Slippery Slopes (17 page)

James drains his drink, obviously caught off guard. “I don’t know why you’re saying this, Mesilla.”

“My name’s Melissa, James. I think we’ve covered enough ground to at least go by that.”

James nods. They stand in silence while Melissa tries again to see what’s happening on the ice. General chaos and noises erupt from over in that direction.
If it’s some posh kids I’ll banish them from the ball. If it’s a prince, then I guess he can slather caviar.
…

“I did like you, you know.”

“Did ?” Melissa hears the past tense and wonders why she doesn’t feel worse.
Sure, it stings. Yes, there’s a part of me that feels dejected. But then there’s a larger part that isn’t fazed by him. Is it possible to think you like someone more than you do? It’s as though I got swept up in the idea of liking him, not the real him. Or maybe the Wonderland boosted me more than I thought.
“Is this about Charlie?”

“It’s about competition,” James says enigmatically.

“Meaning?” Melissa watches a lone figure come off the ice, and can see his tuxedo-clad self walking this way, carrying a tray of something. Is he a waiter gone astray?

“Meaning …” James takes Melissa by the shoulders, one hand on either side of her, and pulls her in the way he’d done during the blizzard.

She gives in to the kiss for a minute, wanting to want it, but feeling that somewhere inside of her is a voice saying
No, not this way. Not him.
If not him, then who? The answer comes to her right when she pulls away.

“Oh, sorry to bother you.” The voice in the darkness, the one belonging to the waiter-slash-tuxedo, is Gabe’s. Even in the dim light, Melissa can see his smile fade.

“You look great,” Gabe says to her. He nods to James. “Well, I’m heading back to the chalet.”

Melissa’s cheeks burn with the kiss she didn’t want, with the feelings she might have buried inside. “So soon? It’s just getting started.”

Gabe shakes his head. “Not for me, I think.” James snakes his hand around Melissa’s waist. She’s so distracted by Gabe’s impending departure that she doesn’t bother shrugging him off.

“Wait, Gabe.”

“No,” Gabe says, his voice calm in the cold air. “I’ve done as much waiting as I’m going to do.”

Melissa watches his silvery blond hair as he traces the path back to the chalet. James squeezes her waist, making her remember where she is and who she’s left with. “What was that about?”

James smirks. “As I was saying … competition.”

Melissa’s face tells the story of being used. “So I’m the prize? Or wait—not even? You just tried to get me away from Gabe?”

James shrugs, his face looking like the nice guy Melissa thought he was, but his body language telling a different story. “You win some, you lose some. But me—I like winning.”

Music swells as the band plays a lively tune, causing the gowns and dinner jackets to dance, twirling like a Victorian toy on the floor. Melissa calmly turns to James, who holds his hand out to dance with her. Leaving him hanging, she says, “Well, consider this a first. You just lost. Big time.”

Melissa storms off, heading for the ice to make sure everything is as perfect as can be. On the way, Charlie flings her a couple of mean looks and Melissa lets them roll off her as she trudges onto the ice.
I won’t slip. I won’t
s
lip.
She falls onto her butt, her legs in front of her.
Fine. So I slipped. Like anyone saw.

A laugh lets her know someone did see her.

“Dove?”

“The one and only.” Dove comes onto the ice, stepping like a pixie in her ballet flats. “Rough night?”

Melissa thinks about it. “You know what? No. It’s fine. I’m … fine.” She stands up and looks for evidence of caviar slathering or other pranks. Then, off by the edge under the shelter of a drooping pine tree, she sees something on the ice. “Come on, Dove.”

They go toward it, looking. “Oh … oh …”

“Oh yeah,” Dove says, and crouches to look.

Melissa puts her hands on the ice, seeing again her own reflection, but this time as a Botticelli, emerging from a shell with her hair cascading down. “It’s beautiful. I’m …”

“You’re beautiful,” Dove says. “In the gown you have on or just in a red snowsuit. You are. You just don’t believe it yet.”

Melissa traces her own face on the ice, marveling at the likeness. “Who did this? It’s got to be …”

“The same artist as the
Mona Lisa.”

Melissa shakes her head. “Who knows?” Her whole body pulsates with the knowledge that someone, whoever it is, did this for her.

“I know.” Melissa looks up to see Gabe standing near her with a tray of paints and squeeze bottles. Her surprise at seeing him is outmatched only by the sensation of each cell inside her zooming around, amazed, confused, incredulous at Gabe’s gesture.
All along, this is how he felt?
Melissa wonders.

Dove opens her mouth. “I’ll leave you two alone. I’m heading to the chair lift for a better view.”

As Dove glides away, Melissa stands up, face-to-face with Gabe and his paints. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I tried to before. But now …” Gabe looks away.

“It’s not what you think,” Melissa starts to say, thinking back to the kiss James planted on her.

“That’s what people always say when it’s exactly that.” Gabe sits on the ice and begins blotting out the painting, spraying black ink onto the shell, then up so it begins to cover the flowing tresses.

“Don’t—” Melissa grabs his arm. Gabe shrugs her off. Feeling totally dejected, and a bit shell-shocked, Melissa stands with her hands clenched. The two stay there in silence as Gabe finishes covering the picture, and then, when he’s done, walks away.

At the base of the chair lift, Dove contemplates her options.
I could go back and pack right now, or try to get one last look at Max.
She stands in the halo of light, wondering what her next move will be, when she sees him coming toward her.
How Shakespearean,
she thinks,
to have a mixup in identities for Melissa, to have star-crossed lovers for
me, and everything confused now.

Decked out in a velvet jacket and black trousers, Max looks every inch the stylish gentleman. In her simple sheath dress and wrap, Dove thinks they could be the picture-perfect couple. Only, what would the caption say?

“So, you heading up for a run?” Max gestures to the chair lift. His voice is steady but his eyes dance as he looks at her.

“Thinking about it.”

“You’re doing a lot of thinking these days.”

“Better than just grabbing people and kissing them,” Dove answers.

“Look, that was pure coincidence.” Max’s face is awash with regret. His body leans toward her, reaching.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Dove leans away from him, trying to be immune.

Max looks smug. “You think I planted Claire there? Why would I do that when you know you’re …”

“Leaving?” Dove interrupts. “You asked me at the beginning of the week to choose whether you should stay or go.”

“The infamous Clash song question.” Max shifts from one foot to the other.

Dove watches him move around, wondering if he’s cold or nervous or both. “Yeah, only it turns out I’m the one who should go.” Dove takes a long hard look at her tall would-be suitor. “So I am.”

Max’s face remains calm and even, but his hands shake. “So that’s it?” Max finally gives way to his emotions, reaching for her shoulders with both hands. “Don’t. Don’t go … just … I never liked her. All this time it was—”

Dove shakes her head. “Then why’d you do it? You have one hell of a way of showing devotion….”

Max grips her firmly, unable to let go. “How is it that I’m meant to be devoted and you get to plan a trip into someone else’s arms?”

Dove looks at him, a flash of their embraces, talks, potential academic futures coming to her in a wash of images and feelings. “It’s too late, Max.” Her chest feels weighted but she keeps with her intent. “I leave first thing in the morning for Nevis.”

“Well.” Max coughs to cover up his quaking voice. His eyes still hold her but his hands drop, defeated. “Be sure to give my best to my family if you bump into them at the top-notch hotels and restaurants.”

“I doubt I’ll be frequenting those.” Dove suddenly wonders where, exactly, she will be going, what she’ll be doing aside from reuniting with William.

“I guess you have to do what you have to do.” Max steps forward into the halo of light.
He could kiss me, he’s so close. But he wouldn’t. But what if he did? Would it change things? Prove something?
He doesn’t. He puts his palm on Dove’s alabaster cheek for a minute and, ever the gentleman, says, “Take care.”

Melissa tells everything to Dove, and she reciprocates, as they watch the chair lift swing by. “Sorry about Max.”

Dove picks at her cuticles. “Don’t be. I’m making my own decisions, which is what I wanted to do. You can’t have it all, right? If there were two of me and one could go one way and the other could follow a different path …” Her sentence evaporates as she slides Chapstick onto her lips and looks at the star-studded night sky. “And what about you, Mel?”

“Oh, who knows? Do you think Charlie’s really with James? Do I even care? Seems I have a knack for picking the wrong guy.” Melissa touches her lips, feeling the place on the side where James kissed her.

“Really? Seems to me like you picked the right one all along.” Dove tugs at her wispy hair.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning—you told me how you liked Gabe all last year, and then you liked him when you first got to Les Trois.
James
was the distraction. Not Gabe. He’s been your friend, the one who picked you up when you fell, the one to invite you here, the one …”

“The one for me.” Melissa smiles, wiping away tears.
If only I hadn’t shoved the thing with James in his face
…

Back by the ice, Melissa is dismayed to see her portrait almost entirely covered over, dark as the rest of the ice. She looks closely.
The only thing left is my eyes.

“I couldn’t cover them.” Gabe emerges from the wooded edge of the pond and stands with paint-stained hands, looking at his handiwork.

“How come?”

“Did you ever meet someone who just …” He stops.

“Got you? Or came to your rescue when you fell? Or thought you looked great in a stupid red snowsuit? Or who wished she’d been with you the whole time instead of fawning over some competitive friend?” Melissa slides the words out of her mouth, not once feeling embarrassed.

“You do realize that out of this whole silly resort, this whole country, this whole globe, you’re the only person I’ve ever painted?” He pauses, taking a few steps closer to her. “Actually, if truth be told, you’re the first person in years that I thought was
worth
painting. I pretty much got used to doing landscapes or abstracts.”

Gabe stands inches away from her. Melissa reaches for one of his streaked hands and interlaces their fingers.

“Why me? And when did you learn to paint?”

“One question at a time. First, because you’re the one who inspired me. Who invaded my thoughts so that you were the art I was looking at.” He shakes his head. “Sorry if that sounds lame. And second, I had a ski accident when I was fourteen. Rehabbed at the same place as this big-time artist. Learned a thing or two.”

“Aren’t you just Mister Industrious?”

“Is that how you see me?” Gabe moves closer.

“Not really. Why? How do you want me to see you?”

“Like this.” Gabe puts his hands on Melissa’s head, bringing her to him, kissing her deeply. The cold air settles around them, and as they kiss it’s all they can do not to fall over on the ice. The more intense the kissing, the more Melissa forgets about James, about anything other than just Gabe, until they begin to sway, and then, suddenly, reeling, wind up knocked onto the ice. Melissa winces briefly, then feels her rib pain ease up.

Laughing, Gabe looks at Melissa. He spreads her hair out around her head. “Now you really look like a Botticelli.”

“And you look like …”

“A smitten artist?” Gabe leans down and kisses her again.

“I should sit up,” Melissa says. “If Matron finds me like this she’ll banish me from the ball.”

Gabe kisses her again and makes a face. “Nah, she wouldn’t dare. I’d tell her it’s my last night’s wish.”

Melissa’s smile fades. “What do you mean?” She sits up, feeling the ice seep through her dress.

Gabe looks concerned. “You didn’t know? I thought James—I thought he’d have mentioned …”

“No.”

“The ski team. We’re leaving. Austria for practice, then Denmark and Norway for competing.”

The words hang heavy as wet snow in the air as the band’s music stops. Over the microphone, Charlie’s voice comes into the air. “I’d like to thank the band for allowing me to talk. I have an announcement.” Melissa stands up, not knowing whether to focus on Gabe’s bad news or Charlie’s.

“I wasn’t trying to deceive you, Melissa,” Gabe says.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Thanks to the wonderful paparazzi here who so kindly took photos of me with … my boyfriend James Marks-Benton … I have been selected to be the next face of Young American Cosmetics! I leave for Los Angeles next week.”

Melissa barely hears the rest. “Looks like everyone’s taking off.” Her sadness is palpable. Gabe looks at her, clearly wishing he could take away the pain of the moment, but he can’t. He touches her hand lightly. “If it’s meant to be it’s meant to be, right?” she asks, fighting tears.

He nods, his silvery hair illuminated in the night air. “Right.”

“Maybe you’ll come back?”

Gabe nods. “Nothing’s set in stone, okay?”

Melissa nods, swallowing her sadness and tears, and is determined to look strong even if she feels rejected and empty.
He won’t be back. Not until the season’s over, at least, and by then he’ll meet someone else or forget me, or I’ll forget how it feels to be with him.

Finding every bit of courage she has, Melissa kisses Gabe, hugs him, and then adds, “Just keep in touch, okay? Maybe our paths will cross someday.”

“One can only hope.” Gabe grabs for her. “Don’t go.”

Melissa walks off, feeling new tears welling up that she can’t fend off. “I’m not the one who is.”