Tonight, Village Square was overhung by a white canvas canopy outlined in strands of twinkling lights. Stainless-steel heaters glowed within and propane-burning fire pits threw up lapping waves of orange flames. Wylie guided April under the canopy, and as the revelers recognized them, they broke into hoots and shouts and glove-muffled applause. The DJ spun “Can’t Hold Us,” and suddenly phones and cameras were clicking and flashing. Wylie smiled and waved, then took April’s right hand and raised it high. A platoon of reporters, photographers, and video shooters materialized from the crowd and made straight for her.
The winners’ tables were bar-style, round and high, and spread throughout the canopied square so the guests could step up and talk with the athletes. Wylie joined the two Colorado ski-cross finalists, who pressed an open bottle of champagne on him, hugged him tipsily, and offered bleary smiles to the circle of ski-cross admirers. Wylie sipped a long, cold shot and hugged two girls who wanted him in their selfies.
Claude Favier broke away from a group and strongly shook Wylie’s hand. “Never have I been more proud for Chamonix! I wish you all the good luck in Aspen. And in Europe, if you choose to compete.”
“I’m taking those CR Fives on the FIS circuit, Claude.” It sounded strange to hear himself say this in public for the first time. The World Cup circuit!
“It will be a challenge, but you are a good ski-cross racer. Do not let European snobbery destroy your confidence. I know the very best wax technician on the Continent and I will introduce you to him. He can read a racer’s mind and reveal it in the waxing. He can improve any racer’s speed.”
“I’ll send you a picture of me on the podium at Val Thorens.”
“With the CR Fives prominently visible!” Then the Frenchman’s smile dropped and he leaned in close to Wylie. “I saw your dramatic pass of Sky yesterday. Something in it disturbed me. Later, the chief of race allowed me to view the video. I watched it several times and decided that you did no wrong in the passing of Sky Carson. You raced honestly. But Sky is very temperamental, so you must be civil to him.”
“I can manage it.”
“His threats are, of course, nonsense. Ah — I see a friend I must welcome.” Claude angled skillfully through the partygoers to intercept a tall and strikingly beautiful woman with a borzoi on a leash. The woman looked at the dog and the dog sat, and Claude cheek-kissed her three times in the French way.
Wylie talked briefly with a Powder magazine stringer who said he’d gotten a kick out of Wylie’s “power pass” in the finals, though obviously Sky Carson had not. He told Wylie that Sky’s broken wrist was a “green-stick fracture” and not serious. He said the FIS ski-cross circuit was much rougher than here — totally physical — then excused himself to catch up with a waiter bearing a tray of complimentary wines.
Next to Wylie, the Colorado guys had loudly begun reenacting key moments from their races, one of them snatching the champagne bottle back from Wylie. Wylie seized the moment to locate April, who stood at a middle table with the women slopestylers. The media troops had closed in again and her table had twice the crowd as any other. But, somehow sensing his attention, she looked over and found him and smiled as her admirers pressed in and the camera lights slapped her face. She had taken off her jacket and become even more beautiful.
Mike Cook brought Wylie a bourbon and they posed for pictures for The Sheet and Mammoth Times. As the photogs snapped away, Wylie saw Kathleen and Steen and his sisters yapping it up with Jesse and Jolene Little Chief. Beatrice and Belle did look penitent with their shorn hair and humble good manners.
Adam and Teresa made their entrance, to solid applause. Adam looked underdressed and bored, as he often did at social gatherings, while Teresa was radiant. The mayor and two council members stood with the chief of police and two Mammoth Lakes developers. Bart Helixon cut through the crowd, talking to somebody somewhere, wearing a trim navy suit, his window lens shimmering.
Grant Bulla and his son Daniel were engaged with the women half-pipe boarders. The sergeant looked over and Wylie nodded. Bulla had been persuasive in the legal proceedings against Wylie’s sisters — urging leniency for their youth and good characters — and Wylie made a note to thank him again tonight, later. Coincidentally, Wylie spotted the Honorable Caroline Hoppe at the men’s boarder-cross table. She was holding a steaming mug, nodding intently along with an animated presentation by the first-place medalist.
Jacobie Bradford delivered drinks to two young women Wylie didn’t know. The women glanced at each other. Jacobie’s head shined as if waxed and he had traded in his fly-fishing uniform for a tuxedo and a bold scarf in Rastafarian black, green, gold, and red. Wylie watched the snow falling in the darkness outside the canopy and heard his beloved Rexroth: Believe/In the night, the moon, the crowded/Earth.
He looked at April again, surrounded by her crowd and unaware of him. He pictured her last slopestyle run, the skill and abandon that she’d brought to a competition that she had already won. She’s right, he thought, remembering the first long walk they’d taken together — from Let It Bean to her rented home in Starwood — when she’d told him she was at her best in the air, trying to do beautiful things. Impossible things. He admired that freedom. The freedom to be the best you can be. The freedom for it to be more than a job or a means or a contest or a way out. For it to be a way in, Wylie thought. Thank you, April Holly. Unseen by her, Wylie saw the flash of her smile, and he had never felt this full. He wanted to be closer to her.
Soon he was. The eighteen winners were herded onto a low stage set up near one of the fire pits. More photos, Wylie thought. The gold medalists took center stage, and the second- and third-place contestants squeezed in around them. Wylie arranged himself most happily next to April. Photographers both pro and amateur filled the floor in front of the athletes, and their lights flashed away as Jacobie rolled a wheeled, hooded object through them, stopping it at the stage.
With a flourish, he yanked on the shroud to reveal the newly redesigned Gargantua Mammoth Cup — a cast statue of a lowland gorilla with an almost human expression, standing upright and holding a chalice over his head with two stout arms. Hoots and hollers rang out. The trophy was close to four feet tall, and the winner’s names had already been engraved. The medalists played it straight for as long as they could, then broke into impromptu aping. Wylie held a beer to the gorilla’s mouth and the photographers fired away. April slipped her arm around Wylie and he felt the wonderful heft of her against his side and the beat of her heart. He knew this was one of the great moments of his life.
Sky Carson strode into the lights of the canopy. His right arm was in a red satin sling and his left was intertwined with the arm of a sleek young woman. He wore a tuxedo and his Mammoth Cup champion’s jacket from four years ago. His colored hair had been restored to its yellow blond, and his blue beard was gone. The woman was sheathed in black leather and her hair flashed like obsidian. They stopped and Sky touched Claude’s arm. It looked like Sky was introducing his date. To Wylie, Sky seemed like his usual old self — relaxed and happily the center of attention. Sky and the slender woman moved on then to another group, where he made a joking attempt to shake someone’s hand.
A few minutes later, Sky looked across the room to Wylie and started in his direction.
Wylie was aware of the parting, now quieting crowd, but he was totally focused on his half brother. Sky’s face was set. The photogs surrendered their ground to him. Wylie shouldered April behind him, noticing that Sky’s left hand was empty. In his peripheral vision, Wylie registered Kathleen beginning to move toward him and Steen holding her back; the flames coiling in the fire pits and the snow swirling beyond; Cynthia and Adam drifting toward Sky from the rear of the canopy; cameras flashing; Beatrice and Belle unmoving, their faces puzzled. Jacobie’s wineglass stopped just short of his lips, which rose into a smirk.