“Doyou have kids?” she asks. “Imean, beyond an honorary daughter.”
“Notunless you count the otherLancasterkids.Iwas their honorary uncle until their dad,Rick, passed away five years ago, and nowI’man occasional stand-in dad for them, too.Butno,Inever married.Itraveled so much—sometimes without advance notice—thatIdidn’t think a relationship could work.”
“Iwouldn’t have guessed that graphic design and branding would require so much time away from the office.”
“Idon’t only do it in-house, like many in my profession.Andour clients tend to be…a bit demanding.”
“Doyou still travel a lot?”
“Nah.Ileave that for the younger ones.Howabout you?”
Sheturns her focus toDoomslideSummitas we get to the more uphill part. “Nottoo much.Fiveor six times per year.”Shewinks. “TherestIleave for the younger ones.”
We’remostly up the very long hill whenAnnettelooks over the snowy landscape lit by the nearly full moon. “Ithought by the timeIwas an empty nester,I’dbe celebrating the holidays somewhere warm.Ona beach, a coconut drink in my hand, soaking in the sun and watching the waves.Notclinging to an inflatable tube, praying for mercy from a hill named ‘Doomslide.’”
“Eh, the beach is overrated—it’s hot, sand gets everywhere, and it’s not easy to wash off.”
“Snowmight wash off easily, but you end the day with soaking wet everything.”
“True,”Isay. “Butif you get injured, you don’t even need an ice pack.Youcan just flop down in the snow.”
Annettelaughs. “Makingsnow angels and healing bruises in one fell swoop.”
“Anotherreason why snow wins in a match against the beach.”
Wefinally make it to the top of the hill. “Speakingof winning a match…”Annettesays as she takes off running toward the middle. “Youbetter hurry, because this time, we are racing each other down!”
Weleap onto our tubes from a run and the momentum sends us down the hill.Ijumped onto mine from an angle, so nowI’mspinning.WhenIface forward again,IseeI’mheaded straight toward the piled-up snow that’s making a ramp.
WhenIhit the jump, it sends me and my tube airborne.I’mguessingI’ma dozen feet in the air, andIwhoop the entire time.Idon’t land flat, soI’msent tumbling across the snow.I’mlaughing, though, so whenAnnette’sface appears over me,Isee that she’s not concerned.
“Wereyou showing off your acrobatic skills, or are you injured and the rolling is to get the full-body ice pack?”
Iwink. “Maybea bit of both.”
Bythe time we make it to the top of the hill a third time,Annettehas decided that she wants to go off the jump, too.Shegets lined up to head straight toward it, andIgive her tube a little nudge over the edge before hopping onto my own and cheering for her the whole way down.
Shehits the ramp perfectly.Otherthan some mid-air feet flailing and a half-exhilarated, half-terrified squeal, she does it so much more gracefully thanIdid.
WhenDoomslideSummittires us out and we start getting cold,Idrive us to a nearby outdoor skating rink solely for the big fire they have every night, and we take a seat on a bench near it to warm our toes.Iopen my bag and pull out two mugs and the spiced apple cider that’s been staying warm in a thermos.Ifill both mugs and hand one toAnnette.
Sheremoves her gloves and wraps her hands around the mug, holding it to her nose, closing her eyes, and breathing in the scent.Ilove that she enjoys small things like that.
Itake out a container of cookies, open it, and hand her one. “Thisis to warm your taste buds.”Igrab one, too, and take a bite as she does.She’ssavoring the bite, andIcan tell the moment she feels the subtle heat of the cookie.
Hereyebrows rise, and as soon as she swallows, she says, “Spicycookies?”
Inod. “‘HotCocoaCookies.’Andthe ‘hot’ isn’t because they’re fresh out of the oven.”
“They’redelicious!Didyou make these?”
Ishake my head. “Ioccasionally do, butIdidn’t make these.Thiswas my favorite cookie as a kid.Oneday at work,Idescribed them toCharlieand saidIwishedIcould find them somewhere.Shehas the superpower of discovering the best place to go for things like baked goods.
“Thenext day, she comes into work with a box in her hands, beaming.She’dfound these—the exact cookie of my childhood.Ipicked them up on my way to your house.”
Aswe’re eating the cookies and drinking the cider,Annetteleans into me.It’sonly a bit, but it confirmsI’mnot the only one feeling a connection.
WhenAnnettefinishes her second cookie, she puts her mug on the bench beside her, brushes off her hands, and then swings one leg over the bench so she’s facing me.Ido the same to face her.
