Balancing Acts

by Emily Franklin

  JMB nods. “I think I’ll do a couple more runs and then swing by. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  Maybe. Guys are full of maybes, Melissa thinks. That is, if they’re not that into you, which obviously JMB isn’t. As Melissa stands up to vacate her spot, Harley saunters over, registering JMB and Melissa together.

  “Hey.” Harley plops down in a chair despite the fact that Melissa and JMB are zipping their jackets and heading out. “What’s up?”

  “Lights, holly, mistletoe—that’s what’s up,” Melissa says. “Or what will be—after we hang them.”

  Harley nods and sips her drink as though she has all the time in the world. “Right. The infamous decorations. Rumor has it there’s a drinking game involved….”

  JMB butts in. “I can confirm the verity of that hearsay.” He looks at Harley. Melissa twists her fleece scarf around her neck, nerves tightening as she watches how easily Harley converses with JMB. JMB waves out the window as he explains. “Some people do shots each time they hang holly; then there’s some complicated rule about sugar shots—which are so sweet you don’t know you’ve done too many—and you have to swig those while you string lights.”

  Melissa looks to where JMB has waved and to her horror sees none other than Gabe Schroeder making his way toward the café. “I can’t be late—Matron already has it out for me.” She pauses, not wanting to miss any conversation, but also can’t deal with the thoughts of slamming face-on into Gabe. “Harley—you coming?” Melissa taps her foot by the door.

  JMB pauses and nods and looks out again at Gabe. “We’re headed for the gondola run. Want to join us, Harley?”

  Melissa feels her chest dip. He asked her to ski with him. Isn’t that the truest test of his feelings? If his passion is on the slopes and he wants Harley to experience it, I really have no romantic future with him. Determined not to let this brush with rejection get her down, she shrugs and smiles. “Have fun.”

  Harley nods. “I think I have time for one quick run.”

  “Cool.” JMB nods. And to Melissa, he gives a head tilt. “Make sure to save one for me now, right?”

  Melissa heads out the door, wondering if she’ll ever have time to ski this season. This makes her long for her day off, hoping the weather is decent enough for a long day of swishing down the slopes, trying the intermediate trails, and—at all costs—avoiding Gabe Schroeder. As he approaches she wraps her scarf in front of her face as though protecting herself from the cold when the reality is she’s protecting against more embarrassment.

  With Melissa gone, Harley plays it cool, snapping into her skis next to Gabe and James. She can see staff people walking to the Main House for the required decorating session, but she’s not about to give up the opportunity to ski with James.

  “Here we have him, folks,” Gabe says, sports-announcing his friend as the three of them head to the lift line. “Master of the Slope, James Benton.”

  Harley realizes she hasn’t said his full name out loud yet. It’s like if I do, he’ll evaporate, she thinks.

  “And here we have Master of the Slop, Gabe Schroeder.”

  “That’s Gabriel P. Schroeder to you—or better yet, just call me Lord,” Gabe says, threatening his friend with a pole.

  “Your initials are GPS?” Harley laughs. “As in Global Positioning …”

  “As in many kinds of positioning,” Gabe jokes. He stares at Harley the way he did at the bar—full-on attentive. “Anyway, it’s better than his initials.”

  “Why?” Harley moves up in the line, keeping both guys close. “What’s so wrong with JB?”

  “Well, those aren’t my real initials,” James says. “But I won’t bore you with that story.”

  Gabe seconds his opinion. “Yeah, wise choice. It is boring.”

  “You’re boring,” James shoots back. Then to Harley he adds, “Okay—the deal is that I have one of those silly hyphenated last names. My parents are British. Anyway, I was born James Benton-Marks, which then was shortened to JBM, which then—as you can probably guess, if you’ve spent any time around prepubescent boys—got chopped to BM.”

  Gabe laughs. “Those were the days. Ah, Mister BM.”

  James rolls his eyes and continues to Harley, “So then, before I went pro, my coach signed some form JMB, which I see now was a fortunate typo. But most people call me James.”

  “I call him JMB,” Gabe says.

  “I think I’ll stick with James,” Harley says, thinking again how amazing it is she can call him anything. For a second, she imagines herself on the cover of a magazine with James—that she’s the girl next to him under some Olympic banner.

  “Just as well,” James says. “Only a few close buddies call me JMB—it’s more of an old friend thing—you know, just buddies.”

  “Fine,” Harley says. She wishes she had a history with him that made her part of the inner circle, able to call him JMB. But then again, she doesn’t want to be his buddy—she wants much more than that. “Okay, James—let’s hit the slopes.”

  11

  Beware of tangles as you decorate.

  “I MISS HIM SO much I just don’t know what to do.” Dove finally admits this to someone other than her boyfriend. It feels good to let it out, she thinks, just to unload her wallowing. “William’s thousands of miles away—but he’s the reason I’m here. It doesn’t make sense, really.”

  Melissa and Dove work together trying to untangle piles of Christmas lights. “Long distance seems really tough….”

  “It is.” Dove’s glad to have an understanding ear. “Who put these away last season? They’re a mess. It’s all knotted.” She sticks her tongue out at the lights.

  “But then again—my brother met a girl when he traveled and they wound up getting engaged.” All around them the other chalet girls—hosts, nannies, cooks, and maids—are grouping ornaments for the huge fir tree in the Main House and getting ready to loop pine branches around the railings outside. Some arrange large silver bells for the annual Christmas Eve concert the following week; others study guest lists, tallying how much eggnog, how many prizes are needed for Games Night. As JMB suggested, the drinking game is in full swing, with some staff sneaking sugar shots and others swaying as they try to hang mistletoe.

  “What about you?” Dove tries to distract herself from feeling blah by turning the tables on Melissa. “Is there someone you’re finding hard to resist?”

  Melissa looks around—too many ears could hear if she admitted the truth. “I can’t name names, but …” Then she remembers her vow to herself not to get involved, not to open herself up to any possible issues like last year. “You know what? I think I learned my lesson and despite part of the reason people love these jobs—the potential for hookups and heartthrobs—I’m backing off.”

  “Backing off from whom?” Dove slows down with the lights, hoping Melissa will answer.

  JMB. JMB. JMB. All of him—his crinkling eyes, his solid presence, how he makes me laugh, how he seems genuinely attentive to what I have to say, and how he doesn’t care that cereal boxes dropped on my head. How he’s just a friend. “No one. There’s absolutely no one who does anything for me.”

  Dove shrugs. “Well, there’s someone who might be into you.”

  Melissa drops the coil of lights, fumbling. “What—wait—who? What do you mean?”

  Dove gestures with her chin. “Over there. That guy. He’s been looking at you.”

  Melissa looks to the far wall, near the door, and just for a second locks eyes with him, sending ripples of confusion and anxiety through her body. Gabe Schroeder. Staring at me. “Shit—we have to go. Now.”

  Dove sees the panic in Melissa’s eyes and pulls her into the crowd of decorators. “This way. Let’s go outside.”

  Melissa nods, coiling another strand of white lights around her wrist. “We should hang these from the balcony—it’d look really nice.” And get away—as far away as possible—from Gabe Schroeder. Melissa feels better, thinking about leaving the building,
getting away from him. But then she realizes that if he’s here, that leaves Harley and JMB alone together. “Let’s go,” she says to Dove, her shoulders slacking.

  She grabs a box of red velvet bows and the rest of the lights and motions for Dove to follow. They go out the side door of the Main House, leaving the confusion and mayhem of holiday festivities to decorate their own chalet.

  “You okay?” Dove tugs on the lights, freeing a strand from the twists.

  “Fine,” Melissa says, willing it to be true. “Tell me more about you and William.”

  Dove fiddles with a red bow and then secures it with wire to the posts on either side of the walkway. “I wonder what he’s doing all day long, and even though we’ve been talking almost every day, and I write … it just doesn’t seem like it’s enough. I mean, how can it last like that?” She fights back tears, wishing she didn’t have all her emotions so close to the surface.

  She looks back at Dove, wishing she could make her feel better. “Look, you guys haven’t been together that long….”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dove instantly raises her voice.

  “Don’t get defensive,” Melissa says. “I’m not saying anything you don’t already know—but all I’m pointing out is that you don’t have patterns yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My mom’s a shrink, right? So she’s always pointing out relationship patterns, like how we all repeat things over and over again, due to our own psychology. I, for example, have a tendency to like guys who don’t like me back. I know this, yet I convince myself I have some shred of hope, and I keep liking them until I do something stupid.” The sky ushers in hues of blue and gray as clouds roll in. “Case in point—back at school I liked this person who never liked me back, I finally confessed, and poof—our friendship disappeared. Then …”

  Dove walks next to Melissa, watching the puffs of white breath escape her mouth. “Then what?”

  “Then last season—not here—it all blew up in my face again. So you see … now I’m trying to flip the pattern. Not do it. And you can change the pattern with William. If you miss him this much, maybe you should go see him. Cut off the inevitable pining and longing associated with long-distance love.”

  Dove kicks her boots into the snowy path as she walks. “How is it that I’m here, in air so cold it turns my breath, and William’s someplace where it’s hot enough for shorts. He probably sleeps naked.”

  Melissa laughs. “And is that a good thing?”

  Dove shrugs. “It’s good as long as he’s alone.”

  “Don’t you trust him? I thought you said the minute you met him you knew it was right—and that he felt the same.”

  Dove stops in front of a large pine tree near the path to The Tops. “Let’s hang a strand here—we can twist it on the lamppost and run a cord into that outdoor outlet.” She points to a brown box sticking up from the ground. “It’s not that I don’t trust him … it’s just—he’s really personable, you know? He’s the first person to make a joke and put you at ease, the person who helps out without being asked.”

  “He sounds perfect,” Melissa says. Not for me, she adds in her head. But for Dove. Who would be perfect for me? JMB. But I will not repeat that pattern—ever. Maybe I just can’t pick them—after all, I picked Gabe and that was the worst choice.

  “He is perfect—except for the family issues.” Dove and Melissa stretch the coiled-up lights over the lower part of the lamppost and then Dove shimmies up to fling it over the top.

  “Nice work,” Melissa says. “So, what exactly are the family issues—if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Dove looks down from her precarious perch on the lamppost. “Long story short is that he’s got a dodgy family background—Dad ran off after accruing serious debt, and he’s kind of rough around the edges.”

  “Which is kind of sexy, right?”

  “Utterly,” Dove says. “Wait—don’t let me fall. I have to shake that thought off.” She grips her legs around the lamppost and twists the lights so they’ll stay on. “Anyway, we were here … over there, actually.” Dove holds on with one hand and points to another chalet with the other. “We stayed at Le Roi—my parents and I. And everything was great—until they caught me with him.”

  “They caught you doing what, exactly?” Melissa asks. She figured Dove for an innocent, not a prude—but a hand-holder.

  “Not like that,” she says. “William and I didn’t … we haven’t …”

  “Got it,” Melissa says. “Here—take another one—it’ll look better all done up.” She throws a second strand of lights to Dove.

  “So my parents caught us—in the living room with wine, in a state of undress—not bare or anything, but rumpled …”

  “Rumpled. I like the sound of that. And they freaked out?”

  Dove slides down the lamppost and goes to plug in the cord. “No. That’s the thing. They didn’t care that we’d taken wine—they didn’t care that I was snogging him in the public place.”

  “Oh,” Melissa says, recalling the original tour Dove had given her of The Tops. “No wonder you told me there’s nowhere to hide.”

  “All my bloody parents cared about was that he—William Bennett—wasn’t one of their crowd.”

  “That he’s poor, you mean?”

  Dove shakes her head, the long silvery blond hair flowing evenly over her shoulders. “Poor doesn’t matter. In my parents’ minds, class is the most crucial element to having a good life. And that’s the one thing William doesn’t have.”

  “So your parents just kicked you out?” Melissa can’t believe how harsh that sounds. “My parents are the other extreme. They’re really into this idea that life just unfolds as you go, without any planning.”

  “Isn’t it funny how different they are? I mean, what would you be like if you’d been born into my family?” Dove laughs, her arms over her chest. “So to answer your question, no—they didn’t give me the boot. That would’ve been too easy. Instead, they gave me a choice.” She puts on a deep voice, mimicking her father. “Lily—you’ve reached a crossroads.” Dove switches back to her own voice. “I mean, he made it sound as though I’d driven myself to the fork in the road and it was my fault they were being close-minded. Anyway, I had to choose between home—meaning parents, my early acceptance to university, and my private financial trust—money that’s always been there. And being here—with him.”

  “So you made your decision.”

  “I did. And I don’t regret it. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe a small part of me wishes I could have had it all—my trust fund, great school … but they’d never be able to get past it. My parents have said from day one that the most important thing is that I live a life they can be proud of. Not me. Them. And when I’m with William, that’s how I feel. Like I’m proud of myself for being my own person. For standing up for myself.” Dove feels the unease rise up in her chest. It’s one thing to make a temporary decision to stay with William and skip enrolling at Oxford, but another thing entirely to do it forever, which is now her reality. When did it get so complicated? When I stepped off the path they chose for me. And what if it doesn’t work? Dove pushes those thoughts away, focusing instead on seeing William in the bright sunshine on the beach.

  “No wonder you miss him so much—it’s like you gave up everything to be with him and he gave up nothing,” Melissa says. The wind blows a strand of lights free and it droops. “Here—cinch that tighter.”

  Dove does and then drops to the ground, bothered by the way that sounds. “It’s not like that. William has committed to work the winter season in the islands. I was already here and figured getting a job at Les Trois would be the easiest thing. He didn’t want to back out on his word. So he’s there, I’m here.”

  Melissa smiles. “And soon you’ll be together, right?”

  Dove puts her cold hands in her pockets. “Right.”

  Up at The Tops the front door opens and the countess and earl step onto the balco
ny. The countess waves down to the girls. Dove waves back, hoping Maxwell isn’t anywhere up there. That he’s gone off and found someone else or just plain gone off and disappeared—that’s his pattern.

  “Can I ask one thing?” Melissa says, not wanting to hurt Dove, but honestly confused. She waves to the guests, and Jemma waves back, hopping up and down. “Crap—I just remembered I promised I’d show Jemma how to make pretzels. Of course, I don’t know how to either, so we’re bound to make a mess.”

  Dove and Melissa start walking back to the Main House to finish decorating and get on with the rest of their work. Before they go inside, Dove turns to Melissa. “What’d you want to ask?”

  Melissa pats her curls into place and slicks on Chapstick. “How do you know when it’s more than just a fling? Something that’s worth putting yourself out there?”

  “I don’t know,” Dove says, thinking back to her days and nights with William—his words, the way he liked to rest his palm on her thigh and sit in the quiet watching the sun sink between the mountains, the way he knew what she needed—a hug, a laugh—a cracker—without her even having to ask. “Maybe it’s just this switch that goes off inside you—and you know then that there’s nothing you could do to feel differently. That being with this person is worth giving up—not necessarily money, like I did. But letting go of that part of yourself.”

  “What part?”

  “The part that is totally afraid of being crushed.”

  12

  Once borrowed, forever owed.

  THE NEXT DAY GOES by in a whir of routines—morning dusting, vacuuming, Harley’s daily forecast at the breakfast table, Dove’s fast bed making (having one less to clean made the morning faster), and Melissa’s two trays of the caramel-vanilla brownie swirls, which prove addictive.

  In the afternoon, the guests traipse off to an ice-skating festival with Harley leading the way.

  “When we got here I wished I were the host,” Melissa says when she, Dove, and Harley overlap in the bunkroom. “But now I don’t so much.”