L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

curse my brand-new baby-blue one-piece suit because I had to unzip the jacket and let it
collapse around my waist to get some relief from the heat generated by the beating sun.
I was sure I looked like an oddly colored tulip with wilted petals. My white toque and
white mitts soon became dotted with coee and hot chocolate because it took a day and
a half of pacing at the foot of the mountain before I got the nerve to take the chair to
the top.
I’d spent some time in Canada, in Windsor, Ontario, in particular, because the
drinking age was lower than Michigan’s and I was dating Scott, a man who drank a lot
even before I married him. I remember for a while trying to keep up with him, but I just
didn’t like the eects of all that alcohol on my body. Still, it was the hallmark of our
courtship that everything Scott did and liked, I would nd myself doing and liking as
well. He drove Fords, and so a Focus was my rst car. He liked Thai food, so I became a
fan myself. Scott was an avid skier, so I became one too. But skiing was about the only
thing he introduced me to that I actually liked and eventually became pretty good at.
At rst we skied together, Scott never more in his element than when he was telling or
showing me how to do something. But I was a willing partner, so wanting it to work, for
us to bond and click, that I risked breaking my neck on moguls after only three days of
lessons. I was a natural, something that pleased Scott at rst and then slowly began to
bother him. Eventually, while I’d hit the slopes in the morning, Scott would stay back
and keep a couch warm in front of the re and a brandy ready for when I returned.
Skiing alone, I felt a sense of independence and the thrill that comes from courting
adrenaline rushes. I loved going fast and the feel of my thigh muscles working hard in
the cold. But this newfound hobby was short-lived. Once Scott saw that I was actually
enjoying myself, and sometimes even drawing a bit of male attention my way, we
stopped skiing altogether.
Now, trudging through Whistler’s crowded main square in my new ski outt, I felt
some bad déjà vu, but also some good. Before Scott got sicker, I had to admit some of
our happiest days as a couple were spent on those weekend trips to the Upper
Peninsula. Maybe this is what it felt like to begin forgiving Scott, to let go of my
resentment towards him and his selsh decisions, the ones that had left me a widow at
twenty-nine. I hoped so. I was done blaming him for my aloneness, done feeling sad
about it. And on days like today, when the sun was bright and the snow was sparkling, I
could even say I loved my life more because it was nally, completely my own. I looked
up at the mountain. I would never take this kind of beauty for granted, even if I lived
here and saw this every single day. It wasn’t just gratitude that ooded my heart at that
moment, but unadulterated joy.
“Here, let me take a picture of you in front of the mountain.”
I was startled by the voice and the hand, which before I could protest was wrapping
around my camera.
“Whoa!” I said, pulling it away. It took me a couple of seconds to take in the young
man with a dimple in his left cheek, and the shaggy brown hair peeking out from under
his black toque. I detected a slight French accent.
“I wasn’t trying to take it,” he said, his palms open to me in surrender. Then he smiled,