A Little Too Late (Madigan Mountain)

REED

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 is not happy 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. She works for 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 skiing with 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?” Although date is 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 be undergoing 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 thought you ran 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.”

My father actually laughs—that’s another thing he didn’t used to do. “There’s nothing hasty about it. This has been a long time coming. You and your brothers don’t want the place.”

“You didn’t ask,” I argue.

My father stops in his tracks. “You didn’t come home for ten years.”

And I guess we’re not waiting for tea and cookies to have this conversation. “It’s not just me, though. What about Weston or Crew?”

“Weston and Crew who?” He shakes his head. “I know things weren’t so great around here when you all were teenagers…”

I snort at this outrageous understatement.

“But that was a long time ago. I’ve made overtures, but I am rebuffed at every turn. I eloped, Reed, to spare you the discomfort of turning down my damn wedding invitation. The least you could be is grateful.”

“Grateful? It’s not fucking likely.”

Anger flashes in my father’s eyes, and I wait for him to start shouting.

But that’s not what happens. He just grunts and resumes walking toward the house.

We’re almost there, which means I have to look at it. There’s a reason my brothers and I don’t show up here anymore. This is the place where my mother spread so much joy. And after she died, my father fell apart. He barely spoke to us. I had to drive to Costco before I went back to Vermont and fill the freezer with frozen foods so my brothers wouldn’t starve.

I slow my steps as we reach the front walk. The house looks pretty good now. The A-frame beams have been recently stained, I think. There’s a new metal roof in Heritage Red. The tall, peaked window shines, reflecting the Colorado sky in its panes. And there’s a harvest wreath on the door, decorated with dried corn and wheat sheaves.

But my mother didn’t hang it there. And when that door opens, I’ll expect her to call out to me. Reed? I’m in the kitchen!

And then she won’t.

“Come on,” my dad says gruffly. “Don’t drag your feet, son. Won’t make it easier. I know this is hard.”

This, from a man who wouldn’t even say her name after she died?

The week after her funeral, my father went on a rampage, stripping the house of every single thing that reminded us of my mother. He threw her clothes by the armful out the front door, onto the yard, while my youngest brother locked himself in the bathroom and turned on the shower to drown out his sobs.

My father never said, I know this is hard. He drank instead.

And I’m still so angry.

“My therapist would tell me to give you time,” my dad says. “But I’m afraid you’ll just drive away again.”

“Your therapist?” I’d be less surprised if he hired an exorcist.

“Yeah, her name is Addie. Nice lady.”

I blink.

The front door of my childhood home swings open and the new Mrs. Madigan steps out. She’s a tall, thin woman with greying blonde hair and a big smile. “Welcome, Reed! What a surprise.”

I smile by force of habit. My first thought is at least she’s not twenty-nine. And my next thought is to wonder if she took his name. Melody Madigan is sort of a mouthful, not that I’m going to point that out.

It’s pretty hard to believe that my father is the only Madigan man with a wife. His three sons are all too scarred by our family implosion to ever tie the knot.

“There she is!” my father says with a warm chuckle. “Her cookies are worth the walk, trust me.”

I propel myself toward the door, although I can’t imagine that any cookie is tasty enough to make this less awkward.

Dad steps inside first and carefully removes his shoes.

I’d do the same, except I’m too busy staring at the freshly painted interior. The walls of our open-plan living room are now a warm mustard color, and the furniture is all new. There’s lots of wood and earthy colors. Big red toss pillows on a brown corduroy sofa. A mustard-colored footstool. A leather club chair.

It’s so homey. And so unexpected. It would make more sense to my broken heart if the place had crumbled down to its foundations.

I make the mistake of glancing up at a long shelf that runs toward the kitchen. Dad built that shelf to display my mother’s pottery.

Now the shelf is bare. Every piece of pottery is gone.

I knew it would be, but it still hurts to see it.

Ten minutes later, I’m seated at the kitchen table with a cup of mint tea in my hand and two lavender shortbread cookies on a plate in front of me. There are purplish flower petals visible in the shortbread.

That isn’t even the weirdest thing about this moment. It’s like I’ve entered an alternative universe. The kitchen has all new lighting. The appliances gleam. There’s a roaring fire in the fireplace, and the air smells like butter and sugar.

Melody sits across from me, studying me with bright green, curious eyes. I’m trying to carry on a conversation, but I’m not doing my best work. She’s distractingly smiley and probably too young for my father. I can’t imagine what she sees in my grump of a father, except for his wealth.

Selling Madigan Mountain was probably her idea.

“Do you, um, have any children?” I ask. The question sounds polite enough, but I’m actually fishing for more details about her life.

“No, I don’t,” she says. “And I’m fifty-five years old, so that ship has sailed.”

She’s not too young for him, then. My mother would have been fifty-seven this year, and my dad is sixty. That’s not exactly scandalous.

“I have a horse named Baylor and an ex-husband who’s a waste of space. That’s it for me. And I signed a prenuptial agreement, Reed, so you don’t have to worry about the future. Your dad is right to protect his children’s legacy.”

Well, fuck. I rub the back of my neck and try not to appear flustered. “That’s not a cheery topic, is it?” I break off a corner of a cookie and shove it into my mouth, flowers and all.

She shrugs. “The older you get, the more frank you become. I don’t want money or anything else to get between us, Reed. I hope you’ll come to visit often, wherever we end up.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound like I mean it. “Do you have plans to leave Colorado?”

“We’re going to travel the world,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Our first destination is Australia, by way of Hawaii. We’re planning to go in January.”

“That’s soon,” I say stupidly.

She shrugs. “We haven’t booked it yet, because your father isn’t quite sure how long it will take to negotiate with the buyer. But we’re very excited. I have a whole binder full of articles about the places we’re going to visit.”

I struggle for something to say. “This cookie is really good.”

“Don’t get used to them,” she says. “I won’t be making them again.”

“Why not?” I break off another piece. It’s tempting to just shove the whole thing in my mouth. The shortbread is crisp, and the butter gives it a rich crunch. The lavender is subtle, giving the cookie a whiff of floral top notes.

It’s first rate. My dad married a woman who doesn’t plan to divorce him for profit and knows how to bake. That’s two points in her favor already.

“I like to mix things up, so I never get bored. If you’re still here next week, I’m going to do an oatmeal cookie with dried cherries.”

“That sounds fantastic,” I admit. “But I won’t be here next week. My job is very demanding.” I sound like a dickwad right now, but she already knows the score. What kind of family is so broken that the dad doesn’t bother inviting his sons to the wedding?

This kind. And I honestly don’t know how I would have responded if he’d invited me.

I guess we’ll never find out.

Here comes the man himself, carrying a sheaf of papers. He sits down in the chair beside mine and grabs the remaining cookie off my plate. He takes a bite of it.

“Hey!” I complain. “I was going to eat that.”

“There’s more,” he says while chewing. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to choke.”

“Why would I choke?”

He folds back the top page of the document he’s holding. I read TERMSHEET FOR THE SALE OF MADIGAN MOUNTAIN LLC TO SHARPE INDUSTRIES. Then I skim the relevant details on the page.

And when I get to the price, I almost swallow my tongue.