne Clancey, Ruth Clancey, Mike Daniele, Becky Dunbar, Chuck Frumerie, Pat Girard, Judy Kamel, Vicky Leo, and Frank Taucher. A special acknowledgement to Betty Trogolo for her suggestions and her talent for the cover art.

CHAPTER ONE

It was quite possible that the skier recognized me as I charged across the slope…but the light went out of his eyes as he stayed in character, choking on his own blood and mumbling, What a way to go…

My own eyes started to gloss over, mostly from the shock of all that went down. I waited for help, my mind floating up and back in time while I seemed to look down on the scene from 30 feet above. Just a week ago, I considered this job a piece of cake. Now, my hands and feet were numb, and I was tired, so very tired. The crowd that was gathering looked like a frosty rainbow, their voices unimportant. Still, I had to make some sense of it. So I went with the gentle pull…back to last Sunday, back to the drive to Monastery Resort, when I should have kept my nose out of things.

***

This snow was starting to get an attitude. The flakes that clung to my windshield like clumps of mashed potatoes refused to yield to the expensive triple-blade wipers that the garage attendant had talked me into. The blades were obviously laboring under the weight of the sudden blizzard, and I had to slow my little 4-wheel vehicle repeatedly to let the wipers catch up. TV weather stations back in Pittsburgh warned, Don’t go out unless you have to. Regardless, I plowed forward, my neck getting sore from bobbing and weaving for an open spot on the windshield so that I could peer out into the elements.

Damned two-bit resort,I grumbled.After twenty years they decide they need me.

I theorized that Monastery Ski Area was scared stiff about something and didn’t want the public to know it. The fact that they had called me, a self-proclaimed private investigator, instead of some high-profile detective and security firm, told me that they needed some unobtrusive undercover work done, and they needed it fast.

This was the territory of most of my life…my coming-of-age back roads, so to speak. Hidden in the foothills of the Allegheny Mountains, 100 miles east of Pittsburgh, this jewel of a recreation area was immensely popular, which was hard to believe given the difficulty in finding it and the fiendish approaches that led to it. All this for a ski area with 20 slopes? Many asked that question when they arrived for the first time. But then the unanticipated surprise of Monastery Ski Area, with its small-town commitment to the sport and its uptown clientele, grabbed them and made them return again and again.

I had hammered up this mountain hundreds of times in my youth, driven only by my love of skiing and a boiling rage to live in those days. The circumstances were quite different tonight. Twenty-some years had passed, and now the resort was asking for my help. They needed someone to unclutter the growing mountain of accidents that were driving the customers away, and help diffuse the bad press vibes that were burning up the newspapers and TV screens. I downshifted into 4-wheel drive, which was a new luxury for me. I suppose maturity and experience no longer permitted me to tackle the mountain pass in a 64 Mustang with clanking emergency chains, or a Triumph Spitfire, whose bottom shushed the pavement instead of making contact with it.

The snow began to let up. At least I could see the faded white dividing line on the narrow road. I relaxed a little and lit a cigarette, much to the dismay of Nikki, my 9-year old Alaskan Malamute, sulking in the passenger seat. As usual, she had exercised her independence and refused to wear her seat belt. Nikki had been a gift from my ex-husband, and I loved her fiercely. Only sporadically did I get the impression that the feeling was mutual, she being the same independent, superficial personality that I was.

Hang in there, girl, I soothed her.

She answered with a soft whine that turned into a yawn.

At the top of the ten-mile stretch that led to the resort, the night cleared and I was able to relax the muscles that had tightened in my shoulders from hanging onto the wheel. I felt that same old exhilarating feeling as I approached the entrance gates. A sharp right turn at the crest of the mountain road led past a fieldstone monument boasting a water mill, overtaken by cascades of ice at this time of year. It was a beautiful sight, reminiscent of the early 1900’s and calling to mind the local inhabitants of those days. Monastery lay off further to the right, cozied in by the surrounding foothills. It gave off a luminescence in the distance like an immense birthday cake with hundreds of candles and glowed yellow-white in the sub-zero air. I eased past the ticket booth, waving a nonchalant hello to an old gentleman manning it, and for just a moment, I thought I recognized him. Normally, even spectators had to pay an entry fee, but most of the old-timers knew my face.

Beyond the gates, the road climbed upward again, with tall pine trees lining both sides. On top of this small rise, Monastery came into full view. It boasted the biggest base lodge complex in the states, with all the buildings crafted by hand from fieldstone and timber garnished from the surrounding hills. Flags of all nations flapped in the breeze and strong gusts of wind urged mini-avalanches off the rooftops here and there. The parking lot was jam-packed as usual, with bundled people running toward the brilliant buildings. Early January brings the best skiing to Pennsylvania, cold as hell, but much awaited and too soon gone. I rudely ignored the parking attendant who tried in vain to steer me to a lower lot. Fat chance! Never yielding to their frenzied gyrations in all the years I had come here, I wasn’t about to start now. Carefully avoiding eye contact, I hung a quick left toward the main lodge, getting the full, up-close view of the facility. I slunk forward toward a couple with a screaming toddler who were gathering themselves into their vehicle.

They shot me a dark look over their shoulders as if to say, We’re not rushing for the likes of you!

I shrugged and tossed my cigarette out the window, then flipped the gearshift into park. That’s all right, folks. I can outwait anybody for a spot at the front door.

While I waited, I took in the entire breathtaking view. A main lodge spread from left to right with convention facilities, dining rooms, tourist shops, and cocktail lounges. To the far right loomed a more modern eight-story structure, the new hotel. Even though it was constructed of the same materials as the rest of the buildings, I had always felt it looked a bit like a lady with her skirt up, out of place and embarrassed amidst the other compact, hill-hugging edifices. Beyond the lodge, the five front slopes poured forward, beginner to expert, with snow machines spouting and spewing. It gave the scene a smoky, frosty radiance, approaching the surreal. I watched stick figures descending the slopes, my eyes automatically drawn to those doing perfect short-swings.

Two hundred feet behind the main lodge was the monks’ quarters, or the original lodge of the resort. It was over a 100 years old, and had the cozy look of a long, low shepherd’s hut in the Alps. It was the only standing structure left of a small monastery abandoned as such many years ago. The building became the first ski lodge when the entire mountain was purchased for a struggling recreation area after the depression, catering to wealthy Pittsburgh businessmen who were looking for a retreat from the smoky, steel-mill city. I knew every corner of the old haven well, dormitories, shops and cafeterias, plus a wonderful locals bar with entertainment so good that 2 a.m. would find you kicking and screaming, as someone escorted you to the door. I couldn’t believe that anyone would deliberately set fire to the lovely, old landmark, as the news hustlers had been hinting.

The little family was finally in their car, and had inched their way out of the parking spot. A white Tempo tried to slither past them on the left to nab the space, but quick reflexes and basic rudeness let me floor it right at the hapless driver, who weaseled back down with an embarrassed nod of his head. I wheeled the four-wheel into the spot, murmured sweet nothings into Nikki’s ear, got out of the car, and locked up. Hopefully, there was no animal welfare do-gooder around, ready to haul me in for leaving an animal unattended in my car in zero weather. Nikki would be aghast at anything above 15 degrees, and given her solitary nature, she would not have appreciated joining me in my trek to the administrative offices. She viewed with disdain the fawning kootchy-kootchies of the masses. Beneath her teddy bear exterior, dwelt the heart of her ancient wolf heritage.

I zipped up my silver-gray parka, pulled on my 30-year-old leather ski-mittens and trudged through the new powder toward the main entrance. As I hauled open the enormous church-like doors, the enticing heat of the lobby enveloped me. Real-live fireplaces with that nostalgic smell of wood smoke…overhead; memorabilia of snowy years past included various sets of snowshoes and delicate, reed-like dog sleds. Here and there live pine trees, still decorated for the holidays, stood in splendor and dried eucalyptus and wintergreen tied with red velvet ribbon adorned the wooden walls. The real staples of decor, however, were the life-sized, hand-carved wooden monks. They stood everywhere; eyes cast heavenward as if praying for continued snow.

Two ruddy men with steam pouring from their nostrils wheeled a dolly in through the doors behind me, nearly knocking me over. It was brimming with the night’s load of enormous logs that would keep the fireplaces alive and inviting until morning. Skiers and their families lolled about, drinks in hand, waiting in line for the dining room, playing the few video machines and tapping time to the strains of the jukebox in the bar off to the left. The song, Clapton’s After Midnight twisted my gut for some forgotten reason that I shook from my mind.

I took a quick detour to the ladies room on my right and bellied up to the mirror. In my late 40’s, I was still obsessed with my appearance, and leaned close to the glass to reapply the bright red lipstick that I always wore. You’d think that in my line of work I’d be more diligent in my search for clues than in my search for new wrinkles, but vanity sometimes won out. My short, red hair looked pretty good so I simply ran my fingers through it and batted the baby-blues at myself. The thought of running into people that I hadn’t seen for a years made me turn sideways with a frown and suck in my stomach. Would God ever grant me a few years of really skinny to see how the other half lived? Sighing in resignation, I turned quickly and walked out to the lobby.

The administrative offices were on the far left of the entry area, and were open even at this late hour. I gave my name to the receptionist on duty. She jerked her head up from her magazine to show a windburned, all-American face and told me that Brad Lennon, the General Manager, would see me in a few minutes. I sat down gingerly on a leather and wood settee and thought about what I was doing there.

Brad, an old friend, had called me two days earlier. The conversation was brief, but it was enough to spike my concern. I had followed with much interest the recent alarming news blurbs about some exceptionally negative happenings at the resort. In December, just prior to the rush of winter business, the lovely covered bridge which connected the new lodge to the old facility, had collapsed in late afternoon, sending a handful of people into the icy waters of the five-foot-deep duck pond below. The pond served not only as a visual environmentalist haven, but also as the lower, immediate holding area for water that fed the vast snowmaking system. It was a little known fact that the system was patented and state-of-the art, definitely one-of-a kind. That brouhaha was barely on the back burner, when the new triple chair lift, carrying passengers to the back side, had abruptly swung into reverse dumping four hapless skiers into the rift face first, resulting in broken legs and wrists. Stories of lawsuits abounded and the media was drooling over possible sabotage rumors. Most recently, just two days ago, the final blow came as a section of the employees’ dormitories, sequestered in a wing off the old lodge, went up in a puff of smoke that the local fire departments had labeled arson. A lot of action, if you ask me, for a tiny little resort that minds its own business.

The heavy pine, oval-arched door swung open and Brad Lennon appeared, almost as I remembered him. Tall and more husky now, his once, snake-like body used to thrill me as I would watch him glide down the slopes 25 years ago, skis cutting the Pennsylvania ice that we call snow like a hot butter knife. To my novice skier’s eyes back then, this man was near deity. How I used to long to ski like him and his tight group of cronies. I suppose they couldn’t have helped noticing me hanging around like a groupie with adoring eyes. They hadn’t been at all snobbish, even though they were the elite of Monastery. They quickly took me under their wings to teach me the finer art of various winter indulgences, some I preferred not to remember.

Now, Brad was graying at the temples, slightly paunchy, but still well built, and smiled boyishly when he saw me. He had sandy red hair falling in a wave over his forehead and clear blue eyes that gave away his Irish heritage. Khaki chinos and a yellow v-neck sweater told me he had spent the day in his office, rather than on the slopes. Walking with a tight little stride that expressed his no-nonsense attitude, he headed right for me.

Angie, you’re a sight for sore eyes, he laughed as he wrapped his arm around my neck in a mock chokehold. If you listen to my whining for 20 minutes, I’ll buy you a drink in the new bar!

Oh no…I hope the years haven’t turned you into the sniveling type, Brad. I said. It’s not your style!

Just kidding, just kidding! Come on in and sit down. I heard the roads from Pittsburgh are a bitch. Can you stay the night?

Could I stay the night! Always prepared, that’s my motto. However I still did some quick calculations in my head, addressing their pricey accommodations.

On me, of course Brad said interrupting my mental math and getting right down to business. I hope you’ll agree to stay a few days and help us out. And Angie, I guess I don’t need to tell you that all this is strictly on the QT.

Brad didn’t have to tell me. It was understood.

My MO was generally underhanded. Yes, I’m a self-proclaimed private investigator, but no one would ever catch me flashing a card and saying, I’d like to ask you a few questions. I don’t advertise and I don’t work for an agency. With my background, which included some possession, a DUI and a general reputation as a hell-raiser for many years, no agency would have me. Too ‘high-visibility’ as they say in the business. Yet, word of mouth customers had kept me nicely satisfied in my second little career. I had done my time in the corporate world as a silver-tongued devil selling for a large company. My former life was right by the book…navy blue suit and heels, leather brief case, bulging day-timer, and a much-celebrated early retirement. Just three months of that luxurious relaxation was enough to tell me what I dreaded. I was bored silly! I needed some action! I needed some purpose! Now what does a middle-aged redhead, with plenty of relish for excitement do with her life? Well, she does exactly what she always wanted to do…travel from ski resort to ski resort, in search of the elusive white stuff, kind of like the surfers who follow the sun. Thirty years ago, they called what I do ski bumming. I prefer to call it a Creative Exchange of Services. I offer the ski areas security and behind the scenes investigation of any type they need. They offer me in return, free skiing and, if I’m lucky, free lodging for me and my pooch! This is what I do. I planned it, I worked for it and I’m good at it. I carry letters of recommendation with me from all around the country: Pennsylvania, New England, Colorado and British Columbia. I also still carry my day timer.

Sometimes the jobs are boring. For example, Here, Ms. Marchetti, we’ll give you two days of passes and a dorm room, if you’ll help nab that teenage boot thief in the cafeteria.

Gee thanks, Sir, I’ll take it!

But occasionally the service that they request is hot stuff! Like the one at a resort near the Canadian border that was being used as a cover up for drug deals coming out of Canada. That netted me a whole season’s private room, ski pass and two meals a day! Nikki could stay with me, too. No pestering the relatives in Pittsburgh to keep a love sick Malamute while I was away. And the resort felt I was worth my weight in gold for exposing the in house drug connection, saving them total shutdown by the authorities and almost certain bankruptcy. I’m welcome back there anytime.

Brad offered me a cigarette, then opened a crystal decanter from the pine bookcase behind him. Still drink Jack Daniel’s?

I’d love one, I replied, but ice it down.

The ice cubes clunk-clunked in the glasses while he collected his thoughts. He handed me mine and we sipped in silence for a moment. He opened a beat-up leather portfolio that contained a yellow legal pad depressingly void of notes. I reached into my bag for the little notebook I carried and it fell open to a blank page. January 8. The newscaster on the way up lamented that Elvis would have turned 65.

Brad sputtered abruptly, Angie, have you been home? I mean here in Pennsylvania for the last month?

I answered that I had been, with raised eyebrows indicating that I had indeed heard all that had been happening up here.

We’re in a hell of a mess…first the damn bridge collapses; then the chair lift, which by the way could have been much worse…then the bomb incident in the dorms.

Whoa! Whoa!I held my hands up in the time out formation.I knew that they suspected arson, but I didn’t hear anything about a bomb!

I know you didn’t, he growled evenly, attempting to be patient with me. We’re trying to keep it hush-hush, but the fire snoops swear that’s how it started.

Wouldn’t it have been obvious? I asked. I mean, the sound of an explosion, middle of the night, etc.?

Well, not exactly, Brad explained. All during the holiday weekend, we offered fireworks at midnight on the slopes. Nothing spectacular ya know, just five or six oohs and aaahs kind followed by a big boomer. The bomb itself was small…just enough to start things smoldering in the back rooms, and finally blaze into a full-blown fire by the time everyone was turning in. It was an embarrassing pot of piss, excuse my French; fire trucks skidding on the ice, people running around in their underwear. To boot, the damn duck pond was drained dry to fight the fire and you know what that means!

No snow making, I chimed in, nodding.

We finally got the guns back on tonight, he continued, but we lost a lot of base. Thank God for this real stuff for a change!

Sounds like all coincidence to me, I shrugged, playing the devil’s advocate. Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, he said. Until this.

He threw a newspaper across the desk toward me. It was the local rag, opened to Letters to the Editor. If I remembered correctly, the most exciting things people wrote to the editor about here in this part of Pennsylvania was the deer population lapping from a salt lick or some local politician in duck soup over a parking fine cover-up. Not so this one. A short letter, whose author asked to remain anonymous, made a point of itemizing the mishaps of the resort in surprising detail, including mentioning the bomb. He (or she) asked the public to rally and demand stringent safety checks and called for a shut-down of the entire resort until it was fit for human consumption, blah, blah, blah. Maybe some mom, jealous of the fact that she never learned to ski in her hey day, was looking for an excuse to keep her kid away from this expensive den of iniquity? Something in its tone made me think not. The bastard that wrote this letter sounded like revenge was in his blood. He hit the words like a cheerleader, made no attempt at good grammar and wanted everyone to take up the cause, as if that wasn’t happening already. I still wanted to keep an open mind, so I let Brad roll the dice with his theory.

He got up and paced the room, running his right hand through his hair and stopping in front of the gigantic color photo of the slopes at night that flanked his rear wall. He studied it intently, and it struck me as amusing, because he could have done a 180 and gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window at the real thing. His being the main man at Monastery right now offered the prime workspace, which was a suite overlooking the slopes with every amenity at his fingertips. Wet bar, security TV screens, cable tuned to the latest weather conditions, speed-dial telephones to all the major points in the compound, small bathroom with a shower, black leather and dark pine on the walls, were just a few. No matter how impressive the surroundings, however, Brad seemed to take it all with a grain of salt. He had the air of a man who still believed this resort was a modest, little private hideaway. I had the feeling that he was just beginning to realize the tiger he had by the tail.

He turned back to me and crossed his arms, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, I thought that he was next to tears, then realized he was searching for a delicate way to phrase his suspicions to me.

Out with it, Brad, I said. You know this is between you and me. What do you think is going on here?

He sat back down at his desk and leaned over the blotter toward me. It’s Fox’s, he said. I know it’s Fox’s Run. Since the goddamn Barrow Brothers bought it two years ago, they’ve been panting down our necks like this is some kind of a race! Barrow is planting trouble here, sure as shit, to get my customers and I just need the proof to stop that fucker in his tracks!

Ol’ Brad couldn’t have taken the words out of my mouth any faster. Fox’s Run was a competing resort eight miles east, sharing the same ridge of the Alleghenies as Monastery. It couldn’t hold a candle, in my estimation, yet in the last two years, I could see definite signs of aggressive marketing. I considered it good business and healthy competition and had spent a dollar or two there myself. There were some new slopes, a quad lift and now, live entertainment afternoons and evenings in the impressive little lodge. Local billboards and an occasional TV spot insinuated, THEY’RE not the ONLY ones who can make snow! I normally don’t like ads that take shots at competitors, but Fox’s Run’s ads were rather clever. Kind of like a little kid saying he could be just as good as his bigger, imposing older brother. The problem was this was no family matter and I feared that the assumption was right on.

Although Brad could give me a run for my money in cutting through small talk, no one could ever beat me to the bottom line. I finished my drink in a gulp and said, I get the gist of it, Brad. I’ll be glad to scratch around and see what I can find out. Before I do, though, we need to toss around any other possibilities. Sure Fox’s is the obvious, but there could be a dozen other reasons. We can brainstorm tomorrow morning, if you like, after I’ve had a chance to think more about it. Right now you’re so focused on Barrow.

Yeah, you’re right, he agreed, getting up and motioning for me to join him at the door. Let me show you the new lounge and we’ll meet back here tomorrow at 10:00. I knew I could count on you.

In unspoken agreement, we dropped the subject of business and started back out into the main lobby. He steered me to the lodging check-in window and motioned for a ruddy-faced woman in her seventies to front and center.

Gimme a key to 100A, Heidi, and just register it to my name.

The woman, who didn’t look anything like a Heidi, smiled warmly and handed me the key. Enjoy your stay, Miss…?

Marchetti, I answered. Angie Marchetti. Brad, I have my dog with me. Is it OK?

He snorted. Place is supposed to be no pets, but they’re running around everywhere. People sneak ‘em in their boot bags. Why should you be any different? How big is it?

I quickly turned and waved to an imaginary friend going into the bar, specifically to avoid answering any drilling about Nikki’s statistics. Brad followed behind, probably thinking I hadn’t heard the question.

We negotiated our way to a table in the new lounge. As I remembered, this space used to be a small, little-known bar barely bigger than the living room and kitchen in my condo back in Pittsburgh. It was a wonderful place then, carrying out the decorating theme of Monastery, with lots of brass, leather and wood. It had a little bar across the left-hand wall that used to seat about 20 people on high leather stools. There were pictures of the original owners, huge rugged-looking mountain men in plaid shirts and sunburned faces. Beside the old cash register, which was now a complicated-looking computer, there had hung a wooden plaque, with the initials YAYPAQFTJBRA carved into it. I must have asked what the initials stood for at least twenty times back then, and I believe that it was Brad himself who finally confided, You Asked You Pay. A Quarter For The Jukebox, Right Away.

I was still recovering from 1990’s shock, when a scraggly member of the small rap group on the stage pointed menacingly at me, beating out the words, The pigs must die! The pigs must die! in two-four rhythm.

Brad beamed proudly, gazing around the huge noisy room. What do you think, he yelled.

I could scarcely disguise my horror as I shouted, It sure is different!

Different was hardly the correct adjective. Gone was the near dark lighting, replaced by orange and pink spotlights. The two colors converging on the black entertainers gave their faces a sickly fuchsia glow. The wonderful pine and leather walls were covered in a hideous forest-like motif that looked very similar to crabgrass that had been exposed to radiation. The barstools were now kidney-shaped saddles and the mountain men were replaced by expensively framed posters of the latest hard-rock bands. To further my dismay, the room had been enlarged to almost three times its original size, with a dance floor taking up a third of it.

Don’t get me wrong. I had spent many a night in this room. But back then, I danced on the tabletops, in my ski boots…like every other respectable skier in the crowd. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried visualizing those long, late nights, when the little combo was wound to the tilt, singing Hold that Tiger, Hold that Tiger, while we rabidly tossed a stuffed animal from dancer to dancer. Walkin’ the Dog was another of my favorites, especially when some handsome ski instructor would join me on tabletop, gyrating at my behind. Old memories die hard and this sudden cultural shock dampened the evening for me.

Oh come on, Angie, Brad shouted defensively. It’s not that bad. I had to do something to keep the kids.

I wanted to say that there were three other dance areas in Monastery for the kids. I wanted to say that it seemed a concession to compete, when he really didn’t have to. I wanted to say that he should have saved this spot for me and my memories. But I was tired. It was, after all, almost 11:30, Sunday night, and even though the crowd was small and conversation could have been attempted, it was just too much for me at the moment.

Brad sensed it, and said, Look, how about if I have a double-Jack sent to your room? You look beat, and I have some things to wrap up.

Glad to be let off the hook, I brightened, suddenly remembering Nikki in the car, and said that would be great.

We’ll both be sharp as tacks in the morning. This place is great, Brad, I lied.

We fanned away the waitress heading towards our table, got up and headed out to the lobby again. Brad thanked me profusely, walked me to the front door, then headed back to his office.

Still in somewhat of a funk, I stepped out into the fluffy winter night. The snow was falling again in big cotton-ball flakes, as I approached my 4-wheel. It was completely covered in a white shroud and I almost expected it to grunt and shake as though I’d offended it by inserting my key into its orifice. Nikki was sound asleep in the driver’s seat. She immediately raised her immense wolfy head, and I could have sworn she bared her teeth in a sleepy smile. I pursed my lips in a kissy gesture and hooked my hand, pointing toward the ground. She slowly roused herself and crawled down into the snow. Realizing that her initial gesture might have been mistaken for affection, she now tossed me an indifferent look, as if to say, It’s about damn time.

Never having had children, and never having wanted any, the only thing in my life that ever stirred the nurturing instinct was Nikki. My heart gave a little lurch as she gazed up into the flakes, as much in love with winter as I was. I retrieved her leash from the back seat, adjusted her red scarf, and pulled my overnight bag from the back floor. Her red bandanna was a souvenir that I had bought for her in Breckenridge, Colorado. It