Page 2 of A Little Too Late
“That’s the one. Doesn’t make you Sherlock Holmes, though, seeing as it’s named after us.”
“God,you’re a freak,” Sheila says suddenly.
“Hey—haven’t we talked about boundaries?”
“Oh, please. There’s such a thing as respecting boundaries. And then there’s you. I’ve been keeping your calendar for two years, and you never mentioned your family owns the coolest boutique ski mountain in the country. I’ve never even booked you on a flight to Colorado before this morning. I didn’t even know you were from there.”
I don’t try to argue, because she’s right—it’s weird that I never go home, and that I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about this place. But if she knew what hell it had become after my mother died, she’d understand.
“I mean, you went skiing atWhistlerlast year. That condo you rented was two thousand bucks a night, Reed.Why?”
“It’s complicated,” I grumble.
“What? You’re breaking up.”
“It’scomplicated! You’ll lose me in a second.” The narrow mountain road passes between two tall ledges of rock.
“I c... hear... at all. BUT CALL HARPER DAMMIT!”
The phone makes those two high-pitched beeps that tell you the call has been dropped. Sheila naturally got the last word. Of course she did.
I put on my blinker and prepare to take the turn onto Old Mine Road. That’s when I spot the sign.Two Miles toMadigan Mountain. But it’s not the low-profile, carved wooden sign that used to stand here at the roadside. This one is new and bright and about three times larger than the old one.
And I hate it on sight.
A car behind me leans on the horn, and I realize I’m stopping traffic. So I make the final, familiar turn onto the steep and twisty road to my family’s resort. The SUV downshifts as I begin the climb. There are rocky outcroppings on either side, alternating with stands of tall pines. It’s only November, but the forest floor is white with snow.
Hell, this road is still as familiar as my own hand. The sight of it puts an ache right into the center of my chest. It’s like heartburn, I guess—inconvenient, but ultimately survivable.
I hadn’t planned to reschedule my whole life in order to suddenly fly to Colorado and face down my past, and the higher the car climbs, the worse this idea gets. Even though the windows of the SUV are rolled up all the way, I could swear I smell the scent of pine, and I hear the snap the needles make underfoot when you walk through these woods.
Almost a hundred years ago, my great-grandfather bought this spot at the end of a challenging old logging road. He passed it on to my grandfather, who build one of the first ski resorts in the Rockies.
The location is a challenge, though. When it snows, the road is difficult to plow. In weekend traffic, if someone takes a turn too fast and skids, the resulting fender bender can stop the flow of cars for hours while the tow truck does its job hauling the unfortunate victim away.
That’s why Madigan Mountain never became a sprawling international destination, like Aspen or Whistler. Our vibe was—and still is, I guess—a smaller, family ski mountain. Ourcustomers like it that way. The regulars often book next year’s vacation before they’ve even left the premises.
It’s heartbreakingly easy to picture my mom waving them off with a happy smile. “See you next year!”
Even that brief memory stings. She’s been gone more than a decade, and it still hurts me. That’s why my brothers and I avoid this place.
And it’s not like my dad ever gave his three sons a good reason to visit. After Mom’s death, he became a surly beast. We all fled. Ain’t nobody got time for his bitterness.
But here I am anyway. Dad may be a decent hotelier, but he wouldn’t know a financing contract if it bit him in his grumpy ass. I’m here to make sure he doesn’t get fleeced.
You could argue that Dad’s finances are none of my business. After all, I’ve already made my own tidy fortune. But I have two younger brothers. Weston is a military pilot, and Crew is busy being famous. His daredevil ass could literally be on any continent right now, as long as there’s snow there. He doesn’t like to check in or return phone calls. Who knows if he evensawDad’s crazy email?
I haven’t always been a great brother. After my mom died, I didn’t stick around for Weston and Crew. I hightailed it back to Middlebury College in Vermont. After graduation, I settled in Silicon Valley, where I made a career for myself with a Stanford MBA and a lot of ambition.
So I’m showing up because they can’t. Or won’t, in Crew’s case. I need to hear what the hell Dad is thinking. I need to know if he’s serious about selling a property that’s been in our family all this time.
It’s also the place where my mother is buried. If nothing else, I can put flowers on her grave one last time.
The road makes a final turn, and the resort comes into view. I find myself slowing down to take a good look.
The sprawling resort footprint hasn’t changed much in decades. The stone lodge my grandfather constructed in the fifties is connected to a three-story hotel that was added on later. That original lodge holds the hotel lobby, restaurants, and offices. And there are fifty rooms in the hotel.
The resort follows a half moon shape, with most buildings facing the mountain. Slanted, late afternoon sunlight paints the snowy peaks a golden color. Down the slope is the big wooden ski lodge my grandfather built in the eighties. That’s where the day skiers go to rent their skis, book a lesson, or buy a bowl of chili.
