Blue (The Carson Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  Blue (Book 1 of the Carson Trilogy)

  K. Nilsson

  Blue

  Book 1 of the Carson Trilogy

  by

  K. NILSSON

  Copyright ©2018 by K. Nilsson

  All rights reserved

  All characters, scenes, events, plots, and related elements appearing in the original works comprising Blue and the Carson Trilogy remain the exclusive copyrighted property of K. Nilsson.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  Afterword

  Playlist

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Devyn Foster

  Sacramento, California 2010

  The last exams for the semester were yesterday, and the campus was now deserted. Most of the students went home for the holidays. I hadn’t just yet. I was holiday shopping with my roommate and best friend forever, Candace. We were buying presents—more for ourselves than for the people on our lists.

  Mom called, interrupting what was about to be an expensive purchase for me, an impractical pair of over-the-knee boots.

  "Are you up for a ski trip to Mount Baldy for Christmas?"

  It excited my mother that we were doing something together over the holidays. We barely spent time together since I started classes. The first year is devoted to completing the required courses. This semester’s classes included American Literature, Physics, Calculus, and Spanish. So, each year, around this time, we celebrated with a honey-baked ham and all the side dishes—mashed potatoes, sweet yams, green bean casserole, and creamed corn.

  Grandma and Grandpa would fly in from Florida to spend two weeks with us. This year, Grandpa wasn’t feeling well enough to travel, so neither of them were coming. The holiday wouldn't be as enjoyable without them. They were our only living family. I'd miss them very much. I’m sure mom would miss them even more.

  "Sure. That sounds great, Mom. When do you want to leave?"

  “Let’s drive up on Monday.”

  “I'm stoked! Candace and I will be home Friday.”

  Candace and I split the six-hour drive time from Sacramento to Los Angeles, stopping to fill up her tiny Honda Civic only once. We’d been singing Christmas carols most of the way. Our throats screamed for relief. We were still singing when we arrived at my home. I gave my friend a bone-crushing hug and bounded up the stone steps, rasping the refrain from a favorite Raffi song from our childhood,

  “Must be Santa, must be Santa, must be Santa, Santa Claus!”

  Mom came to the door with a big smile—every tooth shiny, bright, and white—and her blonde hair hanging loosely around her face. The traditional red Frosty the Snowman sweater had seen better days, but on her, it vibrated Christmas. She wore it over a pair of jeans. She waved goodbye to Candace while I air-kissed her on my way inside.

  “Merry Christmas, Candace, and Happy Holidays to your parents!”

  The air was thick with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar cookies. “God, I love coming home for Christmas. I bet you can’t bottle up this smell and sell it.”

  Mom beamed. Dropping my backpack at the door, I knew something was missing; it was the smell of a real Christmas tree. As I rounded the corner to the family room, the anemic, glitzy placeholder took up space reserved for the real thing.

  “I know, honey. I couldn’t do it this year. We will be at the lodge anyway.”

  Mom walked up behind me and wrapped her arm across my shoulders.

  “You’re right. What did you make for dinner?” I asked, sniffing the air for something other than cookies.

  “Your favorite meal.”

  “You’re the best mom.”

  I looked at the kitchen table, checkered tablecloth, garlic bread, the caddy for grated parmesan, and a steaming tray of lasagna.

  I talked to Grandma and Grampa on the phone for a long while after dinner. I especially loved the sound of their voices, Grandma peppered her sentences with soft sighs, and Grandpa laughed when he’d said something he found funny. Mom watched me from the sofa, tipping the wineglass to her lips, sipping, listening. Time slipped by.

  I wanted my grandparents to come next year. I wanted to see Grandpa on skis, he begged off, saying he forgot how to do it.

  “Getting back on the skis was easy. It was just like riding a bike. Once you learn you never forget how to do it,” I said.

  His arthritis took hold of his body years ago and his joints ached all the time. His mobility was compromised. He considered a simple trip to the grocery store a success.

  I asked Mom to retell the story of how Dad taught me to ski when I was little. I never tired of listening to her tell stories about little Devvie in a way that made me visualize myself as a little girl. I’d see myself through her eyes. The memories were vague, but when Mom spoke, I’d remember. I snuggled up in one of the stacked quilts and lay down on the couch by the fire while I listened to her recite the story.

  Your dad was in the military. We wouldn’t see him for what felt like ages each time he left. I sure missed him. Then, he’d spoiled you rotten when he’d return. You were daddy’s girl. Around Thanksgiving, he’d take us to the lodge.

  Back then, Grandma and Grandpa used to live at the lodge year-round. They’d have dinner prepared – turkey and mashed potatoes – when we arrived in the evening. It was my favorite time of the year. Everyone I loved was together under one roof.

  The year you turned four, your father thought it would be a wonderful time to teach you to ski. He said four-year-olds were fearless. You sure were, and you had the energy and eagerness to try everything. Grandpa had to hold your hand while we hit the slopes because you’d have run after us….

  The next day, after a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, and Gran’s famous biscuits, we bundled you up in an adorable Minnie Mouse ski jacket with matching mitts. Your father went down the slopes with you on his shoulders. All the while, you were shrieking with excitement. At the bottom of the hill, you'd scream for more, “more Daddy, more!” He spent half the day taking you down on the beginner slopes on his shoulders.

  The following day, you begged to ski. I worried you were too small, but Grandpa reminded me I was four when he taught me to ski. Your dad said not to worry because you were a lot like me. Grandpa could still ski and went with us that day. Right after breakfast, your dad asked who was ready to go skiing. You jumped up and down in your little pink jacket chanting me, me, me. We were in stitches laughing. Grandpa helped your dad with the gear, hustling for the slopes before they got crowded, while I held
onto you.

  Every time Mom told me this story, I felt myself choke up at the memory. All of us were together, and they were teaching me to do something they loved. Mom had made hot cocoa while I listened.

  “How did he teach me?” I prodded, knowing chapter, and verse the rest of the story. Mom's face broke into a toothy grin as she continued.

  Your dad rented child-size ski gear for you from the resort. While dad fitted you with the boots and skis you behaved like a grown-up. It was one of the few times you weren’t fidgeting. The resort staff fussed over you as if you were a trainee for the Olympics. You thought you were, too. Once we went outside, I knew you’d take off down the slopes by yourself if your father or I let go of your hand. I worried that if you fell, you might be afraid to try again. But your father held out his pole for you to hold on and keep your balance. It also helped save you from skiing down the hill out of control.

  Mom shook her head, laughing.

  Once you made it down the hill holding on to his ski pole, the next step was to teach you the snow plow position so you’d learn how to slow down or stop. He stood with his skis so they formed a V shape. Once he taught you how to keep your feet this way, you went down the hill with him following close behind, while I skied beside you. You learned to ski and took to it like a duck to water.

  The very next day, at Thanksgiving dinner, when each of us shared what we were thankful for, you said were thankful Daddy taught you to ski.

  Just like that, I fell asleep, dreaming of snow, skis, and sunshine.

  Monday came fast. I helped Mom secure the house for the week. She turned off the gas and I, the water, then we set the alarm. All things Grandpa taught her to do whenever she was leaving the house unattended.

  It had been years since we'd made a trip to the cozy lodge. It was a pilgrimage for my mother, a return to the place that held so many beautiful memories and hopes of future ones to celebrate. The lodge belonged to my mother's family since the 19th century, the gold rush days. It survived record floods and fires over its long history. In the spring, when the snows melted and everything became green again, she’d drive up and visit with her parents.

  But ever since they moved to Florida, she’d hired a caretaker to look in on the place, check the plumbing and electrical systems, and evict any critters and vagrants.

  “Why did Grandma and Grandpa move to Florida?” I asked as we began our journey. I’d never understood why they left.

  “They couldn’t afford the cost of living here. Florida’s taxes aren’t as high. Before they retired, they could handle property taxes, gas, car insurance, food, and doctors. Now, they’re retirees on a fixed income. Their Social Security benefits barely covered the cost of food, gas, and medical expenses. Since I have a job, it’s the least I could do to help them out.”

  The San Gabriel Mountains are a playground for millions of people in southern California. From its craggy terrain, you can see the desert and the sea.

  Just like the nearby Santa Monica Mountains, the air couldn’t be any fresher or less polluted than any other natural green space so close to a major city.

  The day would start out in the 60s, heat to the 80s, then drop to the 40s. In the wintertime, we dressed in layers. It is rainier in winter than any other time of the year.

  It was a week until Christmas. We had a several hours trip ahead of us that would be like a vacation. The Grand Cherokee, a four-wheel drive, would take us from our house to the slopes. Mom got a good deal on a used one, bought it back in the spring. She needed an upgrade. It was a great vehicle to use on the mountain range. Much of the main road was paved, but the curvy, steep, and narrow sections were hard to navigate.

  I wore my hair in a casual, loose ponytail, wisps everywhere, a red scarf, a yellow short-sleeved T-shirt, black sweatshirt, and jeans. On my feet, Simpsons sneakers and checkerboard socks. We stowed our jackets and gloves in the back seat.

  We took the most traveled highway, the Angeles Crest, until we reached the turn that heads to our lodge. On the way, we passed trailheads, deep and scenic ravines, lookout points of distant mountain peaks worthy of a photo shot or two, and entry points for campsites situated deep in the forest.

  The weather forecast predicted a snowstorm, but we didn’t worry about the warnings. We had a four-wheel drive and everything we needed for the week as well as our enthusiasm. What could go wrong?

  When we started driving up the mountains, the roads were wet. The air temperature was too warm for any snow to stick. As we climbed the altitude, the temperature grew colder. We turned off the heater because the windows fogged up, making it difficult to see out. We stopped at a rest area to put on our ski jackets. We dealt with the cold by adding layers.

  Christmas music streaming from the radio faded the higher we drove. The last full song was George Michael’s “Last Christmas.”

  “Mom, are you going to sell the lodge one day?”

  I couldn’t see her going to the lodge by herself when I wasn’t around.

  In a casual tone, she said, “I don’t plan to. This past year, one person was persistent in buying the lodge. He called my mobile phone. I never give out my mobile number."

  "So that’s why you changed it. I wonder how the caller got your number."

  She shrugged. "I change the number to stop the calls. But he caught me on the new number, too."

  “No! Tell me he didn’t?”

  I couldn’t understand how she could tell me this as if it wasn’t a big deal. I wanted to scream that someone invaded her privacy like that.

  "Did you report him?"

  She shook her head. “No. I contacted my lawyer to get a desist order from the judge against the buyer. He said it was impossible. An agent was making the offers and was under no obligation to show the identity of his client.”

  “Can you stop him from harassing you?”

  Mom shook her head with resignation. "I told the lawyer not to bother me with any proposals to sell the property. I did all the right things to discourage further communications."

  I looked out the passenger window at the snow-covered trees. The tops reminded me of mushrooms. Large pine trees and pine cones stood straight and unflinching against the blanket of snow. I wanted to gather the pine cones to decorate the mantle at the lodge, but we didn’t stop.

  "Mom, why put up with the hassle? Sell it to him. Make him pay over market price."

  "But, Devyn, the lodge is your legacy." Her lip trembled. A single tear slid down her face. “I’ve been holding on to it for you until you finish school, get married, and have a family of your own, just like my mother did for me, and her mother did for her. The lodge, our lodge, is a place for you to find sanctuary, for after I’m gone.”

  I was silent. The gravity of Mom's words too heavy to brush off with a simple denial.

  We’d reached a narrow and winding part of the road. Black patches of ice were visible on the higher surfaces. The west side of the cliff was steep. We were thousands of feet above the valley floor. Mom was handling the curves like a pro.

  "I hate you putting up this struggle, not to mention risk, to protect this place for me. I'll never live there. It’s more of a holiday home than anything. I may never even get married. Don’t do it for me."

  The phone trilled, announcing a call. I pressed the accept button and put the caller on SPEAKER.

  "Ellie Foster?"

  I looked at Mom. She didn’t want me to say anything.

  "This isn't Ms. Foster. Who's calling?"

  The phone crackled.

  "Tell Ms. Foster it is in her best interest to sell the lodge to my client. She will have far more money than the property is worth, and she'll be comfortable the rest of her life, no mortgage to pay and plenty left over for extras."

  The call faded in and out, the sound a bad connection. A deer darted in front of the car. Mom braked hard and swerved the Jeep to avoid a collision. She got control of the vehicle when it skidded, pulling it over to the side of the road. She banged agains
t the steering wheel. Her ragged breathing looked as if she ran the 2K.

  She looked over at me and ran her hand along my seatbelt. “Baby, are you okay?”

  I let out a deep breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “Yes, Mom. You?”

  “Yes. I’m okay, but I’ll be much better when we get there.”

  The weather doubled the time. An hour and a half later, we were close to the lodge. I saw smoke in the distance; it billowed from the chimneys. I couldn’t wait to get out of the Jeep and fill my lungs with the smell of snow, pine needles, and fireplaces. We were on the last steep crest. There was a loud bang. The Jeep vibrated. A tire blew out. Mom hit the brakes, trying to steer it to the side of the road, but it spun out of control. The more she pumped the brakes, the worse it was.

  "Try the emergency brake!"

  We drifted along the edge of the slope. It seemed like slow motion. The wheels lost traction, and the Jeep was spinning and sliding. Going over the cliff was inevitable.

  "Mom!"

  "Hold on Devyn."

  White-knuckling the steering wheel, she said, "Pray... just pray."

  We bounced against one tree trunk and ricocheted into another as we went down the hill. Everything happened so fast. Trees, the road, and debris flew across the hood. We bounced inside an out-of-control rocket. The momentum caused my head to whip back and forth. Every bump propelled us in another spin. I feared we'd land upside down, crushed. We stopped when the Jeep landed on the only flat rock on the slope.