“Did your brother take this little girl’s hat on purpose?”

Austin had looked from his father to Everett. His younger brother was staring up at him with a mix of sibling hero worship and a plea in his eyes.

“Maybe,” Austin answered. “I don’t know. I was fixing Mr. Frosty’s face.”

His father had nodded, then removed the hat from the snowman and returned it to the little girl and her mother.

The moment the three Grants were alone, their father had slapped Everett across the face and admonished him in the harshest tone Austin had ever heard.

“It’s a sin to steal, Everett! Don’t you know that the Lord punishes sinners?”

Over five decades later, sitting in the cable car heading back up the Matterhorn, Grant recalled that previous trip down the other way.

Everett had whimpered the entire time. And never said a single word to his older brother until right before they reached the bottom.

“You always get what you want. I never do.”

“I didn’t want the hat,” Austin had told him.

Everett had shaken his head with tears in his eyes. “I meant you want everyone to like you more.”

Everett hadn’t spoken to him for almost a week after that.

“That’s pretty much how I remember it,” said Grant, having finished the story. “You asked me why we’re here? That’s all I can think of.”

Frankel glanced up at the Matterhorn’s peak towering above. “Sounds like that day made quite the impression on your brother.”

Grant hadn’t realized how much until he’d just remembered the story and told it to Frankel.

“Your father sounds like he was quite the religious man.”

“He would occasionally get into these fire and brimstone moods but none of it ever really rubbed off on me,” said Grant.

“That doesn’t seem to have been the case when it came to Everett,” observed Frankel.

“Apparently.”

They rode the rest of the way up in silence with Grant having a clearer and more painful understanding of what was waiting for them up top.

VIII

The glow reminded Frankel of the snow cone machines he used to see every summer with his father when they would take a trip to the Atlantic City Boardwalk.

Every color of the rainbow seemed to be swirling up ahead like those shaved bundles of flavored ice, as he and Grant made their way on the narrow blue-painted path deep inside the glacier, just below the peak of the Matterhorn.

Once they turned the corner, despite the dire circumstances that had brought them there, Frankel and Grant stared in wonderment at the Glacier Palace.

Exquisite ice sculptures in vibrant assorted colors filled the cavern. Houses, animals, cars, and flowers looked like they had been carved from precious crystal instead of ice from the massive glacier. It was a genuine winter wonderland.

“Was this here when you were here before?” asked Frankel.