New Beginnings. Jill Barnett
was one of those seminal times in her life when a new door opened wide. She could choose to walk right by it, or through it. There was still enough of a good girl in her to make her pause. Her sister May would not understand and would run in the other direction. Her friends might see open possibility. But did anyone else really matter?
In a crowd of almost a thousand, at that single moment, there was only the two of them. Michael Cantrell stood in front of her and asked her to love him. So, without a word, she took his hand and left.
For the six months after that night at the Fillmore, Mike Cantrell had kept a secret part of himself from March. Some days more than others, it was easier to believe the right time to tell her just never came. He told himself she was worried about making the rent when her shift at the bookstore was cut; or about a difficult project for a final exam; a friend from school who couldn’t find his muse without psychedelic drugs. Why worry her?
And those times when they were having fun—so often now—he would think, why screw it up? Other times, in his head, he couldn’t find the exact right words he could say aloud. Funny that he could find the words for justification; he could find the words for his excuses.
To hide one passion while another consumed him was not an easy existence, like straddling life between two worlds. His life was great with her in it. So great he wanted to stand on a mountain and shout. Amazing! Righteous!
But the truth was that March was fast becoming the best part of him. Yet she didn’t know one of the biggest parts of who he was; she didn’t know his dream. Some wounds just ran deeper than love and trust, and got all mixed up in his head when he tried to believe in all of it at once. Families could so simply and unknowingly cut the deepest wounds on one another.
Don Cantrell, his father, was an executive with Spreckles, the sugar company, a success, a man of few words and many expectations. Mike and his older brother, Brad, had grown up at a dinner table with only their mother on most nights, except Sundays when, in the formal dining room, his dad would sit at the head of the table set with china and dominated by a standing rib roast, smoked ham or leg of lamb, knife in hand as he tried and failed to carve some kind of relationship with his sons on one night a week during an awkward, too formal meal; being a father was the single thing at which Don Cantrell failed.
His success was a matter of Cantrell pride, driven by some hungry, innate gene that battled with the few cells his dad inherited that were gentle and understanding. He was self-made, the son of a farmer, grandson of a Swiss immigrant who relocated to America near the turn of the century to save his sons from being conscripted.
Last year Brad had torn up his draft card, stuck the pieces to the refrigerator along with his draft notice, and was now somewhere in Canada, a subject handled in whispers by the family and friends and anyone who knew the truth about his older brother. That their ancestors had come here to escape the draft was almost as ironic to Mike as the idea that his father worked for a company that produced sugar.
Since the day Brad left, everything Don Cantrell had expected from both of his sons fell on Mike’s shoulders. He’d made the mistake of telling his dad about his idea and what he wanted to do with it and his future.
His father laughed at him, until he realized Mike was perfectly serious. Don told him he was a fool who needed to grow up and stop thinking life was only about fun and games and things that weren’t important. What Mike needed was to think straight and find something he could do to make an honest living for himself or for a family, if he ever chose to become responsible enough to think of someone other than himself.
Because the most important man in Mike’s life called him a failure, Mike thought everyone else might believe that, too. He went to college since that was what the world expected, and he didn’t want to find his ass in Dah Nang anymore than the next guy.
But one of his buddies once joked if there had been six feet of snow in the jungle, Mike would have signed the enlistment papers and taken the oath. The joke was too close to the truth. Mike would crawl through jungle, through desert, to get to the perfect hill, to find the perfect conditions, to experience perfect packed snow.
For almost a week straight it had been snowing in the Sierras, a sign it was time to test March, or himself, or what they were together, so with some measure of hope and false courage he walked into her place at five thirty on a Saturday morning, fell on her bed, swatted her on the nicest ass he’d ever seen and said, “Pack some warm clothes. I’m taking you to the mountains.”
They had to chain up on Interstate 80, but came into the Tahoe Basin as the snow stopped and patches of blue grew into a huge bowl of a Sierra sky, the lake shimmering as silver as the ore mined by all those barons from the last century. Mike left the main road circling the lake and soon pulled his old car into the parking lot at a small North Shore ski area.
March turned in the seat. “What’s this? You told me not to bring my skis. Ugh. I hate to rent.”
“We’re not going skiing.”
“I hate surprises more than renting equipment.”
“No, you don’t. What you hate is not knowing the surprise.”
“I must be doing something wrong in this relationship because you understand me. I’m supposed to be the mystery woman, capable of shocking. To be an enigma. To keep you constantly on your toes. A true paradox. I want you to look at me and see fine wine, hundred-year-old Scotch. Smooth and unexpected.” She frowned at him. “Instead I’ve become boring. Like milk.”
“I like milk, and you’ll never be boring. Let’s go.”
He pulled their gear from the back of the wagon, slung the large bag over his shoulder and carried the rest. She took one canvas duffel bag from him, then locked her cold fingers through his and trudged alongside.
In the complete silence of freshly fallen snow, the slick fabric of their winter wear rubbed together and made a scratching sound. The air was cold and tasted pure. Mike was quiet, a million things running through his head and all of them centered on the fact that now it was too late to go back.
After a few minutes she said, “This better be good.”
“Are you warm enough?”
“Depends on what for. I won’t know until I see where you’re taking me.”
“It’s a surprise,” was all her single-minded questioning would get out of him. He took her to the maintenance building—a trio of oversized metal garages where the snow had already been packed down. From behind came the sound of a snow plow engine and a big yellow Cat chugged and coughed around the corner, stopping in front of them.
The engine died and Rob Cantrell jumped down into the soft powder. He pulled off his ice-crusted ski mask, sending his black frizzy hair in every direction and walked toward them, ski vest open over a flannel shirt, a leather bouda bag with a red plastic cap hanging from his waist. “Mike! Hey, cousin. You made it. Great.”
“Rob. This is March.”
Rob stared at March for longer than a couple of deep breaths and said, “I think I’m in love.”
She laughed and Mike punched him in the arm. “Back off. I saw her first.”
“You always were a lucky stiff. Although I’ll tell you something, March. He’s the blackest sheep in the family.”
“Really?” March threaded her arm through his in a way that said everything Mike didn’t have to. “The black sheep? I’m glad to hear it. I would hate to think I ruined one of the good ones.”
One thing about March, she wasn’t easy to fluster. She seldom lost a word battle, seldom missed a beat.
“I like her,” Rob said, recovering well for a first meeting with March Randolph. “And, I guess I was wrong. Your brother Big Brad earned