Chapter 10

February 20-26

The New England weather gods were in a good mood. It snowed Tuesday and again Friday, and though the sun wasn’t always as ready to appear, there was little wind, and daytime temperatures nudged into the thirties. February will set records, thought Cilla, though the size of the crowds emphasized Great Haystack’s weaknesses. Food service areas were inadequate as was parking. They’d have to do something about both if they got the new quad.

She was at the mountain each morning at six and didn’t break away until nine at night. Kurt Britton had the mountain crews working straight through with no days off. Those who walked into his office left running; he had that effect on employees. His eyes were always on her, daring her to make a mistake or let down from the furious pace he set.

On Wednesday Bob Gold announced that his new walk-in freezer was finished, and he again had a room for Andre. Cilla tried, not completely successfully, to hide relief at her guest’s departure.

“You’re very private people, aren’t you?” Andre echoed her thoughts.

“Hudson and I didn’t have a formal honeymoon, so I guess we’re still on it,” she said by way of apology.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your taking me in.” He pulled at his chin. “It’s been stressful for me, too, sitting across the breakfast table from what could be the girl who walked out on me.”

“Have you heard anything from her?”

“Nothing. One day she was gone and that’s all. No note, no calls.”

“Andre, are you sure she didn’t have an accident, and that’s why you haven’t heard from her?”

“I checked hospitals after she left. But that was while I was still allowing myself the fiction that her departure might be due to something beyond her control. No, she’d been jumpy for a week or two before she left. I didn’t catch the signs until after she’d gone. Then I realized she’d obviously been in the process of making her decision; I was too wrapped in my work to notice. I’m still old fashioned enough to do most of my research in libraries rather than the Internet. I’m often there long into the evenings.”

After he’d gone, Cilla stood looking out the kitchen window at the mountains but hearing the whispered voice. The library, that’s where she’d heard it. It had come from the stacks next to her, unseen. Someone discussing a book with a friend. When they’d left she’d seen only the backs of their heads. Two men. There was something unusual, though… yes; one was wearing a cowboy hat. Was he the one with the whispering voice? She tried to remember who else was there at that time that might also have seen him. She looked up the library phone number and asked for Florence Stone.

“Miss Stone? This is Cilla Wheaton Rogers. Do you remember me? You taught me English at Kennett High School eleven years ago.”

“Of course, Cilla. I remember you in class. Any day the skiing wasn’t good.”

“I’m surprised you passed me, I cut so often.”

“Oh you were bright enough. Didn’t I see you here at the library before Christmas?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s what I’m calling about. Could you get away for lunch today?”

“Why, I guess so. Want to catch up on what you missed at Kennett?”

“No, I want to see if your eye is as sharp as it always was.”

Lunch, at Cilla’s suggestion, was at Eastern Slope Inn. With food ordered, Florence sat back and studied Cilla with an appraising eye.

“Your hair’s a little shorter. You used to have it all in a big bun on the top of your head. You look happy. I didn’t see that very often back then.”

“It wasn’t there at all. You remember I was different than the other kids.”

Florence wrinkled her forehead. “Well, whose fault is that? You used to wear those dreadful Indian clothes all the time.”

“My mother was Abenaki.”

“So? That wasn’t a criminal offense even then.”

“You wouldn’t know it from the way people treated us. Growing up, there wasn’t anyone lower than an Indian in Bartlett, New Hampshire.”

“So that’s it.” Florence looked around at the room. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever been in this hotel?”

Cilla was puzzled. “So?”

“I’m originally from Newton, Massachusetts. In the late nineteen-forties, my family made a reservation here at this Inn for a summer vacation. I was just a kid. The week before we were scheduled to arrive, we received a letter saying that they were sorry to have to let us know that our reservation had been cancelled. The letter went on to say in rather blunt terms that the hotel policy was not to take Jews, and that they had learned that our family was Jewish.”

“Did hotels really do that?”

“Yes, many did.”

“But Eastern Slope Inn! I’ve always thought of it as…”

“Oh, it all changed here a few years later. A man named Sherrard, who owned the Parker House in Boston, bought it and opened it to everyone. Did you ever read the book no I suppose I should ask, did you ever see the movie - Gentlemen’s Agreement?”

“No to both. Why?”

“It was about a hotel that didn’t allow Jews. Some people back then thought it was written about this place.”

“That’s dreadful! Old bastard WASPS. What did your family do?”

“Oh, that wasn’t the first time it happened, or the last. We changed our reservation to a hotel in Jackson.”

“And they took you?”

“They didn’t take anyone but Jews. If you had a Christian name, I understand you never got through the front door.” She smiled brightly. “It wasn’t just the WASPS who were particular with whom they associated. But I’m sure you didn’t suggest luncheon to compare ethnic slights.”

“Miss Stone…”

“Florrie. I don’t need to feel older than I am.”

“Florrie, that day in December when I was in the library, there was a man wearing a cowboy hat, do you remember seeing him?”

“Yes I do. We don’t see many hats like it here. Particularly in winter. He had an oddly quiet voice with just a trace of a foreign accent. He and his friend were looking at a display of grade school Christmas drawings. And then they laughed.”

“Laughed? At kid’s drawings?”

“Yes, I thought it was a little uncouth.”

“Foreign accent. What did they say?”

Florence wrinkled her forehead. “Let me see… Oh, I know. The other man, the one not wearing a hat, pointed to a drawing of the three Wise Men and said something about there being three bearing gifts to a field in Bethlehem. And the man in the cowboy hat said, `just change one little word.’ That was when they both laughed.”

“Did they say anything else? Take out any books?”

“No. They went out right after that. I’m sorry, is it important?”

“I don’t know, Florrie. I wish I knew.”

On the Monday evening after the holiday week and a day spent catching up on sleep and laundries, Cilla and Hudson brought after-dinner tea into the living room.

“I’m going down to have a bite with John Krestinski tomorrow,” said Hudson. “Be back late.”

“About our Swedish thugs? I wondered if you’d talk with him about that.”

He nodded. “This’ll be a quiet week. Kurt’s covering for me in the afternoon.”

“It will be quiet if Spit and Polish allows it. I wonder if he’d be this difficult for a man to supervise.”

“Probably. He’s a DI from PI. What’s the latest?”

“My filing system.” She saw his look and went on quickly. “Oh I know, you can barely see my desk. He calls it the landfill. Humor. Yesterday he decided I needed a lecture. The worst part is he’s probably right; I should look more organized, set a better example for the others. But I know where everything is.”

“All on your desk?”

“Don’t you start. Then he went on I don’t have the respect of the crew. The mountain needs more of a leader. Him presumably.”

“Do you think so? He’s a great captain; I can’t see him as general. He can use a hammer, I’m not so sure about a gavel. It’s a toughie, Cill. You’ll have to earn his respect, in the things important to him.”

“My father taught me shooting, but I’m not about to challenge him on the rifle range.”

“He’s cocky about his skiing. Think you can still take him?”

“I can beat any man I know skiing.”

Hudson grinned. It wasn’t said bragging, it was just a statement of fact. One of the many reasons he had fallen in love with this independent, part Abenaki girl nearly seventeen years younger than himself. “I’m sure the Kehi Sogmo will agree.”

“Our Kinjames is a quick learner.” The early Abenaki Indians thought all white rulers were called King James, so the name became attached to all New Hampshire governors.

“So’s his wife, Kinjamesiskva.”

“I had to marry a linguist. I can’t believe you’re spending time studying a dead language.”

“Abenaki has a beautiful sound.”

“Like a tree falling in an empty forest. Who’s ever going to hear it?”

“Maybe you can get New Hampshire’s Kehi Sogmo to make it the official New Hampshire language. He seemed quite impressed with your skiing.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “It’s a good thing for New Hampshire he’s a better governor than skier.” The annual race between the governors of Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont had been held at Great Haystack a month earlier, with social skiing before and after, and New Hampshire’s Chief Executive, Norman Ducharme, had fallen several ways for the skiing and personality of the Chief Executive of Great Haystack. Cilla had an open invitation to call on his office anytime. The event had been good PR, Boston newspapers running photos of the governors at Great Haystack.

“He isn’t the only one that’s been taken with you lately,” said Hudson with a mischievous grin.

“Not with me, who I look like.”

“Uh huh.”

Some women might be flattered at a man’s interest. Cilla felt only a deep disgust. Hudson quickly changed the subject.

“You heard Captain Midnight surprised Greg, Karla and Jason on the NASTAR course?”

She nodded. “And that’s typical of Kurt, single minded. He decided that’s where the competition is and made it a point to know the racing hill cold. He’s spent hours practicing on it.”

“So?”

“When we race it will be on my terms.”