Careful not to let her amusement show, Sasha asked, “What kind of social whirl do you think I’ll find in Painter’s Bluff?”
“Don’t be smart, Alexandra. You’re three days late arriving. It’s not a promising start.”
Sasha hated when her mother used her formal name. “I’ve been through this with Skye, Mother. She and I have worked out a number of details already, over the phone and through e-mail. I’ve explained why I’m late for the site inspection.”
“You don’t explain, you apologize. And you don’t call her Skye.”
“She told me to, and I did apologize. She’s not upset.”
“Of course she isn’t. Why would she be?” Contrary as always, Barbara huffed out a breath. “Her son’s an attorney with the Justice Department. Lucky woman. Mine’s a college dropout who plays on his charm and is forever giving in to his itchy feet. Speaking of which, have you seen Angus lately?”
“Not since Christmas.”
“He should be in school.”
“He’s twenty, Mother. And backpacking through Europe never hurt anyone.”
“Stop making excuses for him.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You do it all the time, for Angus and for yourself.” She sighed. “You’re twenty-nine, Sasha. You should be settled.”
Sasha considered breaking the connection and blaming it on the weather, but that never worked. Barbara would simply call the hotel tonight and harangue her until—well, until she got tired of it, Sasha supposed. Unfortunately, her mother seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy for haranguing.
“You could have married that cosmetic surgeon in Philadelphia,” Barbara stated. “You’d have been set for life.”
“Well, one of us would have.”
She imagined her mother’s neck turning pink. “He only did one small lift for me.”
“On the house,” Sasha reminded her. “We weren’t compatible, okay? You got your lift, I got out. Everyone’s happy.” Not entirely true, but Sasha really wanted this conversation over. “I enjoy living in Denver. I like being near Dad and Uncle Paul.”
“You like being away from me.”
Sorely tempted now to toss her phone out the window, Sasha made a face at it instead. “My new firm’s doing well, Mother, and Denver’s always felt like home to me.”
“Yes, as I recall, I wasted seven years of my life there once.”
“Eight, and to date it was your longest marriage.”
“Also my longest and, I might add, least satisfying teaching assignment. Eight fruitless years spent trying to instruct teenagers on how to speak, read and write the English language, appreciate poetry and recognize literary genius. If nothing else, my private school students here in Boston know how to listen. It’s an art you and Angus never quite mastered.”
Wind swooped down to batter Sasha’s SUV. “The weather’s really bad here, Mother. I need to concentrate on the road.”
“You need to concentrate on the job you’ve been hired to do.”
“Does that mean you’re going to hang up?”
“Sasha, Skye Painter—”
“Is an important woman, and you want me to impress her. Got it. I’ll do my best.” Determined to end the call, Sasha crinkled a food wrapper. “You’ re breaking up. I’ll talk to you later. Love to Hans.”
“His name is Richard.”
“I know. I liked Hans better.”
A note of anger crept in. “My personal life—”
“Is none of my business. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Say that to Skye Painter, not me. And—”
“Breaking up, Mom. Bye.”
Flipping her phone shut, Sasha switched off. She spent the next few seconds shuddering away the antlike prickles that invariably lingered after a conversation with her mother.
Not even by the most generous emotional gauge could her relationship with Barbara be considered good. Tolerable perhaps, regrettable definitely, but not pleasant, not warm and not remotely close to what Sasha had spent much of her life wishing for.
Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. Her father, her uncle and her half brother, Angus, lived in Denver. She had partners and friends and a reputation that people in the western states were beginning to notice. It was enough.
With the prickles receding, she turned her mind to the job Skye Painter, president and CEO of the Painter Development Corporation, had commissioned her to do.
It was a straightforward and potentially lucrative task: design a resort for all seasons. Not solely for skiing, although people would be eager to shush down the formidable slopes of Hollowback Mountain, but for year-round outdoor activities. Keep it clean and simple, incorporate a strong Western flavor, bring the outside in and connect the entire complex to the land.
Skye had made it clear to Sasha from the outset that her architectural firm had not been at the top of her contact list. Beat, Streete and Myer had been recommended by an associate whose private retreat in Colorado Springs had, quote, “blown the boulders out from under him.” To Sasha’s mind, that said Skye Painter wanted a fresh perspective and a unique design for her project. Anything short of that, and she would be taking her business elsewhere.
Roads aside—and access was a problem that needed to be addressed—Sasha was looking forward to the challenge. She wouldn’t allow a case of nerves to disrupt her. Failure wasn’t an option. Her company was new and fragile for that reason. Plus, her partners were depending on her, and God knew her mother would never let her live it down. Heaven help anyone who disappointed Barbara Leeds.
Twilight approached early in mid-January. Snow clouds hung low and threatening over Hollowback Mountain. The ruts were so deep in places that Sasha had to slow her vehicle to a crawl to get over them.
“Really need a wider road,” she decided, then bounced so hard she bit her tongue.
She spied headlights approaching, but it was difficult to judge the distance in near whiteout conditions. Refocusing, she blinked, did a disbelieving double take and hissed out a breath.
She had to be seeing things. There couldn’t possibly be a huge pickup bearing down on her.
She swung the wheel to the right. The halogen lights ahead danced like lanterns in a high wind. As she’d somehow known it would, the approaching vehicle lost traction and went into a full three-hundred-sixty-degree spin.
The back end of the truck whipped around to tag her front fender. It struck her again near the tire well, slowed briefly, then spun its wheels and fishtailed away. The best Sasha could do—and she’d been driving in the snow since her sixteenth birthday—was steer into the skid and pray the ravine beside her wasn’t a sheer drop.
An eternity later, she felt something catch on the undercarriage, and her Land Rover jolted to a halt. If she hadn’t been belted in, she would have been flung into the passenger seat. Peering out, she saw nothing, just emptiness, and realized that one good blast of wind would send her tumbling over the side of the cliff.
Need guardrails, she reflected through a jittery blur. Big heavy suckers to embrace the soon-to-be-widened road.
She took a precious moment to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. Breathe in, breathe out, she told herself. Don’t make any sudden moves.
She pried her clenched fingers from the steering wheel, visualized the road, covered