Mulled to Death by Kate Lansing

Author:Kate Lansing [Lansing, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-10-04T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

* * *

Even though I’d rather jam my hand in an operating crusher de-stemmer than put off changing out of my ski gear for one more second, I pause in the corridor outside the elevators.

Located at the base of the central tower, down a lengthy hallway from the lobby, rec room, and dining area, the space is cloaked in silence. It has a hallowed atmosphere, almost like a museum with a series of framed photographs adorning warm, butter-yellow walls and a table holding maps, to-go menus, and advertisements for tourist attractions.

But none of this is why I stopped.

There’s a shadowed figure, studying the pictures on the wall. With his slow footsteps and one finger studiously on his pointy chin, Hudson Gray gives me the impression of someone deep in nostalgia.

I set my skis on the ground with a thunk, leaning them into the crook of my elbow. The tops of my boots cut into my calves, my snow pants and coat crinkle with every movement, and my hair is matted to my forehead. I imagine how I must look—disheveled, crazed, and slightly desperate. Perhaps it will work in my favor.

The clunking of my boots against the hardwood gets his attention, even as I ask, “Hudson, right?”

There’s an absurd amount of gel in his hair, but strands still stick out as if he couldn’t be bothered to finish styling it, and one of his eyes is stark red with a recently burst blood vessel. His gray half-zip fleece makes me wonder, absently, if his entire wardrobe matches his car.

He barely turns to me, his suede boots still firmly facing the wall. “And you are?”

I reach out a hand. “Parker Valentine.”

He ignores my offer of a handshake and goes back to studying the photographs.

I follow his gaze. The photos are of Annmarie’s medal-winning runs from the year she was in the Winter Olympics. There’s a picture of her bent at the torso, her body tucked with her ski poles facing straight back, the downhill race where the speeds get upward of ninety miles per hour. Then another of her on the edges of her skis, snow spraying behind her as she dodges a flag, her teeth bared. The next is a shot from far away where she’s nothing more than a speck taking on the expansive run. And still one more of Annmarie atop the podium, smiling brilliantly at the camera in a blaze of glory.

The last picture doesn’t quite fit with the others—it’s of a youth-club team. Kids are perched in rows of graduating height, half smiling and half caught blinking or with their attention fixed elsewhere. At the bottom of the matte border, it reads: Dillon Ski School 1997–1998. A small town not far from here, Dillon’s picturesque lake and proximity to ski resorts put it on the map.

Hudson breaks the silence, surprising both himself and me. “I knew her back then.” He nods at this last photograph, our reflections gleaming in the pristine frame. He points to the front row.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.