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She had strawberry blonde curls that bounced with every slight movement and deep green eyes that sparkled with excitement. Her bright pink ski jumpsuit made her look like a tiny flamingo against the white and blue décor of the shop. Something about her reminded me of myself at that age, before life had gotten complicated—that pure, unfiltered enthusiasm for adventure.

"Can I go fast?" she asked, her words tumbling together in that endearing way small children have when excitement outpaces their ability to articulate.

I smiled, adjusting the bindings to match her boot size. "You sure can, but first we need to make sure these fit you just right."

Her mother, a woman with the same strawberry blonde hair but pulled back in a sensible ponytail, gave me a grateful look."It's her first time on real skis. She's been talking about nothing else for weeks."

"Well, she's going to have an amazing time," I assured her, then turned back to the little girl. "Let me show you how these work, okay?"

I demonstrated how to click her little boots into the bindings and how to release them, guiding her tiny feet through the motions. She was the last of about ten kids I'd helped outfit that morning, all part of the beginner's ski school group heading out with Mark, our resident instructor.

"Like this?" she asked, stomping her foot down with more enthusiasm than precision.

"Almost," I laughed, helping her adjust. "There you go, perfect!"

Her face lit up with accomplishment, and I felt that familiar warmth spread through my chest—the simple joy of helping someone else find their footing, literally and figuratively. It was moments like these that made me grateful for this job, for this new chapter of my life.

The little girl was so excited to hit the slopes, and I couldn't blame her. I'd managed to get out of bed early enough this morning to get three runs in myself before skiing right up to the front door of the shop. The snow had been perfect—crisp and powdery, the kind that makes a satisfying shush under your skis and sparkles in the early morning light like scattered diamonds.

One advantage of this shop was its location on the edge of town at the bottom of one of the gentler slopes. You could ski right up to it, which made for a spectacular commute on powder days. The disadvantage was that I spent half my time sweeping snow from the entrance where it was trampled in by excited customers all day long. A small price to pay for paradise, I figured.

"All set, sweetie," I said, helping her stand up with her new skis in her arms. "Mark is going to teach you everything you need to know."

She nodded solemnly, then broke into a gap-toothed grin. "I'm gonna be the fastest!"

"I bet you will," I agreed, standing up and handing her mother a claim ticket. "They'll be back around noon. We'll have her gear ready for tomorrow if you decide to continue."

"Thank you so much," her mother said. "She's been impossible to contain since we booked this trip. My husband's taking the older one on the intermediate slopes, so I'm hoping this gives her something to be proud of too."

I watched as the little girl joined the cluster of similarly outfitted children gathering around Mark, our twenty-something instructor with perpetual bedhead and the patience of a saint. He caught my eye and gave me a thumbs up as he began herding his colourful flock toward the door.

It had been three weeks since I'd started working at Mountain Gear, and I'd fallen into the rhythm of the place as easily as I'd fallen in love with my little cottage in Lakeview. The work was straightforward but satisfying—fitting people with the right equipment, offering advice on the best runs for their skill level, occasionally repairing minor gear issues. But more than the work itself, I'd found a community here that accepted me without question or expectation.

Particularly Diane and Mei, two women who worked the same shift rotation as me. They'd invited me for coffee my first week, and somehow we'd clicked immediately. Both were in their thirties, both avid skiers, both refreshingly straightforward. They understood why I never went out to the pub with the rest of the staff after closing, because I'd had the power and confidence to tell them outright: "Sorry, I don't goout. I'm two years sober, so I don't go near anything that might trigger me."

Instead of awkwardness or prying questions, they'd simply nodded and suggested the local pizza place instead. Now our Thursday night dinners had become a highlight of my week—hours of conversation and laughter over wood-fired pizzas and sparkling water with lemon. No pressure, no expectations, just genuine connection.

I watched the last of the ski school kids file out the door behind Mark, their excitement palpable even through layers of winter gear. The shop fell momentarily quiet, that brief lull between the morning rush and the midday crowd.

I stood dusting invisible dirt off my pants, a habit I'd picked up from Eleanor at the oil and vinegar shop and never quite shaken. The morning had flown by in a blur of boot fittings and rental forms, but now I had a chance to catch up on the inventory work I'd started yesterday.

Moving back to the counter, I pulled out the clipboard with the pricing sheets for the new clothing line we'd received. Winter was just getting started, tourists would be looking for souvenirs and last-minute gear for weeks to come. I'd just started entering figures into the computer when the bell above the door chimed.

"Be right with you," I called without looking up, finishing the entry I was working on.

"No rush," came the reply, a voice that stopped my fingers mid-keystroke.

A voice I hadn't heard in years but would recognize anywhere—low and warm with that slight musical lilt that had always made even the most mundane statements sound like the beginning of a story.

I looked up slowly, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs, and found myself staring into deep green eyes that I'd once known better than my own.

"Geri?" he said, his voice softer now, uncertain.

The clipboard slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers and clattered onto the counter. Two years of carefully constructed peace, of measured healing, of learning to live with the absence of him—all of it seemed to compress into this single, impossible moment.

"Con?" I said.

Chapter 32