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At eleven the next morning I was on the ski slopes. Dinner at Henry's had turned out to be wonderful, the subject of Jack Hollister was not mentioned, and Joanna and I had played blackjack together afterward in amiable companionship. I was aware of a certain distance in her, a sense that her attention was not really focused on me, but after three years' separation I had no expectations and certainly wasn't offended at any lack of intimacy in our relationship.
She'd confided this morning at our lecture that Jack had asked her out to dinner tonight, and I'd kept my mouth shut (this time) on my opinion of him as a romantic attachment and made plans to have my own dinner with a couple of guys who had also been in our class at vet school. They were friendly and seemed to want to discuss nothing but various case histories; dinner at an Italian restaurant nearby sounded pleasant and harmless.
I was on my own now, though, a state I relished. On my own, on my skis, on a mountain. On the slope of a mountain, in fact, that overlooked Lake Tahoe. The lake was a picture-postcard blue this particular winter morning, surrounded by a black and white tapestry of snow and pine trees. And overall stretched that endless, deep blue Sierra sky.
Tahoe really does look like some kind of a jewel, I thought. As an image it was probably overworked and outworn, but the scene was so spectacular it reduced me to cliches. Giving up all attempts to find words for it, I pushed off and skied down the slope, losing myself in the flow of motion and speed, the thrill of pushing my limits. It was wonderful to be on skis again.
A few more breathless minutes and I made a sliding turn and edged my way into the lift line, glancing with automatic curiosity at the two women I ended up next to-a flamboyant creature in some sort of metallic gold overall, and one in hot pink stretch pants and a chartreuse jacket. Both had skis that were color coordinated with their clothing.
I provided a definite contrast, as my own ski gear was functional, not decorative, and dated from my graduate student days. The university was a mere two hours from the ski slopes, and skiing was the one luxury I had occasionally allowed myself. I had skis, boots, and poles-all ex-rental stuff that had been on sale at a price I could afford, barely. The rest was wool pants that were baggy and comfortable but not particularly stylish, a fuzzy beanie, and a shelled pile jacket, and I felt slightly out of place as I gazed around.
More women in tight-fitting, color-coordinated outfits were all around me, thronging the lift lines and the deck of the lodge. In defiance of the cold, they were mostly hatless, their hair arranged in fetching styles I'd hardly bother with if I were going out to dinner, let alone tumbling through the snow.
Ah well, don't be so critical, Gail, I told myself. So they have different objectives than you. So what? At thirty-three I was finding I was less and less sympathetic to the youth-and-beauty oriented culture I seemed to live in; I had to remind myself fairly frequently not to be judgmental.
I was at the front of the lift line now; to my relief no other single appeared to join me and I scooted onto the moving chair and prepared to ride up the mountain in solitary splendor.
And it was truly splendor. As the chair topped the first rise Lake Tahoe was spread out before me once again, jewel of the Sierra. And the mountains themselves. The Sierra Nevada, the range of light, as John Muir had called them. I only knew that nothing I'd ever seen approached these mountains for sheer loveliness. Steep, rough-edged, spiky with silvery granite in the summer, softened by the white, powdery snows of winter, studded with vivid blue lakes and sunny green meadows, they were God's chosen garden.
I was so lost in the view that I had to scramble
to get organized when the moment came to get off the lift. One of
my nightmares has always been to pile it up as I edge out of the chair
and end up lying in the snow in a tumble of skis and poles while the whole
ski lift comes to a stop and people behind me, halted in midair, glare
balefully down at my prostrate form.
Once again, though, I managed to scoot to the edge of my chair and
disembark down the steep exit ramp without tangling up. After a moment
to rearrange myself, I started off down the slope, marveling, as I often
did, that these big clumsy appendages attached to my feet, when put into
motion, could suddenly invest me with the speed and freedom of a bird.
In fact, as I swooped back and forth down the snowy hillside, the chill
wind brushing my face while the brilliant sun dazzled my eyes, I felt as
I imagined a hawk might feel, soaring in great, gliding crescents across
the sky.
I spent several hours repeating the thrill until, at around two o'clock, my legs began to protest, reminding me that I hadn't been skiing in three years. Making my way back to the hotel after a leisurely keoke coffee in the ski-lodge bar, I felt satisfyingly exhausted. I walked Blue, took a quick shower, put on jeans and a wool sweater and headed out the door for lectures and dinner with no presentiment that disaster was about to overtake my vacation.
It wasn't until seven-thirty the next morning that I got the first inkling. I was listening, chin on hand, to a lecture on equine eye problems; the lecturer was an extraordinarily knowledgeable man, and an even more extraordinarily dull speaker. Despite the fact that the material was fascinating, it was hard to keep my eyes open.
I'd already noticed that both Jack and Joanna were missing from this lecture, a circumstance that seemed suspiciously suggestive to me, but I refrained from mentioning it to Larry and Rod-last night's dinner companions-feeling virtuous at my own restraint. My smug complacency vanished a second later when a woman entered the room and handed the speaker a note, which he read aloud.
"Will Dr. Gail McCarthy please come to the desk to receive an emergency phone call."
Oh shit. Oh my God.
I tried to keep a semblance of composure on my face as I bolted from the room, various horrible emergencies presenting themselves to my mind. Lonny had died in a car wreck, Gunner or Plumber (my two horses) had colicked and died, my house had burnt down. Fear twisted my bowels as I picked up the phone, but the speaker wasn't Lonny, or some minion of the law, it was Joanna.
"Gail, please, I need you."
At least that was what I thought she said; Joanna was incoherent. She seemed to be choking and crying and talking all at the same time, and I had to ask her twice to repeat herself "Just come," was all she would say. "Room 3 3 1. "
I hung up the phone and headed for the stairs, sprinting up them as fast as my tired legs would propel me. Joanna's room was on the third floor; I was certain I could beat the elevator.
When I knocked on her door two minutes later I was gasping for breath, but Joanna didn't seem to notice. She wore a baggy terry cloth bathrobe, her hair was uncombed and tangled, and there were tear streaks on her face. Joanna did not look as if she'd just spent a happy night in the sack, she looked like hell, and obviously felt worse.
Sitting her down on the bed, I put an awkward arm around her shoulders and tried to sound soothing. "What's the matter, Joanna? Whatever it is, I'll help."
This didn't elicit any response except "It's too much."
"Is it Jack?" I tried. Judging by her response, it was Jack. She buried her face in both hands and wept.
"Please, Joanna." I was starting to feel a little distraught myself "Tell me what's wrong. Did you sleep with Jack?"
It seemed a logical question under the circumstances, but it inflamed Joanna. "No," she half screamed, "I did not, and I didn't want to, either."
"Okay, okay," I said pacifically. "So what's wrong?"
Her own anger seemed to help Joanna regain some control. She sat up straighter and swallowed the next sob. "No, I didn't sleep with him," she said forcefully, "and I didn't shoot him, either. "
"Shoot him? Did he treat you that badly?"
Joanna gave me a sideways look out of wet eyes.
"You don't understand, Gail. Jack Hollister's dead-and they think
I killed him."
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