Slippery Slopes (13 page)

“No way you two’ll make it anywhere tonight…. You better stay here.”

Max gives a toothless smile, agreeing to the offer before Dove can say anything. The ax rests in the corner of the room, and Dove has already scouted out other implements of potential danger—the dagger on the wall, an ornamental sword displayed above the fireplace, a cabinet that could hold guns.

“Could you excuse us for a second?” Dove pulls Max by the sweater, and then when he’s resistant, by the hand to the other room. His fingers on hers feel good—too good—and she drops his hand quickly.

“What’s the deal?” Max looks over his shoulder to the fireside, not wanting to be rude.

“Are you kidding? We’re stranded here with a complete nutcase….” Dove’s brow crinkles with worry. Max shakes his head, laughing. “Are you laughing at me or near me?”

“Both.” Max eyes her face, his fingers twitching from the brief grasp with hers. “Didn’t you notice that he—the ax man—knows my name?” Dove blushes. “On the way into town, I told you I knew the person who lived here.”

“You did?” Dove reflects on the bumpy cold ride but can’t remember.

“I did. My professor from Oxford, Randolph Hartman?” Max points to the man who now sits facing the fireplace. “The premier expert on Shakespearean translations and meanings—that’s your creepy killer.”

Dove bites her lip, feeling more than a little foolish, her skin burning as though she’s forgotten the SPF.
I should be on a beach. I should be with William. I should be …
“So what’s with all the pointy things?” Dove asks when they’re back in the room with Professor Hartman.

Professor Hartman stands up, looking decidedly more professorial now that Dove knows his identity; the ratty sweater looks intellectual, his eyes wise. “My father was a keen collector. The sword on the wall there is—supposedly—from an original production of
Romeo and Juliet.”

“Greatest love story ever told,” Max comments, not looking at Dove.

“I disagree.” Dove puts her hands on her waist. It’s the first time in ages she’s had an academic thought, but it feels natural.

“Why?” Professor Hartman studies them both as though they’re in a private lecture. “In what way do you think the play fails as a love story?”

“Because …” Suddenly Dove wonders if she has the right to an opinion.
Didn’t I drop out of the game before even getting to university? What do I know
—
really
—
about great literature?

“It’s okay, go on.” Professor Hartman waits for her, adding a log to the fire in the meantime.

“Because Romeo and Juliet don’t actually get to be together. They have the idea of love—or maybe even the real thing—but it’s never fully realized.” Dove puts her hands in her pockets, thinking. “It’s as though they want love and feel it, but because of the tragedy they never experience it.”

Professor Hartman nods, considering her. “Interesting.” He goes to the kitchen, leaving Dove and Max in silence. Soon the teapot whistles and he calls, “And in life, not plays? Is it the same thing?”

Dove sits on the floor, leaning back on Max’s chair but not touching him, and wonders.

Later that night, Professor Hartman apologizes for the lack of a spare room in which Max and Dove can sleep.

Does he assume we’re a couple?
Dove wonders, a bit relieved not to have to sleep in an enclosed space with Max.
Out in the open of the living room; that’s sure to be less of a temptation, right?

After a bowl of stew and crunchy bread, Professor Hartman goes to bed, leaving Max and Dove with extra bedding to sleep by the fire.

“You take the extra blanket. I’ll be fine.” Max hands her a quilt.

Dove shakes him off. “No—I’m fine. You have it.”

They stand waiting for the other to act. Dove refuses to give in, feeling that if she does take the blanket it somehow means more.
I mean, I can’t have him thinking that anything’s going to happen. Not even close. Surveying the scene
—
blizzard, snowed in, cabin, fireside, just the two of us
—
it seems romantic, but it won’t be. Right?

They lie down in the flickering firelight with what Dove considers an appropriate amount of space between them.

“Good night,” Max says, but doesn’t turn away from her.

“’Night.” Dove curls herself into a ball for warmth and looks at the embers reflecting in Max’s eyes. “You know green eyes are supposed to be bad? In literature they’re symbolic of an unfaithful character.”

“Is that what you think of me?” Max’s voice is hushed.

“No.” She looks at him, wishing for a kiss and also that she didn’t want him to kiss her. That feeling everything for Will were enough.

“Dove?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to that party?” Max tucks his arms under the blankets.

“What party?” Instantly she feels left out.
After all, he’s a paying guest and I’m a worker bee. He’s probably been
to loads of parties, with tons of famous and fun people, while I’ve been making beds and cooking quiches.

“The one near the old mill—rumor has it it’s the biggest of the year. Private. Costume.” Max raises his eyebrows.

Dove frowns. “I don’t think I’m invited…. So …”

Max shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. “Well, if you want to go, you can come with me.” He sees her mouth fly open in response and clarifies. “Not as a date or anything. Just … a party. The spirit of the season.”

Dove pushes her hair from her eyes, thinking back to when it was long enough to hide behind. “Okay. If it’s the spirit of the season, it could be fun.” The fire crackles, the logs burning bright red and warm.

“Can I ask you something?” Max moves just the tiniest bit closer. Dove nods. “How come—before, outside—you wouldn’t take my hand?”

Dove exhales audibly, thinking. “Aside from the fact that I—”

“Have a boyfriend, yes, we all know by now …”

Dove waits for him to finish and then goes on. “I don’t know…. Hand holding is, like, a thing—it’s more serious than you think. It means a lot—you have to work your way up to it. I mean, out in public, not at a movie theater or in a dorm room, it’s different. It’s a declaration of how you feel.”

“That’s what you think?” Max exposes his hands, pulling them out from under the blankets.

“Yes, it is.” She hopes he’ll grab for her hand—right now—but he doesn’t.

“Good to know.” The quiet spreads between them, and the exhaustion takes over until Dove is finally asleep. She doesn’t know what will happen when she wakes up, but has a sneaking suspicion that the extra blanket will be carefully—maybe lovingly—draped over her.

Mel and Dove—

I’m starting to get paranoid that you’ve forgotten me. Can you write or call or send a carrier pigeon? I’m sunburned, tired, and burnt out from all the beachy barbeques, boys, and beer. (They take this Jamaican beer and mix it with ginger ale
and it’s good, but too good….
) Makes me long for a solitary run down the slopes. Not sure I have what it takes to make it as an island hostess.

Wish you were here.

Harley

I
CAN’T BELIEVE IT
hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. So little time and so much has happened. So much to tell Dove. If Harley were here, she’d rush out from our room just to hear about the situation, but she’s not.
Briefly, Melissa tries to imagine Harley in her new surroundings and wonders if she’ll ever see her again.

With more than a little trepidation, Melissa heads back to the chalet, her feet dragging in the snow. Her hair is matted, her eyes slightly puffy from lack of sleep, but her heart is elated.
He likes me. He likes me,
she hears in every passing snowplow’s swish. All along the roads snow is walled up high, and everywhere are resort workers starting to dig out.
Looks like we’ll have our work cut out for us.
Melissa leans forward into James as they near the chalet.
Fine, so maybe it’s not a black stallion, but it’s close,
she thinks when James gives her a lift on his state-of-the-art snow craft.
Last night was a dream, snow filled and surreal, with a few lingering kisses, costumes and the answer to my winter gala dilemma
—
what more could I ask for? Oh yeah, maybe a clarification of what it all means
…

“I have double practices. Gotta make up for lost time.” His eyes aren’t visible through the helmet’s tinted visor, but Melissa can feel him stare.

Not wanting to sound overly dramatic or clingy, she says, “So maybe I’ll see you later?”

“Of course.” He revs the engine and backs up. “And hey, Mesilla—Melissa—I’m glad you weren’t stranded alone.”

A grin wraps its way across her face as Melissa crunches on the snowy path toward the chalet. Standing on the balcony, her unmistakable strawberry blond hair cascading down her back, is Charlie. Trying to avoid the obvious issue of James, Melissa waves.
After all, it’s better to be friendly and social than assume there’s a problem.
Melissa waves again, slightly overenthused. Charlie stares back but doesn’t respond. Instead, she swings her hair back and brusquely moves inside.
So much for friendly.

“Trouble brewing?” a voice asks from behind.

Melissa swivels. “If it isn’t Gabe Schroeder, meteorologist extraordinaire.”

“Just call me Mister Weather.”

“Okay, so you were right. I should’ve …” Melissa pauses. Should she have left town yesterday? If she had, the whole night with James wouldn’t have happened. “Let’s just say if skiing doesn’t pan out, you could have a career as a one of those dorky yet approachable forecasters.”

“Sign me up.” Gabe takes the joking critique and eyes Melissa’s face, her smile. His own cheeks are rosy with the brisk air, his lips red. “So I take it you made it through the storm okay?”

Melissa nods.
Better than okay.
But she doesn’t say this to Gabe. Something makes her hold it back—either not trusting the night’s events or maybe not trusting herself with Gabe. “What about you?”

“Oh, I got back just in time to send out the troops. After I saw you, I pretty much bolted back here, rallied everyone from the slopes and bedrooms and cars and … well, you know.” He kicks snow from the bottom of his boots. In the background, Dove’s easy stride is visible, her bright blond hair blending in with the snow.

Melissa waves to Dove. “What do you mean? What troops?”

“Oh, we all got sent out last night—to check on people.” Melissa is sure a blush can be seen on her cheeks but she tries to fight it.
James found me. He checked up on me.
Gabe clears his throat, the nervous kind of noise not the true cough. “Actually, it’s kind of funny. I was going to come find you….”

Melissa feels her stomach tighten. “Me? Wait—where?”

“In town. After I went back in for a last patrol, I thought I saw your glove outside this old factory place…. But when I looked again, it was gone.”

So Gabe found my dropped glove first, not James.
Melissa holds up both hands so she can show Gabe her wool-covered fingers. “Got ’em both right here.”
Why would James say he’d found it? And does it matter? He came to see me, right?
“Anyway, thanks for thinking of me.”

Gabe shrugs and smiles. “No biggie—as long as you’re all right.”

“She looks fine to me,” Dove says, overhearing the conversation as she approaches. She and Melissa lock eyes, conveying without words the need to tell their stories—quickly, before they burst.
She looks better than fine,
Dove thinks, biting her lip and thinking simultaneously about the fireside night, the plane ticket in her room that may or may not be used, and how on earth she’ll make twelve hundred mincemeat pies and dust them with confectionary sugar in time for Matron’s private tea
. I mean, Matron could have given me warning, but no
—
she chose to announce this tea to me now, on my way back from a snowstorm. Now the deluge of baking must ensue.
Dove looks at the chalet with a mixture of relief and contempt.

“We have to go…. Sorry.” Melissa looks at Gabe and adds, “Thanks for thinking of me yesterday, though.”

Dove raises her eyebrows at this but doesn’t comment.

“Don’t let me keep you from all your duties. But remember—tomorrow night, right?” Gabe’s wink is over-the-top obvious and Melissa laughs.

“Yeah, I think I remember.
P-A-R-T-Y
. I’ll be there with bells on.” She thinks about what costume she could possibly wear, wonders if the secret party will be as cool as everyone says or if it’ll end like most parties, with sticky-sweet drinks, an emptying crowd, and another night gone by. “Well, maybe not bells, but …”

“Come on.” Dove yanks her by the jacket. “You have some serious hosting to do and I have only about a million pies to make for Matron and a billion crepes to cook for the guests to make up for lost time….”

“Isn’t it so weird to have such a crazy night and come back here to find it’s all the same?” Melissa grabs a glass of orange juice before her next hosting gig.

Dove nods. “I know, it’s like going back to school after summer when you know you’ve changed—or you think you have. And then you get to school and it’s all the same old, same old.” She adds butter to the industrial-sized mixer in front of her and wipes her hands on her apron. “Not that I’d know about back-to-school these days.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melissa finishes the juice and washes her glass so Charlie won’t have to do it later, rinsing the few plates in the sink also.
Maybe if I tiptoe around her, Charlie won’t mind that I won the tug-of-war over James.

Shrugging, Dove switches the mixer on, watching the butter and sugar blend together in a swirl of creamy yellow. “I don’t know…. It’s just—last night, talking about Shakespeare and thinking about all the literature I know about and the plays and books I
don’t
know about …”

Melissa flicks the mixer off so she can hear Dove better. “You miss school!” Melissa flings water onto Dove’s face.

“Hey!” Dove wipes the spray off her cheeks, laughing.

“Yeah, wake up, Dove. Miss Lily de Whatever Title Society Girl … you want to go back to school, don’t you?”