Slippery Slopes (12 page)

“Then someone will make it into a movie.” Max smirks and does his signature sideways glance. Dove feels her stomach clench the way it did when he gave her the same look across the lecture room back at school. “Remember: Adventure is good.”

The door opens to reveal a tall man in a heavy cloak, wielding an ax. Dove fights the urge no longer and grabs Max’s hand. Their gloves collide more than grasp, though, so she drops it and tries to bring to mind a happy thought. The snapshot of her and William on the mountainside in the summer.
Green foliage, lush leaves. How’d I go from there to here? I can see him now, tan the way he was in the summer, but located on the sand, staring at the ocean. Or being rubbed down by some vixen. Some vixen who could be Harley. She said she’d write, but she hasn’t.
Dove sighs.
Not that I’ve written to her, either.
Dove shudders picturing Harley’s cool moves, her subtle ways of latching on. Then Dove refocuses and gets chills all over again when she sees again the ax-wielding man in front of her.

With one hand on the ax’s handle, the other on the door, the man asks, “Would you like to come in? You must be freezing.”

“Um, that’s okay. We’re just …” Dove stammers, thinking that being cold is better than being anywhere near the ax.

“Sure thing.” Max glides through the doorway as though there’s nothing wrong with this picture, and when he notices Dove’s hesitations, pulls her inside.

The man with the ax closes—and locks—the door behind them.

“W
HAT DO YOU DO
in a situation like this?” Melissa says aloud, figuring that talking into the air doesn’t make her crazy, especially in this situation, and since hearing a voice—anyone’s voice—is comforting. “Answer: Make the most of it.”

Melissa finds the thermostat, cranks it up, and when the hot rush of air escapes from the floor vents, she stands on it until she feels herself relax. Finally warm and dealing with the random nature of her evening, she investigates the premises further.

“Nice dress!”
she says aloud as she flings through a rack of ornate costumes: a hot-pink floor-length dress in the style of Little Bo Peep, three matching judge’s uniforms, several angels complete with glitter and wings, and a shiny red satin devil with a pointed tail. Figuring she has nothing better to do, Melissa slides out of her damp jeans and top and wriggles first into one of the angel outfits.

Um, not quite.
She turns in the mirror and looks herself over.
If I were maybe taller or shaped differently or somehow more
…
angelic … this wouldn’t be so bad. But as it is …
Melissa shakes her head, strips down again, and returns the white costume back to the rack.
I’m not being a judge. No way. I have to do that too much already—deciding the ball theme, figuring out if Dove’s doing the right thing, if I am … no thanks.
She passes by the judge outfits and goes for the ridiculous dress.

Inching into the crinkly pink fabric, Melissa laughs.
This is worse than my sister’s maid-of-honor dress
—
and that was unbelievable.
Puffy sleeves, fitted corset in frills of turquoise and white, a full hoop skirt with trails and loops of ribbons, and a bonnet.
Gotta have the hat,
Melissa figures, and slides it on her head, still laughing.
If only Dove could see me now
—
she’d have a fit.
Melissa goes to the full-length mirror and turns around to gawk at the sheer misfortune of the costume.
You couldn’t pay me enough to wear this in public. Unless it was a dare. Then … maybe.

In the three-way mirror, there are three Melissas looking silly but having a blast, three Melissas who have temporarily forgotten the stress of finding a dance floor for the masses, the day-to-day dealings of her job, and mainly, who have for now put aside the memory of Charlie and James on the cover of every newspaper in town.

Melissa bows to herself, imagining she’s at the winter gala, and then nearly falls over with the width of the hoop skirt and the ruffles. “Am I the biggest freak in the world, or what?” she says, and shakes her head, which causes the bonnet to slip over her eyes.

When she pushes it back, her body ripples with surprise. She is not alone in the mirror. There, along with three of her own silly reflections, is James. Melissa’s insides immediately do twists and turns and she wishes—wholeheartedly—that there really were three of him, and finally, enough to go around.

Using his ax as a sort of cane, the man leads Dove and Max over to a small sitting area. On the floor is a braided rug in muted reds and oranges that highlight the colors of the fire glowing in the deep fireplace.

“Please have a seat.” The man gestures to the worn leather chairs nestled in between stacks of books. Max immediately takes a seat after removing his coat. Dove stays standing, ready to bolt, her jacket zipped. Her gloves drip onto the rug, and the quiet is so intense she can hear the small droplets hit the braids.

What the hell is Max’s problem?
Dove bites her lip, debating whether she should make a run for the door and brave the snow or face the ax and potentially poisoned cookies and tea the man offers. “The tea is wonderful—made from persimmons and ginger.”

“Didn’t a Shakespeare play end with a poisoned persimmon?” The question escapes Dove’s mouth before she reels it back in.

Max raises his eyebrows. “Don’t look at me—I’m not the best Shakespeare scholar.”

The man holds the ax in both hands, his eyes gleaming. “Doesn’t this have the makings of a play, though? Two lost travelers—young, lovers perhaps—find themselves lost in the frigid winds of a storm in the alps….”

“And they stumble into a …” Max continues, seemingly immune to the mention of him and Dove being lovers.

“Into a terrifying situation where they end up hacked to bits.” Dove says the words fast, then makes a move for the door.

The man with the ax begins to laugh—first a small chuckle, then a full belly laugh that spreads to his entire body so much that he puts the ax down and shakes his head. “Is that what you think?” he asks when Dove’s about to try to unlock the door. Afraid to say yes, Dove fiddles with the multifaceted lock and glares at Max. “Is that what you’ve been doing, Max? Spreading stories, fables about me ?”

Dove continues to try to unhook the heavy latch until she realizes the man called Max by his name without having been introduced.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Melissa asks, attempting to feel dignified despite her bonnet, hoop skirt, and frills.

James swipes his ski hat from his head and looks down at his feet, as though he’s embarrassed to be seen here. “Ski patrol called in reinforcements to clear any remaining pedestrians. I’m not supposed to ‘endanger myself,’ but … a bunch of us …” He shrugs and begins to take in his surroundings—the large props, the costumes. “I barely got here. The snowmobile broke down—some plow driver gave me a ride in the rest of the way.”

Melissa begins to feel something—annoyed?
How can I be annoyed at him?
“But why are you here, in this place—with me?” Instantly she wishes she could remove the
with me
from her question.
But seriously, with all the streets in town and all the places James could be looking for stranded people, why here?

“The guy dropped me off by the gate. I saw your glove outside and …” He looks down again. “I got … worried.” He holds up her glove for proof.

“I didn’t even know I dropped it.” Melissa fiddles with the ribbons underneath her chin and considers taking off the bonnet.
But I don’t want him to think I’m embarrassed in the clothing, even if I am. I mean, who is he to have power over me?
Then she looks at him and feels everything inside her about to burst.

“By the way, you look …” A grin plays on James’ mouth.

Melissa watches her face twist in the mirror. “Dumb, I know.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” James takes a step back from her.
Oh, great, now he’s repulsed by me,
Melissa thinks and, steeling herself against the rejection, is even more determined to act normal in her flouncy dress and wounded heart.

“So.” Melissa gestures widely with her arms like a game show hostess. “See anything that grabs your attention?” She blushes, hoping he didn’t think she meant her. “I mean, there’s a lot to choose from….”

“Actually, we do have that party coming up.” James rifles through a rack of soldier uniforms.

“Which party?” Instantly the stress of planning the dance floor comes rushing back.
It’s so easy to get distracted by boys and their stupid cute faces,
Melissa thinks, and tries to shrug it off.
Must stay focused.

“Gabe’s bash. At the old mill—should be a great kick-off to a new year.”

Melissa remembers the invite Gabe handed her—the secrecy, the illicit notions of a party that starts late and comes with an unknown guest list. “I didn’t know you were going.”

James frowns and stops looking at the costumes. “Oh, I didn’t realize you and Gabe …”

Melissa shakes her head. “No, no—what do you mean? There’s nothing …”

“Look, it’s fine.” James holds up his hands like he’s been caught stealing something.

“There’s nothing to be fine about. Seriously.” Melissa walks over to the costume rack. In order to busy her hands she flicks through a pile of canes and swords, and hands a dagger to James. “You could be a pirate—that’s a decent costume.”

James studies her. “You going as Bo Peep?”

Melissa gives him her get-real look. “No.”

“What, then?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.” James laughs. “What? What’s so funny?”

James shoves his hands into his jacket pocket and grins. “Nothing—it’s just … Charlie? She’s going as an angel and …”

Melissa’s heart dips to her toes.
Right. Angel. Of course. Slut. I mean, angel.
“Oh, that’s … original.” Then she feels petty and mean. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to insult her. It’s totally not my place.”

James shrugs and blows it off. “Hey, no big deal. That’s what I was thinking, anyway. Why do girls always try to dress sexy or slutty for costumes?”

Melissa tries to smooth over her insult by chatting away. “I know—Cat Girl, catsuit, any excuse to wear lingerie.”
I wish I didn’t like him. I wish he liked me. I wish Charlie evaporated. I wish …
Melissa, in her scratchy dress and bonnet, turns to James. “You know, I just want to be the bigger person here. I wanted to be okay with everything but …”

“Um, Mesilla?” James stammers over her name, calling her
Mesilla
like he had when they first met.

Melissa rambles. “I mean, you and Charlie—so, okay, you’re a thing.”

“A thing?” James leans on the rack of clothing, then chooses a big umbrella from the pile of canes and sticks. It opens in his hands, producing a waterproof rainbow of colors.

“Fine—not a thing—a … she’s your girlfriend and, by all accounts in the papers, you guys are the real deal. In love. I get it.” Melissa suddenly fights the tears that spring to her eyes, desperate not to show any more than she already has.

James puts the umbrella over his shoulder as though it’s really raining and comes closer to her. “You’re upset…. Come here …”

“No.” Melissa can’t bear the thought of being close to him, near enough to feel his breath or smell his scent of soap and chocolate. “I’m okay. Really. It was just—you’re plastered all over the evening papers.”

James rolls his eyes. “Those damn papers. The tabloids. Do you know they tried to break into my room at the chalet?”

“Why? What were they looking for?”

“Anything—pictures, letters, who knows.” James stands looking hot and heated in his jacket, his face flushed from the cold and the conversation. “But just so you know … me and Charlie?”

Melissa swallows, gulping for air in her corset-topped dress. “Yeah?” She can see all around them the image of Charlie pressed against James, but at the same time she can’t shake the memory of what it felt like to kiss him.

“We’re not …” James licks his lips, twirling the umbrella so it spins. “She not my …” Deliberately and without pausing he walks to Melissa, pulls her to his chest, and kisses her.

The kiss is everything that Melissa wants. It’s happening. Here. Now. But—“Wait. Stop.” Melissa pulls back. “What about Charlie?”

James shakes his head, staring at her with intense eyes. “There never was anything. At least—not from my end of things. Maybe she wanted …”

“Maybe? The girl was draped on you like a coat.”

James tilts Melissa’s face up so he can kiss her again. “It’s never been her. Only you.”

They are about to kiss again when suddenly Melissa jolts backward. “Oh my god!”

“What? What, are you okay?” James looks panicked.

Smiling ear to ear, Melissa cracks up. Laughing hard, she can’t believe it. She thinks about telling Dove,
So he kisses me while I’m wearing a bonnet.
… “Everything’s better than fine. Check it out.” She lets go of her grasp on James and cuts across the room to show him what caught her eye. “See? This solves the problem!”

James follows her until he’s near a stack of silvery white platforms. “They look like props for a musical or something.”

“Exactly. Theatrical. Like something you could use to make the chessboard in
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
They’re perfect.” Melissa’s voice carries her thrill. “Can’t you see it? The whole outside will be the dance floor—the huge squares layered together will form a path that winds through the pine trees, around the lake. You can put them directly on the snow and trim them with lights or keep them plain.”

“And here I thought we had a moment.” James grins at her. “Turns out you’re all about the ball.”

Melissa walks over to him, ever confident in her getup, and kisses him on the mouth. “Can we have more moments?” James nods. “Then let me make a call.” She slides her hand on the smooth silvery white surface. “If there are hundreds of these, I’m golden.” As she says it, she looks at James and has the feeling, even in hot pink polyester, that she just might be, anyway.

As night begins to take over the sky, snow continues to fall, piling up so high that outside the windows of the cabin, Dove can see mounds of it.