“Thanks again for the croissant help, Dove. I owe you.” Melissa gives her a pointed look. “Really—I always pay back favors.” She takes the tray of apples out from the oven, their fragrant scent filling the kitchen. “I’ll save one for you?” Melissa puts the tray on the stove top and begins moving them to the serving platter with silver tongs. More dishes, more serving tools. But at least it looks nice.
“Great—it’ll be my postmorning work reward.” Dove leaves the kitchen’s good smells and takes her rag and brass polish out to the living room, hoping to be able to clean in peace.
“Good morning,” the countess says to her from her posture-perfect stance by the window.
“Morning,” Dove says and tucks herself up as small as possible by the fireplace railing. The pot of polish smells strong, but it works well. Dove dips the rag in, glad she remembered to choose a soft one lest she scrape the finish. William taught her that, how to polish brass with a firm arm, pressing hard into the metal to ensure a proper sheen, how to wipe it without leaving any streaks. Dove sees her warped reflection in the railing and worries just for a minute about William—he said he’d wait for her, called with dates to meet him there, but what if he changed his mind? What if she’d taken all these huge risks for nothing? Dove’s hands slack with the thought.
“Something wrong, dear?” Matron’s voice cuts through the morning calm. With her shirt so ironed that bending in any direction seems an impossibility, Matron comes over to inspect Dove’s polishing. “You need to go back. You’ve missed a section.”
Dove doesn’t refute this, even though Matron is incorrect—I started here, not there, Dove thinks. But instead of putting up a fuss, she nods. “Of course.”
“And the beds?” Matron’s fists rest on her hips.
“The guests are still in them,” Dove says. Out the window, the sun rises in between two of the three mountains. Early skiers appear as tiny dots on the wide white trails. Dove wishes she were out there, too, instead of trapped inside polishing. I am a fairy-tale girl, she thinks. Just like Melissa said. Only, I’ve trapped myself.
Matron leans down, pretending to inspect further, but really so she can speak without the countess hearing. “Just because certain guests choose to waste the day in bed, doesn’t mean you can get out of cleaning the rooms.”
It doesn’t? Dove thinks. “How would I—”
“You simply wait for them to leave their room—for dinner or whatever they desire—and dash in for a very quick tidy-up.”
Dove blushes, even though she’s done nothing wrong. “I’m not … I didn’t think that—”
Matron cuts her off. “I’ll be back at noon. I want everything finished by then.”
Dove wrinkles her brow, knowing there is no rule stating a time by which everything has to be done. Some of the guests might decide to sleep until eleven—then she’d have only an hour to take care of their suites. “Matron, I believe …”
“You’re not employed to believe, Lily. You are employed to clean.” Matron surveys the railing again, this time leaning on it with her hand, leaving a full palm-print. “Looks as though you have more work to do here.”
Just call me Dove, damn it, Lily thinks—justifying the swear in her mind after Matron’s rudeness. Matron goes to check on the kitchen and Dove worries for Melissa, about the food inspection, about her newness to cooking. Which am I, anyway? Dove? Lily? Does it make a difference? At least I don’t need to waste time wondering why Matron gave Melissa the cook’s job and stuck me with the cleaning. Punishment. Dove has a feeling it’s not only that Matron wants to penalize her for past behavior—she suspects that her own parents had a word with Matron, and asked for the toughest job assignment.
10
Want tips? Put your head down and do the work.
“HERE’S WHAT I KNOW so far,” Harley says. “We all work these fifty or sixty hours a week….”
“With just one day off,” Melissa says.
“Which can’t come too soon, as far as I’m concerned.” She changes out of her black pants and into jeans. “Can I say how good it feels to leave my grungy clothes behind?”
“You’re only going into town for an hour,” Harley says. “Why bother?”
“Because at least then I feel like I have an hour off.” Melissa shrugs and checks out her reflection. “So much for glamour,” she says, tucking a sprig of curl behind her ear.
“Glamour’s not everything it seems,” Harley says.
Melissa laughs. “Oh, yeah, this coming from Miss Outdoor World herself.”
Harley smiles. “Really? You think I’m, like, rugged or …”
“You’re a camping advertisement. You belong naked, in the woods, with lascivious hikers watching you or something.” Melissa studies Harley’s thick hair; the rough chop of it falls to her shoulders. “Did you cut your hair yourself?”
Harley swallows, picking up Melissa’s lip gloss as though she’s considering sliding it on, but then puts it back down. “Yeah. On the way here.” She touches her hair. “It was long.” She looks at her reflection. “But now it’s not—anyway.”
“Anyway, yeah—our hours are long, the work is hard….”
“Well, your work is,” Harley says. “I thought for sure it’d be more intense, but the guests seem pretty mellow so far. Maybe I just lucked out for this first batch, huh?”
Melissa shrugs. She pulls on a tight-fitting light blue shirt, and a navy blue vest. My hands still smell like onions, she thinks. They probably will all day. “Could be.”
“Yeah,” Harley says. “Maybe European royalty is the most laid-back kind of guest.”
“Or maybe we just want to get laid.” Diggs and Luke stand at the doorway, poking their heads in and laughing.
“Hey!” Melissa grabs her scarf close to her as if the boys have caught her naked. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Hey!” Diggs imitates her. “We’re paying to be here, so we can be just about anywhere we like.”
Harley sighs. Maybe it was too good to be true, having quiet, easy guests who take care of themselves. At least I got to see James practice. He and Gabe had both waved to her, seen her, registered that she was there, but hadn’t been able to break away to talk. Harley had stuck around drinking coffee, chatting to other early morning onlookers, and felt her breathing rate increase when James waved from the top of the run. The thought that James, who had lived in photo form in her locker for two years, whose face and ski slope statistics she had committed to memory, knew she existed was so amazing, so surreal, she didn’t even notice that Celia Sinclair was next to her. They’d both stood watching until Celia posed for a couple of paparazzi shots, and then nudged her way in front of Harley, smiling in a way that wasn’t true to the action. Harley tried to catch another glimpse of James and Gabe but they were halfway through their runs, so she’d drained the last of her coffee and come back for breakfast.
“So, what is it you two boys are looking for?” Harley turns to Diggs and Luke.
“You’ll do,” Luke says, all lanky limbs.
“Not likely.” Harley squints at them with fake anger. So much for privacy in the rooms. There were already rumors circulating around Les Trois about late-night sessions between staff and guests—which were highly frowned upon by the higher-ups.
Diggs lets a goofy grin appear on his face. “If I were older? Come on, you know you’d have a thing for me.”
Harley nods. “Okay, okay, boys. Yes, Diggs, if you were older, perhaps you’d be the object of my affections….”
“So you’re saying there is someone already in that capacity?” Luke intervenes, using his hand like a microphone, pretending to interview Harley.
Melissa watches, amused. “Yeah, Harley, is there some ace skier you’ve got your eye on?”
Harley looks down, blushing, then grabs Luke’s hand and speaks into it. “Why yes, folks, there is someone. The old ace up my sleeve …”
“Or in your pants,” Diggs adds, funny with his
ultraserious voice. “Okay. Now—just who is this lucky guy?”
Harley pushes Luke’s hand away and shakes her head. “No comment.”
“Well, for god’s sake, women, help us find some resort-bored hotties for ourselves then,” Luke pleads.
“Really, Harley, that’s what a good host does, right?” Diggs says. Then he turns to Melissa. “What about you? Are you looking for love with a younger man?” Diggs’ comedy routine continues with an outstretched hand to Melissa.
“Don’t mess with me.” Melissa smiles back. “Haven’t you ever heard that? Don’t bother the person who cooks for you….”
“Dude, she could poison us or something,” Luke says, all drama as he pretends to choke. “But actually, can I make a request? Could you do a chocolate dessert tonight? I’m kind of addicted.”
“Chocolate. Sure.” Of course she had been planning to poach pears, to impress Matron who told her that poached fruit was an elegant ending to a meal, but chocolate is more fun. “I’ll come up with something.” Melissa wraps her gray fleece scarf around her neck, remembering when she’d bought it. Last year, at this time, I was only just falling for him. Him. For the first time in ages she conjures up his face and name—but doesn’t say it out loud; it’s too much to contend with. She sighs, smells her oniony hands again, and breezes past Harley, leaving her to deal with Diggs and Luke. “I’m off for my one hour of peace. During which time I have to come up with not one but two sweet recipes—one for you”—she points to Luke—“and one for the chalet. Those signature treats.”
“How about a tart?” Diggs suggests with a grin. “Not as the signature treat, but for me, I mean.” Melissa gives a sarcastic smile back. Diggs hands her a plastic doorknob sign. “Hang this around your neck. Do not disturb.”
“Ha hah. Very funny. I’m sure you have legions of women just waiting for your mastery of the well-timed prop.” She hands the sign back to him and he promptly tries to hang it from his belt loops.
“Don’t be late for decorating,” Harley reminds her. “Not that I’m one to talk about being late….”
“Right,” Melissa says, imagining herself alone under a sprig. With a shudder, she remembers seeing Gabe Schroeder last night—from a distance, but still—just hearing his name makes her queasy. “Mistletoe. I can’t wait.”
At the small café, Melissa sits at a round table, looking out the window. The café faces the bottom of one of the mountains where many ski runs pool into a large flat area where people can leave their gear on racks outside before going to the Hot House for coffee and hot chocolate or sit at the outdoor tables or just head back over to the lifts for another run.
Melissa fiddles with her pen and notebook, doodling swirls and angled shapes, trying to think of clever names for treats. A signature treat. But what kind? And a party, too. What should I plan? Past ideas included pita parties, where guests got to stuff their own fillings into wedges of pita bread—boring and messy. There’s always make-your-own-sundae, but that feels clichéd. Melissa doodles on her paper and stares out at the Hot House.
A cluster of people are gathered by the small Hot House building—snapping photos of Celia Sinclair and some other big-name guests. She can see Harley with two guys, all three of them skiing over to the lift line. She checks her watch—only forty minutes until decoration time. When she sees JMB walk by, Melissa sets down her notebook and goes to the door, quickly debating whether to call him over—to wave—or to do nothing. Without stepping outside, she holds open the door to the café, letting in a gush of cold air. “Hey! J—” She gets out only the first initial when he turns around.
“Mesilla!” He immediately comes over. “Want to come for a run?”
Melissa takes in JMB’s ruddy cheeks, his layers of clothing—long-sleeved green T-shirt, short-sleeved one on top, fleece vest—the essence of laid-back warmth. “I thought you had to practice,” she says, remembering their conversation. Was it only this morning she’d woken up next to him? She wants to kick herself now for not taking advantage of that situation. Not that she’d necessarily have done anything differently, but looking back, it seems to her as though she’s missed an opportunity. “I’d love to.” Melissa looks at the double chairlift and wishes she were on it—with him. “But I can’t—duty calls. Or, it will in about a half hour.”
“Oh, more gourmet meals?” He steps inside, following Melissa back to her table.
As soon as she sits down, Melissa breathes a sigh of relief that—owing to last season’s debacle—she hasn’t written anything incriminating in her notebook, which is splayed open on the tabletop. “We have to help decorate—you know, get the festive feelings started with all the tinsel, red, and green anyone can tolerate.”
“Sounds kind of fun, actually,” he says.
Maybe he wants to go with me, Melissa thinks. She sips her coffee to buy time and muster the confidence to ask him. If I put it out there, it’s not breaking the pact with myself not to chase anyone—it’s just being friendly. Then she looks at him again. There’s no way he’d be into me, anyway. We’re destined to just be friends. “You can come if you want,” Melissa says, chucking the proverbial ball in his court.
“What kind of invite is that?” JMB breaks off a piece of the cookie Melissa has in front of her and samples it. “I hope your baked goods are better than these.”
“It’s just a friendly invite—you know, feel free to stop by,” she explains. “And yes, my cookies will be better.” She pauses, then opens her notebook to show JMB her doodles. “Maybe. These swirls are all I have for ideas so far.”
“That’s right—today’s treat day.” JMB licks his lips. “Last year, I was here and I went from chalet to chalet collecting every single signature treat on offer.”
“Isn’t that a bit much?” Melissa asks, thinking how fun that sounds—parading from place to place, sucking up cookies, brownies, and laughs with him.
“Oh, man, I was hurting afterward—way too much sugar. But I guess you burn it off on the slopes.” He takes Melissa’s pen from her. “Okay—so, you have swirls—so start from there.”
Melissa smiles. “Good idea. I like swirls; I always draw them. I think they remind me of waves. Of surfing.”
“So you’re more of a beach person than a sloper?”
“Do I have to be one or the other?” Melissa watches the way JMB holds his pen, wondering if he’s ever written his thoughts down on paper, if he’s ever revealed himself too much. “Okay—so—back to business. Yes, swirls are good.”
“I like vanilla and caramel together.”
Melissa looks at the baked goods for sale and considers her words. “I just want guests to rave about them, you know? Not that I need to be hugely popular, but … the countess would like a yogurt bar. Luke and Diggs—the teenage boys who are girl-obsessed—like chocolate.” She pauses, thinking that brooding Max hasn’t mentioned a preference for anything. “And the earl has more interest in anything in tight pants than food.”
JMB laughs and the corners of his mouth crinkle. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”
“Kind of. I guess I do—it’s totally overwhelming in the kitchen, and frantic. But then, there’s this calm afterward, when the meal is done.”
“That’s pretty much how competing feels.” He looks out the window to the snow. “You’re all wound up, this crazy mass of emotions—nerves, excitement—and then the jolt of making the run or doing the trick … and when you’re done, standing there at the end….” He looks at her. “You know you’ve made it. Maybe you’ve won, maybe not. But you’re there, and it means something.”
Melissa swallows, wishing she didn’t find JMB attractive, or that she had those model looks that Harley has—something to grab his attention. “I’d like to see you in action,” she says, then puts her hand to her mouth and shakes her head. “That came out wrong.”
JMB laughs again and points to her paper. “How about this? Caramel and vanilla swirl bread.”
“Not bread, bro
wnies—no. Individual brownie cakes.” She waits for him to say she can watch him sometime, but he doesn’t, so Melissa covers the slight by writing the ingredients down in her notebook. It’s like writing in code, she thinks. I’ll be able to look back on the recipe and know that it’s like a journal entry about JMB and this conversation—but only I’ll know about it.
“Sounds perfect. Save a couple.”
“A couple?” Melissa swats at his hand playfully. “Didn’t you learn your lesson last year?”
“Oh, I learned plenty last year,” he says.
Me too, Melissa thinks. More than you know. She wishes she could rewind last season and go over it. If I worked here, at Les Trois, I’d never have met Gabe Schroeder, never have written about him, never been exposed. And I would have met JMB a whole twelve months sooner. Not that that would mean anything, but still. “So I’ll just save you one brownie treat then. I have to think of a name, too.
JMB stands up just when Harley comes in. She doesn’t look left, so she misses Melissa’s wave. Melissa watches JMB, who looks at Harley. Who wouldn’t cheek her out, Melissa wonders, not really blaming JMB for looking, but wishing she had that kind of magnetism. She’s the kind of girl he’d go for, Melissa thinks. Legs, attitude, and brazenness. JMB puts both palms on Melissa’s table and looks at her. “Save three of your unnamed brownie things at least—a, I can easily down a couple and b, my best friend is a total sweet fiend, too.”
Melissa’s mouth twists into a small swirl. “Your best friend?” she asks.
“Yeah.” JMB smiles at her. “Last year we trained at different places but our coaches figured we’d do better together—competitive edge, that sort of thing. So we’re here at Les Trois. You’d like him,” JMB says. Melissa watches Harley at the café as she orders a cocoa and flirts with the guy behind the bar. “Gabe Schroeder. My oldest friend.”
Three syllables. Hearing Gabe Schroeder’s name aloud, and from JMB’s mouth, is all it takes for Melissa’s queasy feeling to return. “I should go,” she says.
Balancing Acts Page 9
