I Found Romance In The Mountains

Peering through the lodge window, I watched the moon light the snow and splash it with silver. In the distance, trees formed dark patterns on the endless stretch of white. The skiers, with their husky shouts and vast enthusiasm, had disappeared with the sun. It was quiet now, like another world . . . a world that seemed too proud and aloof to be lonely.

I was the lonely one. I sighed and turned back into the roomful of shadows. Angela and Rod Cameron were holding hands by the huge fire. “Right this minute I envy you two,” I told them.

They grinned. “Romantic, isn’t it?” Rod said, teasingly.

“What a shame Bill couldn’t come,” said Angela, as if she’d been reading my thoughts.

I agreed with all my heart. But that’s what happens when a girl marries a pilot. Of course, when the pilot’s a wonderful husband, what can she do but wait when he’s flying to the other side of the globe? For four years I’ve done the same thing—I’ve missed him. I miss him 11 out of every 18 days. And the hours fly on the seven days he’s home.

Bill was away when I finished my first picture, The Thing From Another World. I’d been working hard, and invariably everyone I’d run into would come up with the suggestion, “Why don’t you take a real vacation—get some rest?”

“Rest? I feel great,” I’d say.

But even the mirror told me I was tired. Figuring I couldn’t win, I returned to my usual occupation—waiting for the postman. “Look, Mrs. Pattison,” he finally said one day. “If you don’t get a letter tomorrow, I, myself, will write you a postcard.”

“Tomorrow the letter came. It was a lovely, sentimental letter. Bill was remembering the trip we took around the world, when I hired on as stewardess for one excursion . . . Tokyo, Hong Kong, Calcutta, Cairo, Athens, Rome . . . I was making the rounds of our memories when I came to the final sentences. “You must be pretty beat after the picture,” he wrote. “Why don’t you get away for a couple of days?”

So, it was more or less by popular demand that I packed a weekend bag with White Stagg’s finest and another beautiful Chan-gold ski suit, and caught a plane for Reno en route to Tahoe. I was determined to look the part of a ski enthusiast, though I’d most likely spend my time sitting in the snow.

I was in Reno long enough to send Bill a wire. “Don’t worry, darling,” it said. “Tm only here for a few hours.” The ride to the Cal-Neva Lodge was slow and tedious I’d been told. I was too enchanted by my first glimpse of so much snow to notice. I couldn’t say a word—just kept looking out of the window, and exclaiming to Ann Melton, a model on her way to Tahoe for a fashion layout.

We arrived at the lodge in time to get unpacked and dressed for dinner. That was when I first ran into Rod and Angela. “Come sit by the fire,” they invited.

We compared career and matrimonial notes, and Rod jokingly told his version of how he and his new bride happened to be at Cal-Neva. According to Mr. Cameron it was because of a telephone. Once the light of his bachelor life, the instrument had become a fullfledged nuisance. Since his marriage the phone had never stopped ringing . . . and he always got the same dialogue. “Hello, Rod, old pal.”

“Hello,” he’d reply.

“Congratulations, chum.”

“Thanks.”

“Give the bride my best.”

“Sure.”

“By the way—guess you won’t be needing that little black book anymore. You know, the one with the telephone numbers. Old pal.”

“I burned it,” Rod would retort. “And spread the word around, will you? ’m tired of answering the phone.”

The word went slowly, and the Camerons decided to get away from it all, Rod told me solemnly.

Far from telephones, we spent the rest of the evening in a kind of warm, dreamy silence, periodically broken when the musicians came by to serenade us.

Next morning, I was at breakfast when Ann Melton came tapping on the windowpane. The weather was fine. “If we’re going to ski, we’d better get started,” I said.

“Why don’t we just look around,’ Ann suggested, and we set out to explore the countryside . . . alternately on foot and by bus.

We’d just arrived at Squaw Valley when a snowball landed on my head. “Hi,” yelled Bob Stack.

Claudette Thornton was with him, packing another snowball for more ammunition in case we retaliated. Two against two was slightly uneven as snowfights go—especially when one member of the opposing side is Bob Stack. Claudette deserted and came over to our team. For a time it looked as if Bob was going to be snowed under. Then he got his second wind, and our trio called for a truce. The good winner invited us into a nearby eating place for lunch.

We slipped into chairs beside Rhonda Fleming and Dr. Lew Morrill, and it was like old home week. Rhonda had come up to see snow, and Lew had come to see Rhonda.

“Isn’t it fine?” I whispered to Ann.

“Isn’t what fine?” she asked.

“All these couples,” I said, being Cupid’s best audience. “What a marvelous place to come to with your favorite beau.”

I glanced at Bob and Claudette, deep in conversation. They were at Tahoe on a houseparty and had slipped away from the rest of the guests to try some of the more difficult ski runs.

I’d just finished my coffee when Bob spoke up. “Another fight anybody?” he challenged.

Ann started to get up. I nudged her, which meant they probably wanted to be alone, so she sat down again. “Some other time,” I said.

“You’re an incurable romantic,” Ann laughed as Bob and Claudette went out into the snow. “Let’s go back to the lodge with Rhonda and Lew—do you think they’d mind our company?”

“Love it,” Rhonda volunteered.

“Thanks just the same, but I’m going to see how I do on skis,” I told them.

An hour later I was sitting in the snow of Squaw Valley, wondering about the logic of standing up again, when a kind gentleman on his way down the mountain stopped to ask if I needed help.

“It would take years to help me,” I admitted. “This is my first time on skis.”

He was very encouraging. Before long I was standing and able to stay that way. “Well, now,” I said, “will you show me how to get to the ski tow?”

We got there, but when I saw the lift my confidence was shattered. It’s the largest ski tow in the world. Glancing up I saw three familiar faces coming down toward me. . . . Dorothy, Jim, and Chris Mitchum. Dorothy said that Bob would be down eventually—in one piece, she hoped. He was coming on skis. When he reached the bottom (in one piece), we adjourned to the Jones’ lodge where the Mitchums were visiting. Stan and Olive Jones had a roaring fire going, and borrowing an outfit from Dorothy, I hung my ski clothes up to dry. “Great place, huh?” Bob asked.

I nearly ran out of adjectives.

That evening back at the lodge, I joined the Camerons for dinner, in California. After the meal, we went from the dining room over to the game room in Nevada (hence the name Cal-Neva) . . . a strange feeling crossing the state line by simply going from one room to another.

I’ve never been one for taking chances, so I found a place at the table to watch roulette. When the lights went out, I got the idea I couldn’t be lucky even as a spectator. However, candles were brought in and activity continued by candlelight. As my eyes grew accustomed to the semidarkness, I noticed that we had quite a gathering. Bob and Dorothy had stopped in. They were standing at the table, Bob’s arm around Dorothy, and a stranger might have taken them for honeymooners. Bob Stack and Claudette were watching the players. I turned around and blinked. Rhonda and Lew were coming into the room, hand in hand.

It was late enough to say goodnight and if I wrote Bill right away, the letter would reach him in Honolulu. On the way to my room, I glanced toward the fireplace. “Goodnight,” said the Camerons from their place on the hearth.

“Dear Bill,” I wrote. “I seem to have found romance in the mountains. Lots of romance, but it all belonged to other people. I’m making return reservations for us when you get home. Then you can see what I mean.”

THE END

BY MARGARET SHERIDAN

 

It is a quote. MODERN SCREEN MAGAZINE MAY 1951