Oh my god, he’s going to do it—he’s going to kiss me. Right here, with the laundry. And that will be our funny slash cute story about how we got together. She stares up at him, at his smile, his scar, the way his eyes seem to hold her. He leans down. “Do you mind if I stare at you up close instead of from across the room?”
No kiss follows the words, but JMB keeps his grip on her shoulders for a few seconds, waiting for her to laugh. Why do I do this to myself? Melissa thinks, unable to push away from him. How can I be expected to have no feelings for him when … She opens her mouth to respond to his lame line.
“I …”
JMB looks at her, waiting. “And what do you say back?”
A voice from the doorway interrupts both of them. “How about ‘Do you have a map? I just keep on getting lost in your eyes.’”
“Dude, that is SO cheesy.” JMB drops his hands from Melissa’s shoulders and gives a head-tilt acknowledgment to Gabe who stands in the doorway.
Melissa wills the washer to finish so she’ll have something to do. At least the revolting fluorescent lighting in here hides my blushing, even if it accentuates every pore and flaw. She avoids looking at Gabe.
“This is Gabe Schroeder—the guy who needs no introduction,” JMB says. Gabe enters the room, keeping one hand in his pocket; the other he rakes through the blond mop of curls.
“Hi.” Melissa looks at him finally. Same Gabe. Same gorgeousness, same appeal, same feeling of humiliation.
“Hi.”
“Do you two know each other?” JMB looks first at Gabe and then at Melissa, cocking one eyebrow in confusion.
“No,” Gabe says.
Melissa echoes, overlapping with Gabe. “We don’t know each other at all.”
The three of them stand still with the washing machines and dryers churning their own soft music. This is too much, too weird, too crazy. I have to get out of here.
“Oh, look how late it is,” Melissa says. “I have to go cook.”
“I’ll change your load over for you.” JMB smiles, breaking the tension. “God, even that sounded like a line.” Melissa laughs. Gabe looks on, studying the scene. “Good luck with the swirls.”
Melissa smiles, both at the fact that he remembered and that Gabe might potentially wonder about this inside joke. “Yep—swirls it is. I’ll save you one—or more than one, right?” Melissa says and, patting JMB on the arm—a very buddy gesture, she figures—leaves her laundry to spin around and around like her own insides.
Outside the room, she braces herself against the cool concrete walls, catching her breath while her hands shake. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.
From inside the laundry room, she can hear JMB and their muffled talking.
“She’s hot,” Gabe says.
“True,” JMB agrees.
Me? I’m hot? Cool. I mean, hot. Melissa’s shaking hands cover her smile. Maybe the past is past, getting washed clean with her clothing. And the future is open—Gabe doesn’t think I’m a loser and JMB thinks I’m hot.
“So, are you going to see her again?” Gabe asks. Melissa leans in, waiting for the answer.
“Who, Charlie?” JMB answers. “We’ll see.”
14
Check the weather every day.
“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED to you last night?” Harley demands of Melissa. Outside, the air is calm, the ground warm from yesterday’s higher temperatures. The resort is in a fluster—with guests annoyed at the semitepid conditions that made the snow’s surface icy, and the freezing temperatures today that are causing wind-burn and air too cold for snow.
“What happened to me?” Melissa asks rhetorically. “What about you, Miss I-didn’t-creep-in-until-four-this-morning.”
With her chestnut hair flipped down toward the floor, Harley runs her fingers through it, never one for the dryer. She’s fresh from the shower, clean, on her way to watch James and Gabe in a mock race—if the conditions are decent enough. They want to ski the double black, take a break from boarding, and Harley has visions of paralleling next to them.
“Yeah—late night …” She smiles to herself, remembering. “You tell me first,” Harley says. “Did you leave that good-girl image behind and go around the world in a tub?” Harley makes a reference to the loud hot tub parties that start at one chalet and then move on to the next hot tub whenever the noise complaints get too many or the wet bar runs out. In the morning, Dove and the other cleaners pick up the stray suits—the bikini tops tossed carelessly over the railing, the high-cut one-pieces left to soak all night in the bubbling tub. Stopping by to collect something at the Lost and Found at the Main House is a notorious admission of guilt.
“I’m not a good girl,” Melissa says, then realizes it’s a stupid thing to debate—and a lame label to want to shrug. “Fine—maybe I am. But not in the way you make it sound.” Next to the clean host, Melissa feels even gooier than she looks: Her hands are coated in sticky dough—remnants from her most recent culinary attempt.
Before Melissa can answer what she did the night before, Harley blurts out her own exploits. “Can I just say how much of an exhibitionist Celia Sinclair is? I’m guessing she doesn’t know when the camera’s rolling and when real life takes over. She was there—at this party last night, flirting with some guy who turns out to be the prince of Denmark or something. Some country up north. Anyway, I managed to get his attention….”
“So you just wanted to take him away?” Melissa asks. “Not that I’m defending Celia Sinclair.” Definitely not—Celia’s been throwing only mean looks and cold shoulders toward me. And Harley has every right to do what she wants, it’s just that I’m wary of girls like that—ones who are in it just for the conquest of snagging the unsnaggable guy, even if someone has true feelings for him. “What if Celia really liked Prince Herring or whatever?”
“First of all, Celia is just buying time, waiting for production of her next movie to start—I think next week, around Christmas. The word around town is they’re lining up some big scene for New Year’s Eve.”
“There’s a ball then,” Melissa says, whisked momentarily away by the thought of going to said ball in a dress with a certain guy. But no, not likely. “So you were saying, about stealing Celia’s flirt from her last night?”
Harley pulls her hair into a messy ponytail, the front strands framing her face, calling attention to her light pink mouth. “I’m a pretty driven person, you know?” Harley pinches her cheeks in lieu of blush. “Old pageant trick. Anyway, there is a guy I want here—you know that. James. Jacques, if you’re French. But … I’m not against finding some fun on my way to him.”
“But … if you were really into him, wouldn’t that mean other guys don’t hold any appeal?” Melissa wonders how all this gets figured out, cemented into types of girls, types of people. Jacques, James, Jean, Jean-François, Jean-Pierre, Jim, Jamie—there are tons of similarly named people here, just like there are certain types of girls. Only, which kind am I?
“I, personally, don’t think that’s true. I think that’s something men invented to keep women down—like if she’s really into me, she’ll just wait and wait until I notice her. Until I come around. It’s boring, it’s pathetic, and it makes you—me—women, just totally passive.”
“But I thought you were being all aggressive and trying to get James,” Melissa says, wondering just who this James guy is, and what he looks like—who would be special enough to grab hold of Harley, who didn’t seem to grab hold of much.
Harley buttons her jeans, punctuating her actions with her words. “I will get James. I will succeed in that realm. And I’m prepared that it might take a while. So … as fuel on the romantic fire or whatever, I’ve given myself permission to have some fun along the way.”
“Fun meaning hooking up with other people,” Melissa says. She thinks back to the laundry yesterday, with JMB, and the bad lines they’d traded and how exciting it was, how despite everything, and her inner battles, she wished he’d kissed her. Maybe
he would have, if bad news in the form of Gabe Schroeder had not interrupted their good time. She still hasn’t gone to collect her laundry—too freaked about whom she might see there. What if Harley tried one on him? The thought makes her nauseated.
“Anyway … if you wanted to know what happed to me last night …,” Melissa starts, not really wanting to revisit the post-laundry incident hours. She’d slumped away from the basement after Gabe and JMB’s comment about Charlie, figuring Charlie was the best and worst kind of beautiful—hot but in that long-term commitment way—not slutty, which meant that JMB was probably already in love with her. “Let’s just say I had a renewed faith in my suspicion that guys suck. Then I dealt with the sweet treat competition.”
“And I heard we won!” Harley raises her hand for a high five.
“We?” Melissa makes a face. “Not that I want to get into a whole debate over territories here, Harley, but we didn’t win. My brownie swirls won. The ones made with ingredients I shopped for, with my arms that got sore stirring the batter. I made them while you were out on the slopes for the fifteenth time. I even burned my wrist.” She shows her red mark as proof. Harley stares at Melissa, first with her hands on her hips, about to protest, then just taking it in. Melissa goes on, feeling glad about defending herself. “I mean, do you realize it’s been almost a week and I haven’t even been out there once.” She gestures out there to the mountains.
“I didn’t realize….”
“No, of course you didn’t realize,” Dove interjects from the doorway. The dark circles under her eyes are in sharp contrast to the rest of her creamy complexion, highlighting her long hours, her fatigue. “You’re too busy having a grand old time playing matchmaker for Diggs and Luke and ignoring the rest of your job description.”
“Hey—those boys asked me to and I’m their host.”
“But that’s left me to deal with the countess and earl—on top of my cleaning. Not to mention their other son …” Dove bites her lip as she says his name. “Maxwell … who …”
“Just what is the deal with Max, anyway?” Harley asks.
Dove looks at her and suddenly gets a jolt of jealousy. What if Harley had a hot-tub evening with Maxwell? Not that he’s mine, but still. And if I feel that way, what does it mean? “So you’re aware, Maxwell is a deep … he’s just quiet. And probably best left alone.” She sighs and looks at Melissa. “And Melissa’s done an incredible job on the fly—just learning all this as she goes. And …”
“And Dove has, too,” Melissa says. “You think it’s easy slopping around other people’s mess? Dove reeks of bleach, she’s picking up …”
Harley butts in, “So you guys think I’m slacking? Fine. Then I’ll show you …”
Dove overlaps, her voice rising with emotion. “With every wet towel I pick up from the floor, with every disgusting pubic hair I wipe away from the toilet, all I can think is I’m one step closer to William.”
“With money you borrowed from me,” Harley says, forgetting her intent to stay calm. Why should she? After all, she worked hard for that money. Hours of pancake makeup, bright lights, Vaseline on her teeth to keep her lips from sticking, and a hundred other tricks of the trade. Now Dove, tiny, pretty Dove, who somehow seems so entitled, has to complain about her job.
Dove stands in front of her, arms crossed defensively across her chest. Leave it to Harley to throw that back in her face. “Oh, so that’s supposed to cushion the blow? That’s why I didn’t want to be indebted to you. I never used your money—it’s back in your drawer.” Dove is about to drop it when Harley makes a face and rolls her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean, Harley?”
Harley shrugs. “Nothing … only, I don’t get why you can’t just make it happen. I mean, when I want something, I just do it. If your guy—Will—is so great”—she pauses and sighs as if to prove William isn’t worth the hassle—“then why wouldn’t you just take my money?”
Dove looks in awe, wishing she’d never mentioned William or any of it. “It’s a true judge of class, isn’t it, that you need to bring it up so much? Only those without any need to mention their heroics.”
Harley looks like she might slap Dove, opening her mouth and clenching her fist until Melissa steps in between them.
“But you did get the ticket, right?” Melissa asks. She pats Dove on the back and shoots Harley a look to say cool it. “Let’s just take it easy here.” The tension stays elevated but Harley backs off.
Melissa undoes her soiled maroon apron and eyes herself in the mirror. She looks the part, anyway: flour streaks, honey in her hair, chocolate on her forearm.
“I did. So thanks. And I will pay you back,” Dove says. She sees Max in his black jacket exit the front door and make his way down the path with a strawberry blonde. She fights the urge to check who it is.
Harley sighs and smiles, putting the financial fiasco behind her. If Dove wants to shoot herself in the foot, so be it. It’s just a reminder that we’re all in it for ourselves. “Well, at least I have bragging rights. Last night I got kissed by a Norwegian prince—me a girl from a trailer park who wore bright pink taffeta and tried to win Miss Junior Mountain USA.”
“I thought you said he was from Denmark.”
“Whatever. The point is—a prince kissed me. A prince that Celia Sinclair had all but labeled for herself.” Harley smiles at her reflection. “I’m not trying to sound conceited—really. It’s just … I was this pageantry girl in high school.” Harley ties her hiking boots without looking up, and admits, “I cleaned these crappy motels for spending money, okay? I was Dove—but worse. Roadside, run-down motels. Like you wouldn’t even have stayed there. Ever.”
Melissa looks at Harley, feeling bad for her past, but wondering how it all fits together. “Why?”
Harley shakes her head, looking just a little wounded. “My mother made me. She was the one who forced these competitions—like she needed to win. I was going to fix everything wrong with her trailer world.”
“And did it work?”
Harley shakes her head and licks her lips, her eyes a million miles away. “Between lugging giant bottles of tequila, which is technically illegal by the way since I’m underage, at my mother’s dive restaurant and cleaning up after truckers, the last thing I felt like doing was getting sewn into a tight scratchy dress and smiling for the judges. But I did it.” She looks away, out the window to the blank sky. No snow is falling, but the air is bitter cold. The bell in the town center that doubles as a weather advisory gives three solid clangs. “Maybe it was the old saying—like if you do what your parents want, they’ll love you more….”
“Well, that doesn’t work,” Dove says, interjecting from the doorway. “But maybe I’m not the best judge.”
“So …,” Harley puffs out loudly, breathing away the pessimism. “So basically, I took off with all the money I’d earned—money my mother was keeping from me and spending every chance she got, just so you know, and came here. Following my bliss or whatever.”
“Bliss in the form of James?” Melissa asks.
Harley grins from one side of her mouth. “That—and the slopes. I’m a good skier. Not the best, but decent enough to do more than just keep up. Ski team was my only break from cleaning, shows, and waitressing.”
“With all that on your resume, you should have more sympathy for me,” Dove says to her, her face open, waiting for a nice response.
“No, see, you’ve got that wrong. I don’t know where you come from….” She eyes Dove’s face, her long shiny hair, her placid demeanor, and squints as though something’s not quite right. “Sure you clean shit up now, but where were you last year? I bet you used to be the one leaving mascara wands on the kitchen counter—you know, so the black gets into the tile grout and it takes forever to clean?”
Dove blushes, remembering doing exactly that at the time she met William. It seemed easy then—staying at a hotel or resort, affording the luxury of dropping towels and coming home to find a well-made bed. “But
I’m doing it now.”
“Well, that’s true. Credit for learning.” Harley looks outside and puts her hand to the glass. “Freezing. Not good for conditions …”
“Your guests are restless upstairs,” Dove says. “Just as an aside.”
Harley sighs. “Really?”
Dove nods. “This is the moment for good face time. If you want tips, you better go amuse them. And not just Diggs and Luke, though I’m sure they’re still asleep after that not so quiet session last night.”
“Yep—I got them a couple of California girls….” Harley smiles. “They were cute together, actually. What if I wind up being a matchmaker?”
“More like hookup facilitator,” Melissa laughs.
Harley looks at her. “Are you done for right now? In between meals?”
Melissa nods. “Finally. I’ve been on my feet for seven hours straight.”
“Well,” Harley says, untying her boots and grabbing her clipboard that comes complete with game suggestions. “How about you go in my place. I’m sure James wouldn’t mind. In fact, maybe it’ll look good. You know, play up my hard-to-get factor.”
“So I’m your stand-in?” Melissa says.
“If you want to see it that way,” Harley says. “You just mentioned that you haven’t skied yet.”
“The conditions are poor,” Dove warns. “Three bells—that means take care. Precaution. Four bells means serious advisory.”
“And five?” Harley asks.
“Major storm,” Melissa says. “But I think I will ski—it’ll give me a break. Plus, I’ll get to check out your special one and only James!”
“I think I’ll tag along,” Dove says, anxious to vacate after her fight with Harley. “I need to replenish my rose water supply, anyway. I dot the bed pillows with it at turndown.”
Balancing Acts Page 12
