Home To Family

She got out of the car quickly, tucking her serviceable old coat around her for warmth and keeping her hands shoved into the deep pockets. She went up the long drive, her breath blowing warm little puffs against her cheeks. It had to be a good ten degrees colder at this elevation.

The air was as still and hushed as a church chapel. Beyond the hiking trails along the ridge and through the evergreen trees, Leslie caught sight of Lightning Lake. It was small and had been frozen solid for a couple of weeks now. On a beautiful, clear day like today, the surface sparkled in the sunlight, as though the ice were embedded with diamond dust.

She had a special fondness for that lake. It was there, years ago, that she’d had her first real conversation with Matt.

Although they’d been in the same sixth-grade class that year, she’d never actually spoken to Matt D’Angelo before. He was everything she was not—popular with the other kids, a favorite of the teachers. He’d already begun to display a natural talent for sports and a killer charm. His life was headed on an upward course, and Leslie suspected he knew it.

The boys he hung out with were cocky, arrogant creeps. The girls were giggly future cheerleaders already in love with their own images. None of them were Leslie’s friends. No one in Matt’s circle would have ever sat at the same lunchroom table with someone who lived in Mobley’s Mobile Court.

She told herself that their shallow attitudes suited her just fine. In spite of mediocre grades, she wasn’t stupid. Living with two volatile parents had taught her a lot about survival. Since summer that year, trouble at home had been particularly stressful. Her father’s temper was in full force due to his inability to hold a job for very long. She’d been busy developing an I-don’t-care approach toward the world in general from the day school started.

In February the PTA held a fundraiser, and the D’Angelos offered their property for a winter carnival—sleigh rides, cross-country skiing on the trails, ice-skating on Lightning Lake. Everyone said the D’Angelos knew how to host a celebration, and it should be fun as well as profitable.

Leslie had no intention of going.

But the day before the fundraiser she found herself suddenly volunteering to help out. Her parents were in the middle of a three-day argument, and with the weekend ahead and tempers escalating, the last place Leslie wanted to be was home, playing referee and maybe getting in the line of fire herself. Besides, she had a secret longing to see just what was so darned special about Lightning River Lodge, a place she’d been hearing about all her life.

By midmorning her feet felt frozen and her cheeks stung. The job of selling hot chocolate at a booth by the lake bored her. Only pride kept her from marching off and leaving Mrs. Elliott, the history teacher, to run the concession alone.

Every kid she despised seemed to be on the lake that day. She watched as they sailed laughingly around the ice. The boys wove in and out of the crowd with long, wild strokes—imagining themselves professional hockey players, no doubt. The girls spun in short skating skirts, a rainbow dazzle.

She’d seen Matt D’Angelo whiz by the stand several times. He made skating look effortless. His arms never flailed; he never lost his balance. He could stop so quickly that ice particles sprayed out from his skate blades.

Show off, she thought, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Mrs. Elliott had gone up to the lodge for a few minutes, and Leslie had just poured herself some steaming chocolate when Matt skated up to the stand. Since his family had furnished the cocoa, she thought he might expect a freebie, but he didn’t hesitate to plunk down fifty cents.

Without a word she passed him a cup. He wrapped both hands around the plastic and took a cautious sip.

His cheeks were blotchy red, his dark hair disheveled, but there was a undeniable aura of potent energy about him; something in his eyes radiated confidence. In spite of herself, Leslie felt a warm tingle begin in her stomach. They spent several long seconds studying one another in such an odd silence that she picked up her own fresh cup and took a large swallow.

She had to stifle a gasp of pain. The heat from the cocoa seared the taste buds right off her tongue.

One of Matt D’Angelo’s brows lifted. “Didn’t that hurt?”

“No,” she lied, trying to suck cold air through her slightly parted lips.

“You sure?”

“It doesn’t,” she claimed, mortified. “Okay?”

His mouth quirked. “Guess it’s true what Danny says about you.”

The mention of his friend Danny LeBrock made her spine stiffen. She hated him. He insisted on trying to torment her with every dumb variation of her name he could think of—Help-Les. Friend-Les. Wit-Les. Lately he’d been partial to Hope-Les. She stared at Matt rigidly, unable to contain her curiosity. “What does Danny say about me?”

“That you’re the toughest girl he’s ever met.”

“He’s an idiot. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know very many girls. What girl would talk to him?”

Over the rim of his cup, Matt’s eyes sparkled in a look she’d seen him use on the other girls and several teachers. “Yeah, that’s probably true. Danny can be a loser sometimes.” He took another sip of chocolate, and she pretended to do the same.

“Can you taste anything yet?” he asked knowingly.

She nodded, though that wasn’t really true.

“Mom makes the best hot chocolate. She says the recipe is over a hundred years old and came all the way from Italy. From her mother’s family.”

She had to admit, Matt’s parents seemed like nice people. Mrs. D’Angelo had brought Leslie gloves to wear when she saw that she had forgotten her own. Without muttering a complaint, Mr. D’Angelo trudged down the trail time and again to keep them supplied with hot chocolate from the resort’s kitchen. They were so unlike her own folks, she wasn’t sure they were real.

Leslie gave him a look of mild interest, refusing to seem too impressed even though the chocolate was completely unlike the watery, instant brew she was used to. The rich mixture had filled her insides like a hot bath.

Someone called Matt’s name, and he looked over his shoulder. One of the girls he hung out with gestured for him to come back to the ice. He turned to Leslie. “Do you want to skate? We’re going to start up a game of whipcracker if we can get enough people.”

Her heart gave a little kick like a can-can dancer. As much as she wanted to say yes, she couldn’t. Her flailing trip across the ice would be as inept as a two-year-old child’s. Worse, maybe.

She fumbled around for inspiration, but came up empty. “I didn’t bring skates,” she said at last. “I came to work, not have fun.”

She sounded irritable, when she’d meant to sound practical. Matt didn’t seem to mind. He gave a little inside chuckle that threatened to draw her into the warm circle of his personality. “Take it easy. I’m just asking if you want to skate a few minutes, not rob a bank. I can snag a pair from the lodge if you want. We always keep extras for guests.”

“Look, I’m not interested.”

“Why not? I’ll bet Mrs. Elliott will watch the stand by herself for a while. She’s pretty cool for a teacher.”

Panic turned the chocolate in her stomach to an icy waterfall. She’d been hungry for friendship this year, but she wasn’t prepared for this overture. Not from someone like Matt D’Angelo, who probably had to beat friends off with a stick.

She gave him a challenging look. “Why are you talking to me?”

He looked genuinely puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not like your friends.” She jerked her head toward the ice, where several of his buddies were clowning around, waiting for him. “They won’t like it if you make them be nice to me.”

“I don’t make my friends do anything,” he said with a scowl. “And they don’t tell me who I can talk to.” He tilted his head at her. “Why are you so mad? Do you really want to fight over playing a couple of stupid games on the ice?”

Anger killed all sense of caution within her. “I can’t skate, okay? I never learned.”

She expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. “Is that all?” he asked. “Shoot, I can teach you in two minutes. Lucky for you, I’m the best skater on the lake today.”

Someone had to keep him from being so arrogantly sure of himself. “You’re not very modest,” she told him.

“Why should I be? It’s the truth.”

“I don’t want to learn to skate,” she said precisely.

“Sure you do.”

“No, I don’t. I want you to go away and leave me alone.”

She waited to be rewarded with anger from him now. How many times had he been told to get lost? Not many, she’d bet. But in the next moment, she caught sight of real catastrophe on the way. Danny LeBrock had skated off the ice and was crab-walking toward them.