Christmas at the Chalet

by Anita Hughes

  Her mother pressed the button on the elevator and stepped inside.

  “We’ve talked about this before. I can’t come if your father is there,” she said, suddenly impatient. “Being at your wedding is the most important thing in the world, but it simply wouldn’t work.”

  “I don’t see why,” Nell said stubbornly.

  “I don’t expect you to understand.” Her mother’s voice softened. “It’s like getting on a plane when you’re so terrified of flying you can’t breathe. Just the thought of it gives me tremors.”

  Nell had to change her mother’s mind. But she was suddenly tired from the afternoon excursion to Alp Grüm, as well as cocktails with her father, and worrying that her parents would run into each other. It would be better to bring it up after they’d both had a good night’s sleep.

  “I’m glad you’re in St. Moritz.” Nell kissed her mother on the cheek. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

  “So am I.” Her mother beamed. “There’s no one I’d rather spend the holidays with.”

  * * *

  Nell sipped a cup of coffee and sank onto the striped armchair. Her room really was lovely: the king-sized bed had a quilted bedspread, and there was a marble fireplace hung with stockings. A silver tea service sat on the sideboard, along with a fruit loaf and mixed nuts.

  Her mother had gone to her own suite, and Nell was going to take a shower and wash her hair. How could her parents be so difficult? All she wanted was a photo album with pictures of her father giving the toast and her mother eating chocolate fondant cake. Her mother would wear a vintage designer dress, and her father would have a rose boutonniere in his buttonhole.

  Had her mother ever been so young and adventurous to take a job as a chalet girl so she could ski the black diamond runs? She tried to picture her father at twenty-two, without any money and wearing his first tuxedo. Her diamond ring glinted under the Tiffany lamp, and suddenly she had an idea. She slipped off her sweater and pulled a robe around her waist. Maybe everything would work out after all.

  Four

  Five Days Before the Fashion Show

  7:30 a.m.

  Felicity

  FELICITY STOOD AT THE BASE of the ski gondola and rubbed her hands. It was too early in the morning, and she was freezing. The pine trees were blanketed in last night’s snow and a squirrel darted sleepily across her path.

  Raj had insisted that everyone meet at the gondola to ski the famous white carpet. It was supposed to be the most glorious run of the day: miles of fresh powder, without a single imprint. The sky turned from purple to blue before your eyes, and the snow was as soft as a down comforter. It was important to be the first skiers on the mountain; if you waited until later, the fresh powder would disappear.

  First you had to ride in the gondola, and then you transferred to a chairlift, when you reached the top, it was so cold you couldn’t feel your nose. It had been too early when she left the hotel for a cup of coffee. No matter that the guidebook said it was the experience of a lifetime; snuggling under a down comforter in her pajamas seemed like a better idea.

  Raj hadn’t been happy that she’d missed the excursion to Alp Grüm, because it had been the perfect photo opportunity; she couldn’t beg off again. A photographer was going to meet them for lunch and take photos of all the models. Her head felt perfectly fine, and she had gotten plenty of sleep; after Gabriel left, she’d spent the whole afternoon and night in bed. At first, her mind had been a jumble of thoughts. How could Adam suggest they see other people, and how could she change his mind? When she finally slept, she never wanted to get out of bed. The mattress was soft as butter, and the pillows were filled with feathers and fitted with silk pillowcases.

  She had been tempted to call Adam and apologize. But she thought about waiting years to get married, and knew she couldn’t do it. Then she imagined losing him completely, and her chest tightened and she felt sick.

  At least Raj had promised her lunch at the Alpine Hut. It was where all the fashionable people ate when they skied the Corvatsch, and needed to refuel before returning to the slopes. That was one of the wonderful things about the Alps. The mountain cafés served bratwurst and lamb cutlets and soup so thick you could eat it with a fork. Felicity was going to order pizzoccheri with beef noodles and potatoes and crepes stuffed with walnuts and jam.

  “Let’s go.” Raj motioned for her to climb into the gondola. “The models are all on the first gondola. If we don’t hurry, other skiers will get there first, and the white carpet will disappear.”

  “The only carpet I want to see at this time of day is the one in my suite,” Felicity grumbled. “Even the squirrels think it’s too early. They gave up collecting nuts and went back to bed.”

  “Greta said it’s the experience of a lifetime.” Raj sat on the hard surface and made room for Felicity beside him.

  “Who’s Greta?” Felicity asked as the gondola lurched and they started up the mountain.

  “I met her at the Polo Bar last night and we went on to the King’s Club. She’s from Zurich, and she knows everything about St. Moritz.” Raj adjusted his gloves.

  “You took a woman to the King’s Club?” Felicity raised her eyebrow. “Wasn’t that expensive? The dress code says ‘dress to impress,’ and you practically need to show the bouncer your bank balance to get inside.”

  Felicity had read about the King’s Club in the hotel brochure. It was the oldest nightclub in Switzerland, and every celebrity who visited St. Moritz sipped White Ladies or Vodka Fizzes at the club’s bar. Disco balls hung from the ceiling, and the dance floor was so packed it was like attending some terribly sophisticated high school prom.

  “I ordered two glasses of Sambuca, and they lasted all night.” He fished a piece of paper out of his pocket. “And she was a wealth of information: Bobby’s Pub is where all the young people hang out, and the only place to be seen for après-ski drinks is the Roo Lounge. You may think the patrons of the Miles Davis Lounge are simply enjoying casual conversation with their cigars, but they’re most likely conducting cutthroat business deals.”

  Felicity glanced at the paper and looked at Raj. “Her name and phone number are on the top, and my German isn’t very good, but I think she left her room number.”

  “We’re going to meet this afternoon to discuss where I can get the best deals on toboggan rentals for the next photo shoot.” He snatched up the paper. “Anyway, you should talk. Nell told me you and Adam had a fight, but she didn’t mention you already met someone new.”

  “What are you talking about?” Felicity asked.

  “It was all over the blogs this morning.” He took out his phone. “Pictures of you in the arms of some hunky, dark-haired doctor. To be honest, I was shocked—that isn’t like you at all.”

  “Of course it isn’t like me—it never happened.” Felicity’s heart pounded. “A sled almost knocked me over and I took a tumble in the snow. I blacked out for a minute and he carried me to my room.”

  “According to silverweddings.com, ‘Felicity Grant continues to surprise us in St. Moritz days before the debut of her winter collection. We broke the news that she might be planning her own wedding, but now the identity of the groom is in question. Was she modeling her own design in anticipation of nuptials with her longtime sports manager boyfriend, or is her future husband a dark-haired man rumored to be St. Moritz’s doctor? All we know is they looked very cozy when he was carrying her down the catwalk at Badrutt’s Palace. If only we had followed them into the elevator, we might have learned the whole story.’”

  “Let me see that.” Felicity grabbed his phone. There was a photo of Gabriel carrying her through the hotel lobby. Her arms were around his neck, and he was wearing a blue ski sweater.

  “It’s wonderful publicity for the collection,” Raj commented. “I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”

  “You can’t even see my face, and I don’t care about the collection!” Felicity gulped the cold air. “If Adam sees this, he’ll neve
r speak to me again.”

  “Nell said you weren’t speaking to each other anyway,” Raj reminded her. “Though I didn’t believe her. Ever since I saw him in our apartment six years ago, I knew you’d end up together. What guy would iron a wedding dress for a girl he just met, unless he was falling in love?”

  “His mother put the dress in her steam room,” she corrected. “And we were so young. It’s easy to be in love when you don’t expect anything of each other except a slice of pie as a thank you. We got in an argument yesterday. I told Adam that I couldn’t wait years to get married. He said I cared more about the wedding than him, and that we should take a break.”

  “All grooms are the same. They never understand the significance of the perfect diamond ring or the right gown,” Raj said thoughtfully. “A fancy wedding isn’t necessary, but neither are expensive cars or memberships to the gym. You can travel up Fifth Avenue on the bus, and if you want to stay fit you can jog around Central Park. But the grooms all come round the day of the wedding. They drink beers with their groomsmen and slip into their rented Armani tuxes and everyone is happy. The bride posts photos of the bridal party on Instagram, and her friends can’t wait to buy a gown just like ours.”

  “Can we not talk about Felicity Grant Bridal for a moment!” Felicity’s veins felt like ice. “Adam and I got in a huge fight, and now there are photos of me in the arms of another man.”

  “I was just trying to distract you,” Raj said gently. “You and Adam have had disagreements before. Do you remember the summer he wanted to take you to Disneyland, but you were designing the gown for a wedding at the Plaza? The bride wasn’t happy with the alterations, and you had to cancel the trip at the last minute.”

  It had been Felicity’s first society wedding, and five hundred guests had watched the bride walk down the aisle. And that dress! Yards of silk taffeta and two petticoats and a peau de soie bodice. The bride had worn her grandmother’s diamond-and-ruby choker, and her undergarments were hand-sewn in Paris.

  “How was I supposed to know he was going to surprise me with a holiday in California?” she fretted. “Anyway, no one in the wedding industry takes a vacation in July. It’s like telling Adam to go to Bali during the NFL draft.”

  “You see, your career is important to you,” Raj countered. “Adam loves you. He just wants to wait until his firm is established to get married.”

  “I love my career, but I want a family before I’m too old to enjoy it,” she said slowly. “It doesn’t matter. When Adam sees these photos, our relationship will be over.”

  “Adam hardly reads Silver Weddings with his morning coffee.” Raj slipped the phone into his pocket. “We’re about to ski the most exhilarating run in the Engadin valley. Stop worrying and enjoy yourself.”

  Raj skied off with the models and Felicity perched at the top. Raj was right; she couldn’t call Adam from the slopes, and what did it matter? He’d said they should take a break and see other people; he probably didn’t care if she was in the arms of some Swiss ski instructor.

  But what about Gabriel’s advice? He’d thought she had to tell Adam how she felt. If she kept it bottled up inside, it would be like ignoring snow on the roofs in the village after a heavy snowfall. You had to shovel the new snow, or the whole chalet could collapse.

  The sun caught the tips of her skis and she pushed off down the mountain. The wind touched her cheeks, and she felt the delicious thrill of picking up speed. For the next few hours she wasn’t going to think about anything except the trees flying by and her skis digging into wet powder.

  * * *

  Four hours later Felicity unbuckled her boots and pushed her goggles onto her forehead. She had skied all morning, and now she understood the magic of the white carpet. The sky was the color of topaz, and the runs were so wide she barely saw another person. At one point she stopped to watch a squirrel collecting nuts, and it was all so beautiful, she never wanted to be anywhere else.

  It was noon and the sun was high above the mountain. Her cheeks were sunburned and she realized she was starving. Raj was already inside the Alpine Hut getting a table, and a photographer was taking photos of the models.

  Her phone buzzed and she fished it out of her pocket. The screen lit up and Felicity counted five texts. She clicked on the messages and read:

  Just checking on you. I saw an odd posting on a blog.

  The blogs must be wrong but I thought you should see them. Give me a call and I’ll explain.

  Felicity, what is going on? I need to hear from you. You are all over the internet.

  Felicity, I’ve been texting you all night. Where are you?

  For God’s sake, call me. I just got home from dinner and you’re not answering your phone.

  How had she missed Adam’s texts? Her phone had been buried in her parka, and she hadn’t heard it beep. It was six a.m. in New York; what if she called and woke him? Adam was often irritable first thing in the morning. But if she waited, he might leave for a client breakfast and she wouldn’t be able to speak to him all day.

  She rushed inside and approached the hostess. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “Welcome to the Alpine Hut,” the woman answered. “Will you be joining us for lunch?”

  “I’m trying to make a call,” Felicity said urgently. “My phone doesn’t have any bars.”

  “There’s no reception at this altitude.” She handed Felicity a menu. “Would you like to see a menu? Today’s specials are cheese raclette and apple strudel for dessert. The chef makes it with whole cream and cinnamon; it’s the best in the Engadin valley.”

  “I don’t have time for raclette; this is an emergency.” Felicity turned back to the deck. Music blared from the loudspeakers, and the outdoor tables were filled with men and women eating bowls of soup and hunks of bread with cheese.

  She searched for her skis and found them wedged behind a pair of Rossignols. A voice called her name, and Raj waved from a table by the window. Felicity didn’t have time to explain. She buckled her boots and pushed off down the slope as if her life depended on it.

  * * *

  Felicity paced around the living room of her suite and stared at her phone. She had skied straight down the mountain and hurried back to the hotel. Now it was two p.m. and she still hadn’t replied to his texts. Texting back was tricky; what if he interpreted what she wrote the wrong way? She tried to call him but his phone went straight to voicemail. Adam was probably taking Doug out for ham and cheese omelets at some trendy breakfast place in Manhattan.

  How could the photos of her and Gabriel have ended up all over the internet? She was tempted to open a bottle of scotch from the minibar. Even Raj would agree that her boyfriend seeing photos of her with another man was a good reason to spend fifty Swiss francs on a shot of alcohol.

  She wished she could talk to Nell, but she was still on the slopes. Suddenly she noticed Gabriel’s card on the coffee table. She hadn’t gone to the village yesterday to buy colored pens, and she didn’t want to get behind on the sketches for Camilla. She’d go now and pay Gabriel a visit at the same time. Her ankle throbbed, and she winced. Gabriel had warned her to take it easy, but she had skied the white carpet anyway. There was nothing she could do about it; she gingerly slipped on her boots and walked to the door.

  * * *

  Felicity strolled through the village with her new pens and consulted the card that Gabriel had given her with his office address. She turned a corner and glanced up at a wooden building strung with Christmas lights. It was perched above the village square, and looked more like a chalet than a doctor’s office. There were window boxes and a red front door with a pine wreath. She knocked and waited for someone to appear.

  “Felicity! This is a surprise.” Gabriel opened the door. A long white coat covered his shirt, and he held a clipboard. “What are you doing here?”

  “I had an errand in the village, and thought I’d come see you. I hope that’s all right,” Felicity said, walking inside. The waiting room had
a linoleum floor and paneled walls. There was a vinyl sofa and a coffee table covered with magazines. “I would have texted, but I didn’t want to disturb you if you were with patients.”

  “It’s quiet now.” Gabriel followed her. “You missed the afternoon rush: a girl broke her wrist skating backward even though her mother warned her not to, and a man needed stitches from attempting the Cresta Run. He’s lucky it isn’t worse. How any sane adult can torpedo down the mountain on a board as flimsy as a waffle is beyond me.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t come to talk about ski injuries.” Felicity grimaced. Her ankle had felt fine this morning, but now there was a slight twinge. “I wanted to ask for your help. I’m in even more trouble than before.”

  “Don’t tell me you hurt yourself again.” He glanced at her ankle. “I told you to keep your foot elevated as much as possible. And what about your head? You had a nasty bump. Please don’t tell me you went skiing after almost getting a concussion!”

  “When I woke up this morning, my head felt perfectly normal. And I’ve been trying to be good about my ankle, but Raj begged me to ski the white carpet,” she admitted. “It was worth it in the beginning. I’ve never experienced such soft powder, and the runs were so vast, it was like performing a ballet.”

  “I can give you some pain medication for your ankle if you like.” He rummaged through his doctor’s bag. “But you have to be careful; it’s easy to get addicted. I’d rather you just listen to me and keep the ankle up in the first place.”

  “It’s not my ankle—I told you, I’m good at pain.” She sat on the sofa. “It’s Adam. He saw photos of us on a wedding blog and sent texts demanding to know what was going on.”

  “Photos of us doing what?” Gabriel asked, perplexed.

  “You were carrying me into the hotel lobby. A photo of me with my arms around your neck ended up on social media.”

  “Your boyfriend is worried about a doctor helping you, after a sled almost ran you over?”

  “He doesn’t know about the sled.” She gave him her phone. “Someone made up a silly story that you’re the mystery man I’m going to marry. It’s all over Instagram and on the wedding blogs.”