First Chapter: Good as Gold
Read or listen! Narrator: Jason Clarke
Twenty Years Ago
“Let’s ride Devil’s Dance next,” Leila Giltmaker decides as they glide up the mountain on the chairlift. “The sun will have softened it up by now.”
“Sure,” Matteo agrees.
“Yup,” Rory says.
“Yup?” Leila prods. “Rory, is that the proper way to address me today?”
“Yes, queen,” he says sheepishly, while Matteo laughs.
On the way to the ski hill, Rory had lost a bet to Leila over which parking lots would be open today. Leila had been right, of course, and Rory had probably known it, but he’d stuck to his guns. He never liked to back down, even if it meant he’d have to do something ridiculous—like promising to call her “queen” all day.
There’s a truthfulness to it anyway. Leila often calls the shots, and neither teenaged boy is too bothered by it. After all, she has good instincts. It was Leila who figured out that the waffle cart would give them a three-for-two deal at the end of the day, when the minimum-wage worker who manned the thing wanted to use up her batter and go home.
And it’s Leila who has use of a car to drive their asses to the mountain in the first place. Her family is more functional than either of theirs, by a factor of a million. The Giltmakers own several successful businesses in Colebury. Whereas Matteo and Rory are lucky to own second-hand snowboards and discounted ski passes.
So if Leila wants to pick the next ski run, that’s cool. They’re lucky to be spending their Saturday with the town’s golden girl, and they both know it.
They’re three in a row on the old triple chair—also Leila’s choice—as opposed to the new high-speed quad. Sure, it’s slower, and it makes a gear-grinding noise and smacks the backs of your knees as you sit down on it. But there’s no line. And they don’t need a fourth chair anyway. Three is the size of their little pack—the best snowboarders in their town. They spend every Saturday like this—gliding over the white terrain, the afternoon sunshine warming their black ski pants.
“Loser alert,” Rory chuckles. “Two o’clock.”
Sure enough, some guy in a full-body camo snowsuit is clenching his way across the slope below them. He’s so nervous on his skis that he’s dragging his poles behind him like brakes.
“Be nice,” Leila chides. “Everybody starts somewhere.”
But when the guy suddenly falls, both boys explode with laughter. Even Leila cracks a smile. She can’t help it. The guy’s spreadeagled on the snow like a bad cartoon and shaking snow out of his face.
“Tourists,” Rory groans. “Can’t run ’em over. Can’t shoot ’em.”
Leila knows that tourist dollars are the whole reason the mountain can afford to sell them fifteen-dollar student tickets. She doesn’t point this out, though, because the old lift stops suddenly.
This happens whenever a kid falls down in the loading zone, and the lifty hits the red stop button. The whole contraption grinds to a sudden halt. But momentum makes their chair rock violently forward and then back again.
Leila feels her heart skip a beat as her snow pants slide an unwelcome inch toward the edge.
But Matteo’s arm is already there, holding her firmly in place on the seat. “Going somewhere, Giltmaker?”
Her heart skips another beat, but it’s different this time. “Nah,” she says lightly. “I don’t need a head start to beat you to the bottom.”
“Ooh, fighting words.”
The lift starts up again, and they glide forward. Matteo removes his arm, and Leila pretends not to miss it.
“We’ll meet up at the half pipe?” she says as the chair arrives at the top.
“Of course,” Matteo agrees. “Where else?”
She hops off the lift without another word. Thirty seconds later, she’s speeding down the run, her long hair flying out from beneath the edge of her helmet.
At the top of the hill, Matteo takes an extra minute with his bindings, just so he can watch Leila ride. She catches a sweet little jump and grabs the board mid-flight like an X-gamer.
He laughs.
“What’s so funny?” Rory asks, eyes following Leila as she disappears at the turn.
“Nothing. Ready?”
Rory doesn’t move. He just frowns at Matteo. “You can’t have her, you know.”
“What?” He heard Rory just fine, and he knows exactly what he means. It’s just that he’s surprised to hear it said out loud.
“The Golden Girl will never go for you.”
“Hey, no kidding.” He understands it on a gut level—the same way he knows that a leaden sky over Vermont means that snow is coming.
But that’s not the only thing he knows. “She’d never go for you either,” he points out.
Rory snorts. “No kidding. But still—it’s a deal, right? Neither one of us tries to get with her, and it doesn’t get weird.”
“Yeah, sure,” Matteo agrees. He can’t even picture either of them with Leila. She and her siblings win all the awards at school. Her family practically runs the town of Colebury. Their name literally means gold maker.
It isn’t just family connections that set Leila apart, though. It’s her fire. There are probably better words to describe it. But he doesn’t know those words and wouldn’t articulate them even if he did.
But it’s Leila who pushed them both to compete in their first freestyle competition last month. Matteo won a bronze medal and an invitation to compete at the state level in March.
Leila won a silver in a slalom race, too. And now she’s crafting a whole practice plan for both of them before the state competition.
Rory didn’t win anything, and he’s still salty about it. “We need a pact or something,” he says. “Nobody dates Leila. It would wreck our whole vibe.”
“True,” he agrees. If his only two friends became a couple, he’d die. He really would.
“So it’s a deal? You don’t touch her. I don’t either.”
“Sure. Of course.” Besides, as Rory already pointed out, she’d never go for the guy in the second-hand snow pants. The guy whose father is such a piece of work that he skips town for weeks at a time, forcing his mom to work two jobs and visit the food pantry.
Leila had been at his house once when the cops had called to say they had his dad in lockup. Matteo had wanted to die of embarrassment.
Making a pact with Rory is an easy decision. He’d never try anything with Leila. And this way, Rory won’t either. He likes this plan.
So that’s settled. “Let’s go,” he says. “Bet you can’t get any air off that jump.” He points at the spot Leila had soared from only a minute before.
“Bet I can.”
And off they go.
Chapter 1: Matteo
Twenty Years Later
April
The speed limit on the narrow highway is fifty miles per hour, but I slow down as my rental car approaches Colebury. The sky is dark and cloudy, making the unlit road hard to see. And since I haven’t been home in fourteen years, I’m not totally certain I’ll recognize the turnoff for my brother’s bar.
I’ve almost reached the outskirts of town when my phone rings to the tune of “I Knew You Were Trouble.” The rental car’s screen says Lissa calling.
For a second, I consider declining the call. I only have two bars of service, and I’m in a hurry.
But I just can’t do that. When a teenage girl who recently lost her dad calls, you answer. Day or night. Even if you’re literally fourteen years late for a party.
I tap the screen. “Lissa? Can you hear me?”
“Omigod, Matteo. Where are you? I was going nuts! You didn’t answer your phone. For hours.”
Oh shit. “I was on a flight, honey. I didn’t see that you called.” The second I’d landed in Burlington, I’d high-tailed it to the rental counter.
“A flight?” she gasps. “God, I was so worried. When you didn’t answer my calls, I went over to your place, and I banged on the door. I thought…” She hiccups. “After you canceled the last tours of the weekend... I had the worst idea.” She lets out a sob.
Whoa. After a glance in the rear-view mirror, I step on the brake and pull over onto the shoulder. “Lissa, breathe. What is the matter? Did something happen?”
“No.” She sniffles. “You left me a note, Matteo. It was kind of creepy.”
“It was?” I’d written: I’m sorry to miss our movie night. Love you lots.
In what universe is that creepy? But then I’m struck with an awful idea. “Honey, are you saying you thought I might have…” I swallow. “…killed myself? Because that is not in the cards.”
She lets out another sob.
Fucking hell. “Talk to me. Why would you think that?”
“You’ve been so depressed! And they tell us the signs at school. What to watch for.”
I’m in way over my head right now. “Okay, listen up and listen good. I promise you that if I’m ever in a place that dark, I will do something smart about it. But I’m going to need you to promise me the same thing right now.”
“Okay. I promise,” she whimpers.
“Good.” I scrub my forehead. “Look, I’m sorry to worry you. It’s just that I decided last minute to take a trip.”
“Where are you?”
“Vermont. My brother is getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t going to come, but then I realized last night that I am a huge asshole…”
She lets out a watery laugh. “Not always, though.”
“Thank you, I think. Anyway, I haven’t visited my family in fourteen years. They probably hate me. They might not even let me in the door.”
“That’s not true!” she yelps. “Your sister loves you. Her kids are all over your refrigerator. And I met your mother once.”
Those basic facts are true. When my sister had kids, I started talking to her regularly, and twice I’ve flown my mom out to visit. But I never once came home.
“Let’s just say that it’s not okay to be too busy to visit for more than a decade. So last night I got a wild hair and booked a flight. Then I started packing. My note to you was hasty, but I didn’t mean to give you scary ideas.” I’d slipped the note into their mail slot on my way out of town this morning, when Lissa was at school.
She snuffles. “Okay. I’m still mad you didn’t explain. Mom is worried, too.”
“Tell her I’m sorry. She’s been on my case to go home, though. This is probably her fault, now that I think about it.”
“Figures.” Lissa giggles.
“Aw, don’t tell her I said that.” Poor Cara doesn’t need another thing to worry about. It’s been a devastating few months for all of us. In December, Cara’s husband Sean—who was Lissa’s dad, as well as my best friend and business partner—died in a snowboarding accident.
None of us are over it. We’ll never be over it. Four months later, I still see him every night in my dreams.
“I’m sorry I made you cry,” I tell Sean’s only child.
“Eh, crying is nothing anymore. It’s like breathing.”
I snort. Lissa always surprises me. I’ve known her for most of her life, and there has never been a single moment when she did what I expected her to. “Are you going to be okay?” I put my blinker on, look over my shoulder, and carefully pull back onto the highway toward Colebury.
“Yeah. Just don’t do that again.”
“Okay. From now on, with any travel arrangements I make, I’ll text you the itinerary.” Honestly, I’d do anything to make this child happy again.
It’s partly my fault she lost her daddy.
“It’s a wedding, huh? Do you have time to find a tux?”
“Heck no. I brought a jacket and a nice pair of khakis. This is Vermont. The dress code is dialed back a few notches.”
“Which brother is this? Alec? The one who owns the bars?”
Lissa’s memory is, as usual, bang on. “That’s the guy. I’m on my way to one of his bars now. It’s already ten o’clock here, and I didn’t tell them I was coming, so I hope they’re still there.”
“You didn’t tell them at all?” Lissa is incredulous. “You’re going to make a big entrance? Way to bring the drama.”
“Hey, it was last minute. But, yeah, they’re going to give me a whole lot of shit when I finally show my face. Fourteen years is a long-ass time. Fourteen years ago, for example, you were still very attached to your pacifier.”
“Sexy,” she says.
I smile at the memory of a tiny little Lissa and her chubby-cheeked face.
“Why’d you stay away for so long?” she asks. “You weren’t really too busy to go home. I’ve seen you spend entire weekends playing Call of Duty.”
“I don’t really know,” I say with a laugh. If you want to hear the truth about yourself, ask a teenager.
“Was it because of a girl?”
Another bark of laughter.
“It was, wasn’t it?” All of a sudden, her voice is bouncy and full of mischief. Like the old Lissa. “Who is this girl? Did she dump you?”
“Nobody dumped me.” It comes out sounding defensive. “Good effort, Lissa. But you’re not on the right track here.”
And, yeah, I just lied to a child. Oops. There had been a girl, but she’d never been my girl. And that’s just the way it is.
Still, it made coming home feel impossible. I didn’t want to see the happy couple together.
“Sure,” she says in a wizened, disbelieving tone.
“The GPS says I’m almost there, baby girl. Hope I can find this place. Wait—there it is.”
I shouldn’t have worried. The old mill building is brightly lit, and just a short distance from the road. This building had been abandoned when I was a teenager. I’d probably never looked twice at it.
“Well? First impressions?” Lissa demands.
“It’s cool. More impressive than in the pictures I’ve seen on the family chat.” The brick walls of the three-story renovated mill building rise handsomely against the nighttime sky. And the first-floor bar—the Gin Mill—is signed in cheerful neon and fronted by a crowded parking lot.
Nice work, Alec.
“Send me a selfie of your wedding outfit,” she says. “I need to approve it.”
“Sure, kid. Tell your mama hello for me.”
“I will. Have fun, Matteo! Be safe, okay?”
That’s something she always says to me now, and it breaks my heart a little to hear it. “Of course. Night, honey.”
We disconnect as I pull into a parking space. There are actually two businesses sharing this lot—the bar, and a coffee shop called the Busy Bean. The coffee shop is my sister Zara’s project. It’s closed now, though, so I’ll have to sample it tomorrow.
I climb out and lock the car. But then I stand there in the parking lot for another moment, just stretching my legs. And stalling. I don’t know what kind of reception I’m about to receive.
Fourteen years is a long time. I’ve missed so much. I have a niece and a nephew I’ve met only on FaceTime. Three of my four siblings are entrepreneurs of businesses I haven’t visited. And my youngest brother is a cop. I’ve never seen him in uniform.
When my mother asks me why I don’t come home, I’ve never given her a good reason. I always tell her that it’s hard work running a business. That the distance is too far. That I’m not good at taking time off.
Lies. I take plenty of time off. I just don’t take it here.
I gulp down a breath of Vermont nighttime air. It smells like melting snow and pine trees. I wonder what life would have been like if I’d stayed here in Vermont. Would I co-own a bar with Alec? Or run a taxi service with my brother Damien?
The weird thing is that if you’d asked me three months ago who the most successful Rossi sibling was, I would have said me. I wouldn’t even have hesitated. And on paper, it’s probably true.
But Sean’s death was a harsh dose of reality. Financial success feels pretty meaningless now. The truth is, I’ve missed my family.
I guess it’s time to find out if they’ve missed me, too.
Walking toward the door, I hear music and laughter. I raise my eyes to the darkened upstairs windows. Alec shares one of those apartments with his fiancé, May. And my youngest brother, Benito, just moved out of the other apartment and into a house he bought with the love of his life.
My family is killing it in all the ways that count, while I’m a goddamn wreck. But here goes nothing. I yank open the door, the way you pull off a Band-Aid.
After stepping inside, it only takes a couple moments to understand why the Gin Mill is a success. It’s a big, friendly space. A sleek bar stretches along the lefthand wall, with a line three deep to reach the hardworking bartenders. To the right is a sea of high-top tables and a few booths. There’s a jukebox against the far wall and a dartboard, too. Everywhere, people are talking and laughing, heads bent close, drinks in hand.
I left Vermont at eighteen, haven’t been back to visit since I was twenty-two, but I’ve never felt like an outsider until right this second.
This ugly thought is broken when I spot my brother Damien. As soon as he catches me watching him, his eyes widen comically. I read “holy shit” on his lips as he passes through the crowd to greet me. “Matteoooo! I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with the Jesus hair?” He waves a hand toward my head.
I run a self-conscious hand through my shoulder-length hair. “The women like it, and it saves money on haircuts.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t look like the money is a problem. Designer jeans, huh? You look like a tourist from Connecticut!”
My first thought is: I am a tourist.
My second thought is to slug him in the arm. “So the tourists from Connecticut have gotten better looking since I left?”
He laughs. “Let’s get you a beer. Or is it champagne these days? What do expensive dudes with long hair drink?”
“Anything.” I have never needed a drink more than I do right now.
“Hey, bartender!” Damien calls out, while I take in his buzz cut and the flannel shirt that is basically a uniform in Vermont. Damien is about fifteen months younger than I am. We’re the eldest of the five Rossi kids. And I haven’t been in the same room with him since he was a scrawny twenty-one-year-old.
“This stranger needs a beer,” he says.
The bartender in question looks up. And, wow, it’s my youngest brother, Benito. He was only eighteen last time I saw him. Now he’s a strapping giant. Benito doesn’t work here—he’s the cop. But I guess he’s filling in tonight so that my brother Alec can enjoy his own bachelor party.
Ben looks at me and lets out a hoot of laughter. “Who is this asshole crashing the party? Do we even know this guy?”
“Yeah, yeah. Very funny.” I knew I’d take a beating. Hell, I deserve it.
Benito puts two fingers into his mouth and whistles. “Hey, Alec! I’ve got a new joke for you! Jesus walked into a bar…”
From the center of the crowd, my brother Alec—the guest of honor—whirls around to spot me. His eyes narrow. “I’m too young to meet Jesus!”
Everyone howls, and then I receive a series of back slaps and hugs while they talk over each other.
“Holy shit.”
“I know, right?”
“Can’t believe he made it.”
Enough already. “But I said I’d try.”
“Yeah, but we’ve heard that before,” Alec says darkly. “At this point, we literally expect nothing.”
“Ouch.” I guess Alec is still angry. “Can I come to the wedding, though?”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Happy to have you.” But his eyes don’t look that happy.
“How about I buy a round?” I offer. “Can I crash on someone’s couch tonight? Tomorrow I’ll find an Airbnb or something.”
“The first beer is on the house for designer Jesus,” Benito says from behind the bar. “You look like Ralph Lauren in that suede jacket. Is ale okay?”
“Sure. Pour me something interesting.” I ignore the dig about my clothes. I like nice things—it’s not a crime.
He passes me a pint glass of a deep amber ale. “This is the original Goldenpour by our friends at Giltmaker. The foamies drive hundreds of miles for a pint.”
I’ve read about this. After years of making beer as a passion project, Lyle Giltmaker hit the bigtime. “This beer won an award, yeah?”
“All the awards,” Alec says. “It’s like a fucking cult. There are lines down the block on tasting days at their brewery. Two pack maximum at the store—when they’re not sold out.”
“That’s pretty impressive,” I say, taking a sip. And the ale is terrific—really fruity and interesting. It’s easy to see what the fuss is about.
“Hey, did you hear about the divorce?” Alec asks me.
“Saw it on social media,” I say. Not like I could miss it. Lyle Giltmaker’s wife made a big post when she left him.
After forty years of trying to make it big, the brewery is on top of the world. All that time I’ve been hoping that success would make it possible for Lyle to think about something other than beer. But apparently it doesn’t work that way.
Guess the old man just learned that success isn’t everything.
I feel for the guy.
My brother is still talking about beer tourists and cult brews. But every time he says “Giltmaker,” I think of my old friend—Lyle’s daughter, Leila. She used to be one of the most important people in my life.
I glance around the bar, checking for familiar faces. It’s wild to see so many people from my past in one spot. But Leila’s face is the one I’m really looking for.
I don’t see her, and I’m both relieved and disappointed. Seeing everyone again is taking great reserves of emotional energy that I don’t really have.
And Leila? Yeah. I might have to work up to that one.
“Want to play darts?” Alec asks me. “We’re fixing to have a friendly tournament. Fifty dollar buy-in.”
“Sounds like a shakedown,” I point out. “But sure, dude. I will lose at darts in honor of your wedding.”
“Don’t they have darts in Colorado?” Alec asks, steering me toward the board.
“Yeah, but I haven’t had time to play.” He doesn’t need to know that I spent much of the last three months lying on my bed in the dark, trying to understand how my best friend died, and wondering what I could have done about it.
I’ll always wonder that.
I take another sip of excellent beer and follow my brothers toward the dartboard.
