Chapter Text
Some say the soft powder in the Canadian Rockies is the best in the world. That it can shine like diamonds and pack like wolves, and that the glacier-fed lakes below — from whence it comes — make it so. But that’s not how the water cycle works, and Julie sees no stones knocked free from her boots with the dirty slush. No, these tourists can say whatever they want to make themselves feel better that they can’t afford the luxe slopes in neighboring Banff, but there’s nothing here for anyone with a brain and an ambition. Not even snow.
So when she checks her board at the front desk of the Mount Ormond Resort, she doesn’t bother taking a local paper from the rack; instead, she grabs a disposable cup, tossing and catching it in her hands once as the clerk, Donna, tells her that her father’s out again today. Julie can only shrug. Donna doesn’t expect her to do anything about it, and even if she did, she’d be disappointed by how much power she actually has over him these days. “Hope no one needs to speak to the owner, then. That’s what managers are for, aren’t they?”
“Sure.”
Julie makes a sweeping gesture with her free hand, stepping over to fill her cup with hot chocolate at the samovar. She’s smiling, but it’s wry; they both know Mr. Kostenko has been getting less reliable. Making poor business decisions. Maybe she should work on that, she thinks, as she pauses to survey the small crowd in the lobby. Holidayers, mostly. Some locals; she can recognize every one of the six thousand inhabitants of Ormond, she’s sure. A few dozen people. It’s peak season, though. Fairview won’t start classes again for several weeks, waiting out the worst of the snow. Ormond has precious little more to do than ride the slopes: there should be more here. “Karlsson’s at the conversation pit, if you’re looking for her,” Donna suggests.
Pink lips purse, slightly, but her eyes betray nothing. “I wasn’t. Who’s Karlsson?” she asks coolly, taking a half-sip and visibly recoiling. Too hot.
“First name Nea? The girl you’ve been spending so much time with? Room four?”
Julie hesitates, then selects some Irish creamer and a wooden stirrer, churning the cocoa pale and cool over a long moment of mock thought. She shakes her head.
“I didn’t know her name.”
~
Cocoa Breath is back.
Nea kicks her feet up onto the glass panes that cordion off the fire from the pit. She hasn’t checked out her snowboard yet today — a late start will do that to a girl — but CB is an early riser. Comes around looking like some kind of après-ski supermodel right as breakfast closes, nurses a mug while she mingles with the clientele, and pretends not to look at her. Nea notices, but rarely reacts. No need; she’ll swing by on her own soon enough, and then she’ll have plenty of chances to look. Besides, she looks prettiest from above.
But she’s not bad from below, either, Nea observes, watching her approach from her position on the ring sofa. She arches her eyebrows, folding the local newspaper she’d been reading and setting it aside as she shifts her thighs a little further apart as if to ask ‘right now?’. The girl rolls her mascaraed Bambi eyes, but it’s without the loathing with which she fixes local boys in letterman jackets, and Nea feels her lips pull into a cocky smirk. That doesn’t stop her from stepping down into the pit and carving out a spot in the pillows beside her, and Nea knew it wouldn’t. She’s still playing it cool, though. Fine by her.
“Thought you would save your first for me,” she jokes, her Swedish lilt disguising — for the most part — the double entendre.
“Bite me,” Cocoa Breath answers calmly, tugging down the zipper on the breast of her snowsuit. “Try waking up before ten next time. Really does wonders for getting in a morning run.”
“And miss a continental breakfast?” Nea waves a hand, as if that’s unthinkable. “Nah. I need time to get the lay of the land.”
“Sloped?” she supplies, looking half-amused. She’s adamant that there’s nothing here for her, and maybe that’s true, but where the Rockies may lack in opportunity for a girl like her, they carry the world’s heritage — hers and CB’s alike. And, if that sidebar article was anything to go by, they might not bear it forever.
“Grease-slick, too. You’re on another level of nepotism out here. Did you know they’re tearing up that protected wilderness near Banff to make room for lake houses? In a national park?”
She chews a marshmallow, her eyes twinkling with recognition. Nea doesn’t know exactly where Banff is, in relation to Mount Ormond, but Cocoa Breath will, and she’s making no effort to disguise her interest.
“No. You big into trees, or are you just a commie?”
She snorts, dignifying the question. “Both.”
The girl smiles, dignifying the response. “Cool.”
“We’re recruiting,” Nea offers, dryly. Maybe they are. “Where is it? The wilderness. Must be close enough to civilization.”
“You’re talking about Lake Louise, I think. It’s actually not far. Head up Fairview Mountain and it’ll be on the other side. It’s a pain in the ass to make that drive, which is why no one comes up here — Ormond, I mean — and goes to Banff instead. Bigger city, easier access. Lake Louise is a town itself, though. They’ve got a resort, too.”
“Can’t be much of a lake right now,” she suggests, thinking of the long lake Vättern back home in her native Hjo. Lake Louise is bound to have iced over by now considering how bitterly cold it’s been, just as Vättern does under the lightless winter days in Sweden. At least some things never change. “You know how to skate?”
“You kidding?” she asks, finishing the last dregs of her cocoa and pushing herself up to her feet. “Tell you what. I’ll drive you down to Lake Louise today. We can pound trees and skate as much as you want. Just one condition.”
“Mhm?”
“Beat me down the black diamond.”
Nea lets her face split into a smirk, unzipping her backpack and tucking the newspaper between four clinking cans of DayGlo spray paint. Cocoa Breath is always like this: everything is a competition, and she loves to win. She thinks she’s slick, but she’s not, and yet instead of calling her on it, Nea only tucks her freshly-shorn, dyed-black hair into her beanie, swings her backpack onto her shoulder, and rises up with her.
The girl lifts her chin and flashes her a glossy-lipped grin — yes, she is prettiest from above.
“You’re on.”