Page 8 of A Little Too Late
When Ava stands up from her desk to hand over the key, our hands brush, and I experience a powerful zap of déjà vu. Ava Aichers, with whom I had the only truly passionate and absorbing love affair of my life, is right here in front of me.
Either that, or I’m having a very freaky dream.
But if this is real, Ava looks incredible. Her hair is wavier than I remember, but it still carries golden streaks, and it’s long enough to wrap around my fist. Her skin is a healthy, sun-warmed hue—the shade you get when you spend time outdoors.
She’s wearing a blue V-neck top that shows off a silver chain around her smooth neck. I used to kiss her right there while I stripped off her clothes one piece at a time…
Her gaze flips upward and collides with mine, and it’s chilly. Arctic, even. Ava isnothappy that I’ve shown up here.
I really want to know how this happened, but I can’t interrogate her in front of my dad. Sheworksfor him.
Christ, that’s weird. She ought to be a million miles away working in a hospital somewhere. “You were going to be a doctor,” I blurt out. “Weren’t you?”
Ava visibly stiffens, and her eyes get even colder. “Like that’s any of your business?”
That shuts me up. Because she’s right—it’s not. I gave up the right to care what she does with her life right around the time I told her I didn’t want to be part of it.
My father comes out of his office wearing his coat. “Let’s go, son. Ava, you found a spot for Reed?”
Wordlessly, I show him the plastic keychain in my hand—stamped with the number twenty-five—and the silver key attached to it.
“Twenty-five, huh?” My dad clucks his tongue. “Interesting.” His eyes land on Ava for a half second, and I think I see amusement flash through them. “All righty! Let’s go.”
Shellshocked, I follow my father out the back door of the main lodge building. We start the trudge toward the house where I grew up, and my pace is slow, because my mind is reeling. Also, I’m wearing the wrong shoes. The leather soles of my Paul Smith oxfords don’t have any traction in the snow.
If my dad notices any of my difficulties, he doesn’t let on. He’s actually humming under his breath as we walk.
Humming. I didn’t know he was still capable of that. After my mother died, he did a lot of yelling and a lot of sulking. And way too much drinking. There was no humming.
Once upon a time, though, he was a very happy man who spent many pleasant hours with his sons. My father taught me to ski when I was so young there are pictures of me skiingwith a stuffed animal under my arm. I remember tromping out into the woods with him to cut down Christmas trees. In the summertime, he taught us to fish. He was a good dad.
But that guy died right along with my mother, and he made living with him a cold, dark hell.
Now he’s remarried to someone named Melody. He eats her cookies. And hums?
I can’t quite get my head around it. He looks good, too. I expected to find a man with bloodshot eyes and a haggard expression. But he’s a spry and healthy sixty-year-old from the looks of it. He wears newish fleece-lined work boots and a red flannel jacket with a black collar. He looks like an ad for L.L. Bean.
“Did you bring luggage?” he asks suddenly.
“Yeah, I left it with the bellhop.”
“You’ll have to put it in your car and drive it up to the employee lot,” he says. “The bellhops don’t take bags up the hill. I don’t know if there are sheets on the beds in there, either. Might have to take some out of the linen closet in the house. Twin size.”
I open my mouth to ask a question about the room, but then I blurt out something else entirely. “Did you know that Ava and I used to date?” Althoughdateis entirely the wrong word for it. It was the most intense, passionate love affair of my life.
And it ended very badly.
“Huh. She graduated from Middlebury College, so I asked her if she knew you. She said yes and then did not elaborate. So I suppose the thought crossed my mind. But what difference does it make?”
I bite back several unhelpful comments. The difference it makes is that my head is exploding. This was like showing up at the dentist for a root canal and learning that you would also beundergoing knee surgery. I’d braced myself against one brand of pain, but not this other one.Fuck.
“She’s a good worker,” my father adds, oblivious to my pain. “Hell, she runs this place.”
“I thoughtyouran this place? Otherwise, you wouldn’t need to sell.”
“We both work our asses off, Reed. Running this place is hard. And why do you care if I sell?”
That’s something else I don’t have a good answer for. “It just seems hasty.”
