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 33I."
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
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 33I."
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
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