Sisters, p.2
Sisters, page 2
She smiled. Big.
The wind whipped her cheeks and within seconds she knew they’d done it. Pulled off a successful sixteen-man. With ease, she might add.
No doubt next spring the scraggly team would hold their own when joining in the fifty-man in Perris, California. After that, who knew? Maybe they’d go and join in for the all time record in Australia next year. If she could get away without inciting a national incident, that is. She loved her family, but her sisters tended to be drama queens. Leigh Ann especially.
Another tug and Joie released her grip, preparing for the runaway. On the break, she shifted her arms and waved off her fellow divers. Her altimeter read nine thousand feet and just over one hundred miles per hour.
She glanced at the patchwork landscape below, knowing she’d milk every ounce of flying fun from this party. She pulled into a perfect barrel roll, then tucked her head and maneuvered into a forward flip, reveling in the open freedom of air.
Five thousand feet.
Feeling adventurous, she thrust her knees forward, head back and went into a reverse loop, a rare move she’d mastered last summer that left her heart pounding with adrenalin.
Top that, boys.
Despite her petite frame, no one could fly like Joie Abbott. Her no-fear attitude whipped even the most seasoned divers out here. Even Mike, and he had thousands of jumps logged.
Before she could repeat the maneuver, her altimeter beeped loud enough that even in the rushing wind, the sound caught her attention. She fought the urge to go for one more trick, but gave in to safety and pulled her body into a stable position. After checking for clearance, her hand grabbed the hackey and she deployed.
Instantly, a lifting jolt left her tummy several feet below. Her canopy unfurled and snapped open, and in less than three seconds, her descent slowed from nearly a hundred miles per hour to just over fourteen. Buildings and roads came into view beneath her dangling feet.
Glancing up at the familiar orange underbelly of her canopy, she drew a deep breath and pulled at her right toggle, guiding her flight pattern directly toward the drop zone located at the north end of the River Run parking area at the base of Bald Mountain. The wind whistled, even through her helmet, as she made her descent.
The ground rushed up, the treetops grew bigger. She placed her parachute into a full stall and tapped her feet down on black pavement only feet from the packing house door. As her canopy drifted to the ground, her co-jumpers walked in from an adjacent grassy area.
“Hey Chill, you’re crazy. You know that?” Her middle-aged friend with a t-shirt that read Only Skydivers Know Why Birds Sing shook his head.
Joie grinned. Dick Cloudt had never called her by her real name. Not after a particularly wild night where he’d drunk too much and sloppily tried to get her to go home with him. Feigning hurt feelings when she’d turned him down—twice—he’d teased she was an ice queen and nicknamed her Chill. The name stuck. Now everybody at the drop zone used his term of endearment.
Frankly, to Joie, the name was a badge of honor. She wasn’t like some of those wanna-be females who hung out at the DZ in tight t-shirts hoping for a little guy action to spice up their lives.
Joie didn’t require a man to make her feel complete. She’d already proven that.
Convinced a celebration was in order, the group straggled into Crusty’s, a local bar located in a historic red brick building on Main Street now named for the owner with a no sunshine attitude, but a heart made of pure gold.
“Beers all around,” Joie called out, slapping her credit card on the well-worn counter. “Except for me. I’m going with a club soda and lime.”
“You got it. But’s what with you and the club soda?” The balding proprietor with shoulder length gray hair pulled three pitchers from a shelf behind where he stood.
She shrugged. “I don’t need to go down that bumpy road again today.”
Crusty smiled back at her. “Yeah, I hear you.” He positioned the glass containers beneath a tap, tilting each until a perfect inch of foam covered the amber liquid, then slid the pitchers down the counter with precision to his waiting patrons. Next, he pulled frosted mugs from a small refrigerator next to the cash register and clunked them down. “So, you’re looking a bit bright today. No high like the sky, huh?”
She moved onto a stool. “Nothing like it.”
Crusty pushed Joie’s credit card back at her. “Your money’s no good today.”
She shook her head. “How are you going to stay in business, Crusty, if you keep giving all the beer away?”
Grinning, he loaded a tall glass with ice, filled it with club soda and squeezed a lime wedge over top. He plopped the glass down in front of her. “I only charge the ugly ones.” He winked. “And there’s plenty of ‘em around here.”
Joie nodded. “Gotcha.” She lifted the glass in a toast. “Go high, or go home.” She smiled before tossing her head back and draining the cold carbonated drink. Finished, she planted the glass back on the counter.
“C’mon, Crusty. Hit her with a tequila chaser,” hollered Phil from at the end of the bar.
She held up her hand. “No way.”
Crusty’s face broke into a crooked-toothed smile. Ignoring her, he grabbed a bottle from behind the counter and held it up to her with a hopeful look.
She shook her head. “Nope. Like I said, none of that for me. I’m on the wagon.”
Mike bellowed from across the noisy bar. “Oh c’mon, Chill. It’s not every day someone pulls off an FS-16 and a reverse loop in the same jump.”
Terrance Cameron, a retired professor who used to teach African American Studies at Berkeley, slid into the barstool beside her. “Twenty bucks says you’ll change your mind before the day’s out.”
Joie shook her head. “No . . . huh-uh. Not a repeat of last weekend. Besides, it’s barely noon.”
With wavering determination, she leaned over the counter and grabbed the soda gun and refilled her glass, then dug deep in her front jeans pocket and fished out a quarter. “Who’s up for a game of pool?”
Mike downed his beer and headed for the table. “I’m in.” He grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall and chalked the tip. “Loser buys the winner lunch.”
“You’re on.” Joie racked the balls. “But I have to warn you, I’m pretty hungry.”
After winning the coin toss, Mike leaned over, drew the cue back and shoved it forward. A loud crack followed and balls scattered across the table.
They took turns sinking balls. She was stripes. Mike solids.
At the end of the fourth round, Joie was up by two. She called the eight ball in the right side pocket, then walked around the table, assessing how best to approach the key shot.
After deciding a bank shot might be the best course of action, she looked up, noticing for the first time a guy leaning casually against the jukebox across the room. She couldn’t help but stare. His simple white t-shirt accented bulging tanned biceps. He wore jeans. Wranglers. And boots.
He caught her looking and smiled. A casual grin that pushed through his neatly stubbled chin.
Her face flushed and she quickly glanced away, then positioned herself at the table and leaned over.
A green bill slapped down on the edge of the far side of the pool table. “A hundred says you don’t make this shot.”
Joie looked across at the guy’s forearm, tattooed with bear claws winding themselves across his tan skin. She slowly raised her head. Her eyebrows lifted and she stared into the challenge dancing in the stranger’s eyes.
Sauntering slowly in his direction, she responded with confidence. “You’re on.”
She repositioned and swallowed against her dry throat, aware his eyes followed her every move. She drew her cue back, paused and then hit the eight ball right on the sweet spot, sending it into the side pocket. Just like she’d called.
Relishing her shot, she straightened. A satisfied smile of victory spread across her face.
Her friend, Mike, groaned. “Did I just lose a lot of man points?”
Joie moved toward the stranger’s side of the table. “You sure did,” she teased. She picked up the stranger’s hundred dollar bill and slowly slid it into her back pocket.
“Did I tell you I own a Harley?” Mike countered.
Joie shook her head, laughing. “See, that’s like 40,000 man points right there.”
The guy in the white t-shirt thrust his chiseled hand in Joie’s direction. “Name’s Clint. Can I buy you a drink?”
She slowly looked him over, noticing the gleam of his perfectly straight teeth, the way his dark brown hair hung careless around his ears. She patted her back pocket.
“I believe you just did.”
Laughing, she moved for the bar. “Crusty, hit us all up again. Include the new guy. My treat.” She placed the bill on the counter.
The bar owner grinned. “Hey, isn’t today that big shindig in memory of your sister’s husband?”
Joie’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh crap! I nearly forgot!” She slipped Mike’s mug out of his hand and chugged the remainder of the beer, then slammed it back down on the counter. “Look, I gotta go.”
She scrambled off the barstool.
Wrapping a stray curl around her finger, she inclined her head toward the new guy and hesitated.
Then, shrugging off disappointment, she raced for the door.
3
Sun Valley prided itself in a long list of Olympic champions. First there’d been Gretchen Fraser, then Christin Cooper and Picabo Street. All honored with named runs on Sun Valley’s famed Bald Mountain.
Dean Macadam was next in line to garner the local ski hero designation and was projected to make a name for himself at the upcoming winter Olympics. That was, before the accident.
In the short thirteen months she’d been Dean’s wife, Karyn had ample opportunity to hobnob with Sun Valley’s elite. He slipped that ring on her finger and she’d become one of them by association. But like so much, that changed after Dean was gone. Almost immediately, the embossed invites quit showing up in the mail and her star power dimmed.
She took a deep breath, grabbed her purse from the passenger seat of her car and opened the door. In the distance, a massive white tent beckoned—the site of the first annual Dean Macadam Memorial. She was honored to be part of the tribute to her late husband, yet at the same time what lay ahead seemed daunting.
As she reached the tent, Dee Dee Hamilton poked through the crowd and sidled up to her. “Oh, honey, are you nervous? I mean, I just spotted Peter Cetera. Over there.” The older thin-framed woman with short spiky white hair and red glasses unabashedly waved in his direction. She leaned in. “Don’t tell Andre I said so. Even though Cetera is aging, in my humble opinion he’s still one hot apple—juicy to the core.” She winked and gave her a shoulder hug. “And don’t look so shocked. I’m not picking any fruit, only strolling the orchard.”
Dee Dee and her husband owned the Hamilton Garden Center and had generously donated pots of red geraniums tied with raffia for all the tables. She patted Karyn’s arm. “Just look at this crowd. What a wonderful way to honor Dean’s memory.”
Karyn tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, feeling a bad case of nerves bubble up in her gut. “I think he’d have been pleased to see all these people.”
“Yes, you are absolutely right.” Dee Dee pointed across the lawn. “Oh, look! There’s Jamie Lee Curtis.”
Karyn grinned at the woman’s thrilled reaction to another “sighting” as the locals called it. “Thank you for coming, Dee Dee. We—I really appreciate it.”
“Oh, honey, you know I wouldn’t have missed this charity event for the world. Andre and I donated a generous check.” The woman leaned and air-kissed Karyn’s cheek as a large black town car pulled into the parking lot, just yards away from where they were standing. “Must be somebody important. I’m going to go check it out. See you, sweets,” Dee Dee hollered over her shoulder as she hurried in that direction.
Karyn nodded and smiled to herself, determined to embrace that kind of enthusiasm—no matter how difficult the day ahead might prove to be.
She stepped to the bar and ordered a glass of Ste. Chappelle Sauvignon Blanc, a crisp white variety from a local Idaho winery her sister bragged had garnered Best of Class in an international competition sponsored by Sunset Magazine. Leigh Ann was into that kind of trivia.
With glass in hand, she decided to mingle. She was the hostess, after all.
Among the familiar faces she spotted three friends from high school and moved in their direction. Their lively chatter died as she approached.
“Oh, honey. How are you?” Lydia Blankenship pulled her sunglasses from her face. “Today has to be so hard for you.”
Ginny Rush nodded. “But just look at you. Aren’t you the cutest thing in that blue shift. Vera Wang?”
She shook her head. “QVC.”
The trio looked at her like she’d grown an extra head.
“The television shopping network,” she explained. “They carry a lot of designer apparel.”
The women exchanged worried glances.
“Oh? I didn’t know that. I—we’ll have to check that out, won’t we girls?” Lydia patted her arm before slipping her glasses back in place.
Karyn gave the group a half-smile. “I wanted to thank you all for coming out today. Means the world to me.”
Ginny’s expression grew sympathetic. “Oh, honey. We wouldn’t think of skipping this chance to support such a good cause. And you, of course. We’re so happy we could be here for you.” The girls all bobbed their heads in agreement.
Lydia pointed over Karyn’s shoulder. “Hey, I think someone is looking for you.”
She turned to see her in-laws, Bert and Aggie, heading her way. She stifled a groan. Not that she didn’t have affection for Dean’s parents, but no one would necessarily describe the power couple in terms of warm and loving. More like privileged, aloof and full of expectations.
Still, they’d been very good to her since Dean’s passing. Mutual loss often creates an unexpected bond.
“Karyn, darling!” Aggie extended diamond laden hands and pulled her into a light embrace. “How are you, honey?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned to her husband. “Bert, find me a glass of wine. And not that syrupy dredge from Ste. Chappelle. And nothing from Argentina.”
“In the event I find nothing acceptable, I suppose you would have me send the lear to Napa Valley?” Bert asked, teasing his wife. He grinned at the group of women, then leaned and brushed Karyn’s cheek with a kiss.
Aggie waved off his sarcasm and turned to the girls. “You’ll have to excuse my husband. His sense of humor is severely lacking.”
Ginny grinned and swirled her wine glass while Lydia held out her hand. “Hello, Mrs. Macadam. I believe we met at the wedding.” Her friend skipped the fact they’d met a second time at Dean’s funeral.
Aggie took Lydia’s extended hand. “Oh, yes. I remember. Thank you for coming today.” She looked around. “Such a crowd assembling. Of course, that’s to be expected. Dean was, of course—” She fingered her throat, her voice now choked. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this is all so very hard. Even after all these months, it still feels so fresh.”
Her friends nodded emphatically in agreement. “Yes—yes, of course.” They looked to her as if not knowing what else to say. And while at some level she wholeheartedly understood her mother-in-law’s emotion, Aggie tended to be a bit of a drama queen. Agatha Macadam shined a spotlight on this loss in nearly every situation, which seemed to heighten after several glasses of wine.
Aggie rested her hand on Karyn’s arm, leaned in, and confided, “I don’t know how you are able to part with all his things.” She sniffed loudly, shook her head and stood a bit taller in her gold lamé jacket. “I’m sorry. I know you are only following what our Dean would want. He had such a generous heart.”
Bert appeared by her side and handed his wife a stemmed glass filled to the brim. “Yes, we’ve been through this Aggie,” he reminded her. “Dean’s mementos aren’t doing anyone any good sitting around in boxes.”
“But a museum might’ve—” Aggie tried to argue, but Bert cut her off.
“Point taken. We donated several items to be showcased up at Roundhouse, his medals, for example. But the rest of it, well—” He turned to her. “You are doing the right thing, Karyn. Dean would approve.”
For the umpteenth time, she second-guessed her decision. She knew what Bert said was the truth, but she hated disappointing Aggie. Again.
After Dean’s death, her in-laws had been very generous with her, even let her remain in the house they’d purchased for she and Dean’s wedding gift. Leigh Ann had exploded when she learned the deed was also in their name, but Karyn calmed her by arguing there was nothing malicious going on.
Leigh Ann wasn’t so easily convinced. “Mark tells me Bertrand and Agatha Macadam didn’t get rich by being nice. Rumors are, they bilked a lot of people in the Salinas Valley while building that little artichoke empire. Now they own half of Elkhorn.”
Karyn had laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Just because my in-laws are wealthy doesn’t mean they’re monsters.” What her sister didn’t know is that Bert had recently been voted out by his board, a big blow to anyone and certainly to the Macadams.
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Even so, there’s no reason on this earth why that house can’t be turned over to you. Just, be careful.”
She’d nodded. But inside, she handily dismissed the warning.
Both Leigh Ann and Aggie wanted to be helpful, but often the advice in their delicately wagging fingers felt more like gruel forced upon her by thick-fisted men with hairy knuckles.
Despite what those two believed, she was capable of making her own decisions now and then.
As the crowd in the tent and on the surrounding lawn grew, Karyn played hostess, sharing her role with Aggie. She submitted to surface conversations, each time nodding as attendees expressed sentiments meant to honor Dean’s memory and acknowledge the loss many still felt. Though the effort wore on her, she politely thanked everyone for coming and for supporting the charity.
