Slippery Slopes (16 page)

Melissa nods, the reality of it setting in. “Yeah. The Winter Wonderland Ball. Oh my god, I so have to go.” She laughs. “Gabe, it’s been better than cool—it’s been cold.” Looking at him now, she can’t help but remember that night on the mountaintop with him, back when they were more than friends. Back before everything got mixed up. James clears his throat, breaking her reverie and making Melissa refocus on him.
After all, James is everything anyone could want.

“So I’ll see you tonight, then?” Gabe raises his eyebrows. The tension is palpable between all three.

“I’ll be there,” Melissa says, and looks to James.

“I’ll be there, too.” James fiddles with his zipper and furrows his brow. “By the way, how’d the ice painting go?”

Melissa turns back. “It rocked. People had fun and there was this …” She starts to explain the Mona Lisa, but then suddenly wonders—
Did James paint it? Is that why he’s been shy tonight?
Maybe the painting is a declaration of more than just good art skills. “It was fun.”

Gabe waves as she walks off. “Glad to hear it.” James concurs. “See you.”

See you,
Melissa thinks, wondering who really painted the picture, what Charlie’s announcement is, why James was notably absent after their lip lock during the blizzard, and what exactly Gabe might have dared if there’d been more time.
See you both. Tonight.

URGENT FAX:

To: Lily de Rothschild and Melissa Forsythe (the Tops Chalet)

Dove—surprised by the use of your
REAL
name? Who knew you had such secrets? Wish you’d had the faith in me to confide…. Seems this island of Nevis is popular with your lot—British society people, that is. I’ve been meaning to track down William, but I haven’t—yet.

Melissa—Some big-time young chef from your Aussie nation has landed here for a celebrity restaurant launch. Met him the other night at a Fizz Party (all champagne, all on the cliffs).

The urgent notice is to get you to write back. I want news from the chalet! What happened with the ski boys? Not that I’ve been thinking too much about them … I just might have my own romantic designs here.

Love and bubbles, Harley

“W
HEN IT COME TO
life, my philosophy is, whatever is meant to be will happen.” Charlie says the words as though she’s the first person to ever utter them. “You’ll see when I make my big announcement.”

“I’m not alone in thinking this big announcement of yours is a load of crap, you know.” Dove nudges by Charlie, desperate to shower.

“I would have made it last night if it hadn’t been so damn cold in that place. Who makes buildings out of ice?”

Dove doesn’t want to get into a battle. She just wants to get clean. “Excuse me. I have eggs in my hair and frosting on my face. Can I get in here, please?”

“I’m deep conditioning,” Charlie says, blocking the shower stall.

“Why? So you look good for the piles of wood chips that need to be vacuumed upstairs. You have to help clean, Charlie. I’m up to my neck in pastries and Melissa is busy doing—” Dove sighs.
I’ve had enough of her attitude.

“Melissa’s busy doing nothing, as far as I can see, except throwing herself at a certain skier who could care less.”

Dove opens her mouth to refute the claim but then decides that saying nothing is more powerful a statement.

Charlie pivots, staring into the mirror at her own reflection while talking at Dove. “As I was saying, I believe that what’s meant to be, happens. And this …” She points to her well-conditioned locks and her frame in general. “This is what’s meant to be.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. All I know is that I need to get in there.”
Before I schlep thousands of pastry icicles down to the lake. Before I help Melissa with whatever else needs doing before the grand finale to holiday week. Before I actually deal with the fact that Max kissed Claire. Before I pack my bags and head to Nevis
—
tomorrow.

Charlie jumps into the shower, turning the water on so hot the steam rises instantly and fogs the mirror. Dove watches as her own reflection clouds, and hoists herself up on the counter to wait her turn.
The past days are a blur of made-to-order omelets, hand-rolled biscuits, bending over backward to cook any-and everything, and all for tips. Add in a whole lot of confusion and that’s where I am. How good it’ll feel to know I’m headed for the land of relaxation.

“Just so you know,” Dove says, rummaging through the drawers for any of her toiletries, lest she forget to pack them, “I don’t subscribe to that point of view. I think that you make your own destiny.”
And I, for one, intend to make mine.

“What’s that expression about a chicken with no head?” one of the other Chalet Girls says under her breath to Melissa.

“Tell me about it.” Melissa tracks Matron’s movements with her eyes, swiveling this way and that, racing here and there while seeming to accomplish nothing but flustering those around her.

“We have so much to accomplish. Simply too much. You, over there, bring me the chargers. We need those on the tables.”

Melissa chews on the inside of her cheek until it hurts, then approaches Matron. “Um, Matron?”

“What now? Did you sort out the dessert issues? Where are the icicles? I thought you said those were taken care of.” Matron flings her arms around, gesturing first to the empty tables that need moving and then to the outside, where extra lights are being fitted into the trees.

Melissa takes a breath, pretending she’s back in Australia, surfing or at least chilling out rather than here in Stressville. “Matron … the thing is that we can’t put the chargers out until five or so or they’ll get too cold. The tables do need to be moved, but not until the lights are all strung up. And yes, I have the icicle pastries. They’re on their way.”

At least they better be. Dove might still be annoyed that I put Max up to the kiss, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s better to know things than to not. So he kissed Claire. Deal with
it and move on. Melissa then feels guilty for thinking this and decides to tell Dove exactly what she feels when she sees her.

A few minutes later, Dove appears out of breath and carrying a load of the icicles boxed in oversized Tupperware. “Some help would be good here.”

“Don’t bite my head off,” Melissa says, taking the box from Dove. She sets it down and goes outside to a dolly where many more boxes are stacked. “I’ve been working all day.” She takes note of Dove’s wet hair. “Not all of us had the time to shower.”

“Look,” Dove snipes at her, “don’t begrudge me that. If you reeked of eggs and syrup you’d have showered, too.” She pauses. “Unless, of course, you were dared not to.”

Melissa makes a sarcastic face and balances one of the boxes on her hip while deciding what to say. “You know what? I dared him. But I didn’t make him slobber all over Claire.”

“He didn’t slobber.” Dove’s small features seem dwarfed in her down coat, her lips chapped.
So Claire won our age-old battle. She likes him and clearly he likes her back. His loss.

“So now you’re defending him? Which is it, Dove—do you despise him or desire him?” Melissa fights the urge to pry off the lid of the box to check and see how the pastries turned out. After all, it’s her job on the line with the whole event.

“Why’d you even do it? If you hadn’t dared him, maybe he’d have …”

“What—kissed you good night? And then where would you be? On a plane to Nevis? I seriously doubt it. You’d ditch William and all your plans.”

Dove sighs and then groans. “Ughhh! What are we doing? Clawing at each other just because we can?” She sits on the stone steps and motions for Melissa to join her.

“Look.” Dove lifts the lid of one of the boxes, displaying the symmetrical pastries inside. Some are white, some silver, and some have the faintest glow of pink or blue underneath a gloss of white. Each is strung by a bit of silver ribbon. “Edible icicles.”

Melissa tilts her head, admiring. “Oh, Dove, they’re incredible. You worked so hard….” She puts her hand on Dove’s back. The pale palette of pastries holds her gaze until Melissa sighs. “I’m sorry for starting the dare debacle.”

“And I’m sorry for being a bitch about it. It’s not you. It’s my own issues.” Dove ruffles her hair with both hands, causing it to go every which way like a newborn chick. “I just wanted …” She lowers her voice. “Him to kiss me. To make a move.”

“To decide, once and for all, how it’s going to be.” Melissa asks with her eyes if she can try an icicle.

“Have this one—it’s a little lopsided.” Dove breaks it into two pieces and they munch on it while contemplating. “You’re right. I just felt like maybe if he kissed me, then it meant something. Like holding hands.” She thinks back to their hand-holding conversation in the cabin. “But maybe that’s my problem. He’s deciding everything—what I should do, where I should go, if we should get together.”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“I have thought about it. This place …” Dove cranes her neck so she can see the trails dotted with skiers, the hotel with its helipad—filled now with people arriving just for the big event—and the place where she vacationed as a kid, where she met William. “I have to go. If I stay here just to wait it out, I’ll regret it. And if I wind up at Oxford or coming back here—who knows. Either way, at least I’ll have followed through with everything.”

“Besides, you just want to know what Harley’s been up to.” Melissa cracks up. “Harley, our little wild child gone tropical.”

“I shudder to think.” Dove stands up. Behind the Main House, a crowd of photographers is gathering, their flashes illuminating the already bright daylight. “Check it out—must be the princes, the film stars and the hangers-on.”

“I’ve had enough of that crew,” Melissa says. She squints, thinking she can make out Charlie’s head of hair among the crowd.

Dove points to the icicles. “I’ll finish taking these in. Should give you a few minutes to start on another project while I distract Matron.”

“Thanks.” Over by the parking lot, Melissa sees a delivery truck pull up. “The squares—my dance floor. They’re here!” Melissa gives an excited little jump and marches off, turning only once to say, “I think we might actually do this. We just might pull it off!”

Dear Melissa and Dove,

Left a phone message for you both but still haven’t heard anything back. I’m taking this to mean that you’re annoyed at me. Well, fine. But just so you know, I have no regrets leaving Les Trois. Well, almost none.

If you’re ever sick of the cold and snow and want to look me up … good luck. I seem to be living a nomadic existence here. Things with the host family aren’t really working out, so now I’m jobless and penniless. But tan … and maybe in love. But that’s not a story for a postcard.

Hope you get over whatever’s bugging you and
GET IN TOUCH
. Gotta run—I’m temping at the front of the house (that’s restaurant speak for hostessing) for that Aussie chef I told you about (can you say icon and about to have his own cooking-slash-talk show?). The restaurant is all drapery and airy sheets billowing from tents—very Casablanca (at least, that’s what Chef says—I’ve never seen that movie).

Here’s looking at you, kids.

—Harley

O
KAY—THE GENERATOR’S SET
just in case there’s some sort of electrical failure; the floor tiles are all in place; the lights are bright but not too; the food is plated onto sterling chargers, set into chafing dishes, and being passed around by but
lers; and the crew has fair warning about who’s royalty and who’s famous, who expects to dance with whom, and …

“And what about you?” Matron interrupts Melissa’s thoughts.

“What about me?” Melissa scans the darkened air for any signs of trouble, a breaking glass, anyone falling in the snow, anyone on the ice sliding just a bit too much.

“Aren’t you going to take pause?” Matron’s outfit betrays the occasion. Instead of anything formal, she blends into the background in her plain gray wool skirt and quilted vest.

“I hadn’t really considered that. I mean, I’ve been so frazzled trying to—”

“Exactly my point. You’ve had an unbelievable week. Take a minute to appreciate your efforts.” She pats Melissa lightly on the back and heads off, leaving Melissa to watch the well-dressed masses enjoy her handiwork. In the distance, the carousel she ordered spins into the night, casting rays of light onto the ice. Melissa squints. Who is on the ice? She peers further, thinking she can make out someone crouched down.
That better not be someone playing a joke on me
—
or on anyone, for that matter.

“Rumor has it that one year this guy ordered fifty thousand dollars worth of caviar and spread it on the ice.” Melissa turns to hear James go on. “Turns out he didn’t even like the stuff—just wanted to say he’d done it.”

With Matron’s words ringing in her ears; the guy she’s liked so much standing in front of her; and an outfit that for once doesn’t involve frills, puffy down coats, or a limp, Melissa feels decent.
In fact, I feel bold. Maybe it’s the air, or the fact that this is it
—
this is the pinnacle of the week and it’s a success all because of me. But I feel good.
She touches the twists Dove put in her hair and secured with tiny silver flowers. Her champagne-colored gown is cinched at the waist, and the silk shoulder wrap she has is lined with fleece to keep her warm even away from the heat lamps.

“Is that what I was?” Melissa asks James, her newfound boldness giving her the boost she needs to say what’s on her mind.
What was I to him, anyway? Enough beating around the proverbial bush and out with it.

James stands with one hand in his pocket, the other around his drink—some caramel-colored liquid set off by maraschino cherries. “What do you mean?”

“That guy you mentioned. The one who smeared caviar? He did what he did because he
could.
…” Melissa pauses, stepping so she’s directly in front of James. “Not because he
liked
it. Or in this case,
her.”