Snowman Read Free Page B

Barry and his pupil, who was on the short, one-meter skis, were staggering hand in hand before the lodge photographer.
    "She must be a pretty fair piece of tail for Barry to make such a horse's ass out of himself," Ashby observed.
    "That's what I sold him on," Cathy replied.
    On the slope above them, Barry was trying to console and encourage Janice.
    "Press your ankles forward till they rest on your boots. Weight on the balls of your feet. Don't move your upper body . . . everything comes from the legs."
    She tried to digest the information as she clung nervously to his arm.
    "You're going too fast and I'm afraid."
    Barry skied midway down the mini-hill and extended his arms, but Janice remained rooted to the spot. She turned her head and watched small children skiing down the icy runs. Their expressions of exhilaration and freedom apparently affected her. She turned her skis to the parallel position and skied down to Barry. In another moment the two of them were moving down together, and there was something touching about Janice's innocent elation.
    "That's good—good—good," the photographer barked as he clicked.
    "Before and after," Ashby said. "It's got human interest. You get yourself a Snow Queen and in ten minutes she's skiing. I'll do a spread with pictures and run a tear-out so you can use it for promotion."
    The pieces were falling together, miraculously, Cathy thought, relaxing for the first time that day. Barry and Honeypie would look gorgeous in the color brochure, and sales would be bound to pick up.
    "She's doing fine," Monte said, joining them. Accompanying him was Ken Atkins, his sales manager, a hangdog man in his indeterminate fifties who spent his days sopping up abuse from Monte because of the slow sales.
    The company had expected instant success, for the rather naive reason that they had made a huge investment and wanted immediate returns on their money. But the sales matched the slugish economy. People weren't quick to snap up Chamonix (the one-bedroom-and-loft apartment) or Innsbruck (two bedrooms and den) or the luxurious St. Moritz (three beds, den, and loft which could sleep twelve).
    A fortune in advertising had been spent celebrating the virtues of Sierra, the quality of its buildings, the authenic Finnish saunas, the exciting night life at the Snowplow. What had induced people to come up for Thanksgiving was that fifteen chairlifts and gondolas were in operation, and lift tickets and ski instruction were free, while charter flights round trip from L.A., subsidized by the company, cost a mere twenty dollars. If they didn't pack them in for Thanksgiving, it would be a long cold winter. Cathy had persuaded Monte to hold a drawing and give a Chamonix model to the lucky winner.
    But the weather refused to cooperate with them. Sierra had the highest annual snowfall in California, but this year the snows had been late and the lower slopes were barely covered for the opening.
    Monte motioned her in the direction of the models, and Ken laggardly followed. A few couples were trooplng in and out of the buildings with that detached, reserved air of lookers. Salesmen pursued them relentlessly with floor plans, literature, and offers of free hot rum toddies.
    "Well, at least We've got Janice airborne," Cathy said,
    looking at the slopes and silently praying for snow. The clouds at the summit of the mountain were darkening, and the weather forecaster had promised a low-pressure system from Canada. But he'd been making the same promise for weeks.
    "We still need some kind of media hype," Monte said.
    "Opening a new ski resort isn't exactly network news."
    In an effort to keep the pressure on her and saddle her with the failure of his salesmen, Ken broke the silence.
    "Robert Redford. He's what we need, and he's a skier."
    "He's got his own resort, and it's called Sundance."
    "Competion's everywhere," Ken muttered darkly.
    "Maybe you picked a bum sales team," Monte said, hitting his favorite refrain.
    "Monte,