First Tracks

by Catherine O'Connell

  I was awakened from a sound sleep by a gentle hand on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see Kelly hovering over me. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Westerlind, but we’re going to be landing soon. Can I get you anything?’

  I told her a coffee would be nice, and reluctantly roused myself from my down featherbed and silky linens and went into the bathroom. There were toiletries laid out, so I washed my face and brushed my teeth making use of the expensive inventory on the counter. My hair was an unruly mess of blond frizz, but that’s its natural state so it was nothing out of the ordinary. I ran a comb through it in hopes of restoring some order and went back out into the cabin. My bed had already been stripped of the linens, the seat returned to upright. A cappuccino rested on the table next to it. The thought ran through my mind that a person could get used to this sort of treatment. On further reflection I decided it would get old fast.

  The co-pilot appeared and came down the aisle. Much shorter than Captain Calloway, with a full head of jet-black hair, he nodded as he walked past me. I realized I hadn’t seen him at all during the flight, which told me how soundly I had slept. Shortly after he returned to the cockpit, there was an announcement to make sure we had our seatbelts fastened as we were on approach to landing.

  My face was glued to the window at the sight of the Alps. They appeared more rugged than the Rockies, the treeless snowcapped peaks with greater rises from base to apex than at home. As the plane descended and the mountains drew closer, nowhere did I see evidence of a town, much less an airport. And then there was the sound of the landing gear lowering just as a highway and a four-circle exchange came into view. A strong gust of wind jogged the plane to the left and the captain pivoted right to compensate, the plane vibrating like it wanted to break up as he crabbed it through the wind to the landing strip. After a landing that would have most people grabbing for the air-sickness bag, not one of us so much as blinked an eye. After years of flying into Aspen and the same frivolous winds, we were all used to it.

  A stretch Rolls-Royce, something I never even knew existed, awaited us on the tarmac. We were escorted to the car while Captain Calloway went in to clear us through customs. It wasn’t long before he came back and handed us our passports. The door was shut and the driver started into the ski resort of St Moritz. Evidently the crew rated less exclusive transportation.

  When we entered the town, I was overwhelmed by its unique beauty and the way it nestled in the snow-covered peaks of the Alps just like Aspen did in the Rockies. It was as dysfunctional as Aspen too, with charming Swiss chalets juxtaposed alongside metallic modern-day condominium buildings. The streets were lined with expensive boutiques of the same ilk as Aspen and, judging by the dress of the pedestrians and skiers we passed along the way, the town dripped money just like my home.

  We pulled up in front of a Gothic edifice, a regal stone hotel situated up the hill with a five-star view of the frozen lake. I’d done a little research on the internet before leaving Aspen and learned that until the 1890s, St Moritz had been primarily a summer destination for wealthy English. That is until 1864 when Johannes Badrutt made a bet with four British tourists that if they didn’t like St Moritz in the winter he would pay all their travel costs. They evidently enjoyed themselves enough to come back and St Moritz as a winter sports mecca was born. Johannes’s son, Casper, later built a huge palace, which he eponymously named Badrutt’s Palace Hotel.

  I’d pretty much assumed that we were sitting in front of that hotel, my suspicions confirmed when the car doors opened and two uniformed doormen said simultaneously, ‘Welcome to Badrutt’s Palace.’

  ‘And here we are,’ Pablo announced. ‘Home for the next week.’

  We left our bags behind for the valets to deal with and were ushered into the lobby, a massive room of marble floors and high ceilings with grand hallways stretching to either side of us. And at this point, it came as no surprise to me that we didn’t have to check in. We were escorted directly to an elevator and then to our rooms with baggage mysteriously having appeared right behind us, except for skis which I am sure went to a home all their own. Our rooms were lined up along the same hallway, Señor and Señora Alvarez taking one, the two boys another and the third was mine.

  ‘Maria and I are going to take a rest,’ Pablo informed me. ‘We never ski on arrival day. And the boys are most likely going to rest as well. If you find you have the energy to ski, just stop at the front desk. All the arrangements are made.’

  I thanked him and followed the bell captain into my room. He put my duffel bag on a rack and asked me if I would like it unpacked. I declined his offer and reached into my backpack for my wallet to give him a tip. He raised a hand that said it was not necessary. Of course not, I surmised. Everything would be taken care of by Señor.

  After he had gone, I took a good look at my room for the first time. Before we had a house, when Toby and I had shared a room in a rental apartment, I had dreams of being a princess. One day I found a packing crate near the dumpster and dragged it up to our room, using it to divide the room in half. My half of the room became my palace with a canopy of sheets over my bed and my pillow a fluffed throne beneath it. I begged my mother for a satin princess gown and crown for my birthday and she went over budget to deliver it. Dressed in my princess garb, I would sit in my private quarters for hours, addressing my loyal subjects, a collection of dolls and stuffed animals.

  When I scoped out what was to be my quarters for the next week, my visions of royalty were fulfilled. The suite was easily the size of my home and then some. There was a huge bed framed in gold with a real canopy over it. And while I’m not well versed in period pieces, something told me that what I was looking at was the real deal, though from what period was anybody’s guess. Lack of knowledge didn’t stop me from enjoying my new digs any. I took a running start and leapt on to the bed like a child and lay there enjoying the views of the mountains from my new kingdom.

  For the first time in my life, I was truly a princess.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Pablo Alvarez assumed right when he thought I might want to ski. I’d gotten enough sleep on the plane and was ready to hit the lifts as soon as they opened. But it was still too early, so I took the time to unpack my duffel bag and arrange my small plastic bag of toiletries in the apartment-sized bathroom. After hanging my lonely jeans in the closet, I ventured down to the lobby to get the lay of the land. The concierge jumped to service, more than happy to make arrangements for me to be taken to the main lift by the hotel shuttle.

  ‘Would you like a guide, Miss Westerlind? It’s often wise to ski with someone who knows the ropes.’

  My polite but firm no thank you was ready before his last words were out of his mouth. After all the pressure in the last week, there was nothing I wanted more than to be alone without obligation to talk to anyone. This was my day to explore uncharted territory, to let my legs and skis carry me to places never visited, to glory in the rugged beauty of the Alps.

  ‘Very well, Miss Westerlind. But please know that we here at the hotel are at your service. If there is anything you want, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  I thanked him and took the stairs back up to my fourth-floor suite. I had just finished putting on my Thrift Shop Bogner ski suit when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see Maria and Richie Alvarez standing in the hall, Richie in winter gear, his mother in street clothes. She smiled, her teeth gleaming white in her comely face while her plump son hung his round head shyly.

  ‘I hate to disturb you.’ Somehow that statement didn’t seem to have any teeth to it. ‘Neither Pablo nor I plan to ski today, and Richie really wants to snowboard. I don’t want him to go alone.’ Her eyes glossed over my ski pants and turtleneck. ‘Would you mind if he joins you?’

  I recalled a Steve Martin routine my mother used to get a kick out of. Do you mind if I smoke? No, do you mind if I fart? Now I like kids, but I didn’t feel like sharing my first day on the slopes of Corviglia with anyone I hadn�
�t vetted, much less a ten-year-old. Not to mention I was entertaining the notion of some off-piste skiing, and although there aren’t really tree wells like in the Rockies, keeping an eye on Richie would still be a downer. Of course I minded. I minded a lot. My mind scrolled my files in search of other options.

  ‘Don’t you think he’d have more fun with his brother?’

  ‘Carlos is sleeping in and then he’s going to do the Cresta Run.’

  I’d seen pictures of the track, a run of packed snow which people screamed down head first on a sleigh, instead of feet first like the luge. The track was part of a private club which still excluded women, but I had no doubt Pablo Alvarez was a member.

  ‘Richie, don’t you want to do the Cresta with your brother? I hear it’s really exciting,’ I suggested.

  No sale. He looked at me timidly and said, ‘I did it last year.’

  ‘How about a guide for Richie?’ I tossed in as a last-ditch effort, recalling my conversation with the concierge. No doubt a guide was expensive, but the last thing the Alvarezes needed to worry about was money.

  ‘I want to go with Greta,’ he said, turning his appeal to his mother, ignoring me for all intents and purposes as if his mother held sway over my decision. Then he turned his round brown, dark-lashed eyes up towards me, and I revisited watching them pop open in the glades and the reward of knowing a potential death had been averted. My stance softened. Perhaps the two of us had a special bond. Besides, his family had given me one hell of a ride here, and they were picking up my shelter, nutrition and entertainment. What else could I do?

  ‘OK, Richie. We’re on. Bus leaves in ten minutes.’ I looked at my watch for emphasis. So much for being a princess.

  An hour and a half later, we were boarding the shuttle to Corviglia after spending the better part of the morning in the downstairs ski shop getting adjustments made to Richie’s equipment. He had insisted on trying out a new board, and so we’d had to deal with rentals, which took forever because Richie couldn’t make up his mind on what color he wanted.

  After a scenic ride past expensive boutiques along winding snow-banked streets, we finally arrived at the funicular at eleven o’clock, a full three hours later than my intended start. As the lift moved out of the station and gained elevation, my mood turned upbeat. The view of the town and the lake was breathtaking. It was hard to believe that only hours ago I had been in Aspen and now I was in Switzerland about to ski Corviglia, which I had heard so much about. I looked at my young charge. Well, I hoped I was going to ski.

  After his harrowing experience in the bowl, Richie was understandably gun-shy and he asked if we could start out on one of the gentler slopes. ‘Sure, kid,’ I said, my eyes venturing up the mountain to the expert terrain. After a few runs in intermediate terrain I broached the subject of trying something a little more challenging.

  Richie bucked at that idea. ‘I like where we are,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t like something a little more difficult?’ I said, gazing longingly at the legendary Piz Nair above us.

  ‘No,’ he whined. And then he dealt the fatal blow. ‘I’m hungry. Can we have lunch now?’

  WTF. Don’t tell me he wanted to stop for lunch. It wasn’t even noon. I shared my mantra with him. ‘Lunch is for wimps.’

  The look he gave me was the visual equivalent of the F-bomb followed by ‘you’. The brown eyes that I found so needy earlier changed to resolute orbs, a member of the privileged class used to getting his way. No matter my feelings about this, it occurred to me that I had neither choice nor voice as far as lunch was concerned. Like it or not, my role had diminished from lifesaver to babysitter.

  There’s always tomorrow, I told myself as we slid into a mountain chalet overlooking the broad white slopes for what I told myself would be a quick snack. As things turned out the restaurant only offered table service and the prices were exorbitant. Richie ordered with gusto, while I settled for some salmon and a green salad. Richie was finishing up dessert, a Black Forest cake, as the regular lunch crowd started to gather. Sleek and slim, dressed in fur ski outfits or expensive designer wear, they were glossy and monied, the elegant people, a class apart. Now I’m not one to ever think of another person as my better, but there was no doubting they might have a different opinion about me. Polite and composed, they were bred to think they were superior, and there was no doubting they bought into it. Aspen may have its rich, but many of them play down their wealth. Here they flaunted it.

  The check came, and naturally Richie didn’t have any money, so I put the meal on my credit card hoping his parents would ask about lunch and at least reimburse me for what their human vacuum cleaner had consumed. But at least lunch was over and I could once again feel the crisp cold Alpine air on my skin and the smooth corn snow at my feet.

  After waiting fifteen minutes for Richie to finish in the bathroom, I finally managed to steer him back on to the slopes. The outside temperature had dropped and the sky had clouded over, turning the light flat so that it was difficult to read the terrain. While this posed no problem to me, it didn’t meet with Richie’s approval. When the light is flat, I usually ski in the trees where the definition is better. But unlike Aspen Mountain, Corviglia is relatively treeless, so skiing the trees is not an option. Richie kept falling until finally one time he simply lay on the ground waiting while I side-stepped back up the mountain to him.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m done,’ he said, and by his tone of voice, I knew there was no debating it.

  It was two thirty and my first day of skiing in the Alps was coming to a close. I’d spent more time in the restaurant than on the mountain. Richie refused to slide down, so we took the funicular. I tried fighting through my aggravation. After all, one can’t completely blame a spoiled child for his actions. A child is a reflection of his upbringing. Still, I wanted to strangle him.

  I thought of Tantalus, the human who cut up one of his kids and put him in a stew that he served to the gods as a trick. When I’d first read the myth I was appalled, wondering how the ancient mind could come up with anything so vile. Now I was beginning to think the author was on to something.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It wasn’t even three when the shuttle dropped us back off at Badrutt’s. We checked our gear at the ski shop and headed up into the lobby. Richie had turned from petulant to cheery now that he was warm, fed, and near a bed and his iPad.

  Even though there was time to still be wrung out of the ski day, après-ski appeared to already be under way in Le Grand Hall that stretched practically the length of the hotel. It was quite a scene, the people lean and stylish and, well, rich. Dressed in my Thrift Shop skiwear, I felt the polar opposite of the people around me, the women coiffed and made up, the men sporting expensive watches and slicked-back hair over soft cashmere blazers. The pelts of dead animals were in abundance, sleek coats draped over the backs of chairs, trimmed vests and hats, boas wrapped around necks, even fur boots. If I thought a couple of Texans in raccoon coats was a big deal, it was nothing compared to this scene. The only place I have ever seen more fur was the zoo. Any self-respecting PETA member would have immolated his or herself in one of the fireplaces in protest.

  When we got to our floor, Richie disappeared into his room without even a thank you. I closed the door gratefully behind me, falling on to my gold princess bed, not in exhaustion but in frustration at the wasted day. Wondering what to do next to amuse myself in this most decadent town I picked up the Badrutt’s guide on the nightstand and started leafing through it. My fingers came to a halt at a full-page picture of an indoor swimming pool with a rock deck and windows looking out over the Alps. A swim could be nice. The only problem was I hadn’t thought to pack a swimsuit for my trip to wintry St Moritz. Then the words of the concierge from this morning echoed in my memory. ‘If we can do anything for you …’

  A call to the desk rendered a sleek red maillot delivered to my door five minutes later.

  My entry into th
e pool area wearing a hotel bathrobe and a pair of Merrells drew a few indifferent glances from the couples luxuriating in the churning waters of a steaming Jacuzzi. The panorama that met me out the windows was breathtaking, almost like a painting, the frozen lake banked by white-dusted fir trees that diminished as they moved up the surrounding mountains to the treeless peaks.

  The Jacuzzi may have been full, but my interest lay more in the pool with its granite diving platform, its aqua blue water beckoning. I slipped out of the robe and dropped it on a chaise, kicked off the Merrells, and feeling both sleek and chic in the red maillot, I dove into the pool. The water was body temperature warm, circumventing any shock of dry body meeting wet cold. Having grown up in the Midwest and spent a lot of time in lakes, it’s my opinion that you are either a water person or a mountain person. Moving to Colorado was tough at first because it meant choosing between languid summers floating on blow-up rafts in lazy lakes versus the challenge of the arid Rockies. A year later the mountains won out, hands down. I wouldn’t trade the mountains for anything.

  But that doesn’t mean water isn’t good from time to time. I started doing laps and after a while my hostility over having to virtually babysit Richie began to drain away. After all, he was a kid and his mother probably had no comprehension of what a let-down the day had been for me. Besides, I’m better than that. Truly.

  At least I am when there aren’t so many things weighing on my mind. I’d been avoiding thinking about Duane in the hours since leaving Aspen, and maybe that was the right thing to do. Forcing my mind to go blank in the soothing silk of the water, my troubles fell away for the time being, much the way they do when I’m skiing. By the time I climbed out of the pool my frame of mind was much improved.

  I dried off with a plush towel handed to me by an attendant who had materialized out of nowhere and slipped back into the robe and Merrells. I was on my way out the door when I heard my name called. I turned to see Carlos nestled in the Jacuzzi between two blonds.