Mountain Christmas Brides
Page 53
Fabrizio opened the door and headed out into the snow. He shivered, tugging his coat closer. It wasn’t usually this cold when it snowed. He looked down the street. Where he should see the Daniels & Fisher tower lit against the night sky about a mile away at the other end of downtown, he saw nothing but a curtain of snow, obscuring all but a few feet ahead. Still, following the street should not present a problem.
The ground outside the garage was packed down, trampled by horses and guests who came and went at the hotel. The snow fell rapidly, filling in even the most recent footsteps. Wind flung handfuls back into the air, redistributing them across the ground. He dug his poles into the snow and pushed forward to the front of the hotel.
“Buona notte,” the doorman called. “Be careful tonight. See you tomorrow.”
“Buona notte,” Fabrizio called back. He headed west from the hotel, down Sixteenth Street toward the D&F tower, and then across the bridge to his home.
He picked up speed, getting into rhythm, feeling rather like a four-legged creature as he used the skis and poles. The push-and-pull gave way to the grace of gliding over the snow as if weightless. The exertion warmed him. He kept his eyes to the ground to avoid the sting of the snow, looking up only when warned by the jingle of a horse’s harness or the crunch of car tires. He breathed deeply, his nose aching from the rush of cold air. He closed his mind against the cold and thought instead of the bowl of warm, fragrant minestrone that Mama would have waiting for him. Three miles, that was all. He had walked the distance many times. He would be home soon.
Natalie Daire looked at the bright lights inside the train station where she had dropped off her friend Patricia Logan. She debated about stopping for a cup of hot chocolate. She was very cold, in spite of the red woolies and warm scarf and the driving bonnet that cut some of the wind. Father would have forbidden her attendance at Thalia’s party if he had known the snow would last so long. She knew he must be worried about her; that’s why she left the party early instead of spending the night as she had planned.
Her car, the Cadillac Model 30, had proved its worth as “The Standard of the World” on the drive from Thalia’s house. The train station stood halfway to her home in Westminster. She decided to drive to the Brown Palace, only a few blocks away. They must have a phone. She would call home and purchase a hot drink while she was there.
She leaned forward, breathing warm air against the front windshield, rubbing a small patch clear. She managed to move her feet in the correct clutch-release pattern to start the Cadillac moving forward again. The car slipped as she turned right toward the Brown Palace.
The tall buildings of downtown Denver provided some protection against the wind. The windshield wipers did their best, but she could only see a few feet ahead of her. Heaven and earth met and melted into a dotted wall of white in front of her. She slowed the car even further. One car passed, a silver ghost under the veil of snow. The Brown Palace couldn’t be much farther.
A figure loomed in front of her, bent against the wind, gliding over the snow, and straight in her path. Natalie slammed on the brakes. Tires skidded on the slippery street.
She didn’t know what happened next. One foot on the brake pedal tried to stop the car. The other on the accelerator veered away from the approaching figure. Her car spun in a circle and crashed into a wooden stall on the sidewalk. Natalie flung her head forward between her arms.
“Signorina, are you all right?” A deep voice penetrated the blackness behind her closed eyes.
The world stopped spinning. Natalie opened her eyes. A tall, black-haired man stood beside the car, dark eyes burning with concern. This must be the man who caused the accident.
“What were you doing in the middle of the street?” she demanded. “I was trying to avoid running into you.”
“I am sorry. You are unhurt?” He repeated his concern.
Natalie took another look at the man. He presented an improbable sight, a pole in each hand, feet ending in long skis, his coat tugged as tightly as possible against his body, a bright scarf wound around face and neck and torso like a barber pole, only burning black eyes visible beneath the visor of his cap.
No, she wanted to say. I’m cold and hungry, and I want to be at home with my family. Instead, she checked herself for injuries. Her hands had not loosened their grip on the steering wheel. Her feet had slid off the pedals. She shook herself. Her head complained, but the rest of her seemed fine. Fine particles covered her coat. Snow?
That was when she noticed the shattered windshield, the wiper blade paused in midair as if trying to rid the air itself of snow.
“Oh no. My car.”
“I can help.” He extended a hand to assist her from the carriage, removed his skis, and took her place in the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the engine restarted. “The car, it is in good condition. Only the windshield is broken.”
“But I can’t drive home if I can’t see,” Natalie wailed.
“Come with me. I will fix it.” He brushed glass and snow off the passenger seat with a dark-stained glove and invited her to sit. “Let us go to the Brown Palace. You can spend the night, and tomorrow the car will be ready to go.”
“That’s where I was headed,” Natalie said. “I can use the hotel telephone to call my father and tell him what happened.”
After the man packed his skis in the backseat, he drove the car without regard to the snow that flowed through the broken window pane.
“Thank you for helping me.” She wondered where he was going when she had her accident. Away from the hotel.
“It is right to help others,” he said. “I can fix your windshield tonight.”
“No, no,” Natalie said. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” She hoped to see him again, to look at him in better light. Did his appearance match his deep, lightly accented voice?
“As you wish.” He did not speak again during the short drive.
They arrived at the hotel. The man carried her luggage inside the lobby. Natalie reached for her purse to tip him.
“Non, it was my pleasure, signorina.”
“It’s Natalie. Natalie Daire.”
“Signorina Daire.” The man did not offer his own name. He disappeared through a back door.
Half an hour later, Natalie sipped hot tea and looked out through the window from her top floor accommodations. Snow painted the windowpanes with a puzzle of crystals. “Thank You, God, for bringing me here safely.”
Tomorrow she would see her mysterious rescuer again.
Chapter 2
Fabrizio stirred, ready to start the day. He had lain awake for some time in the double bed he shared with Patrick O’Riley, the front desk clerk. More staff than usual stayed in the servants’ quarters; many spent the night at the hotel rather than risk the weather. He liked the Irishman well enough, but he had grown since the last time he had shared a bed before his brother married and left home. The bed felt cramped with two of them in it. He bundled up his coat for a pillow, and the blanket didn’t quite cover both of them. Cold wind pounded on the window, building up ice and creating drafts.
He welcomed the arrival of dawn. Would the hotel expect him to stay through the storm? Common sense suggested that no one would want their horseless carriages in this weather. Then again, Signorina Daire had tried driving through the snow, and look what had happened. Anyone should learn from her mistake.
No. He shook his head. It was unfair to blame the young woman for an accident that he caused by appearing out of the darkness. The good Lord had protected both of them. He would replace the windshield in Signorina Daire’s car and then ask if he could go home. Mama and Papa would need his help more than ever with this snow.
He hurried through breakfast in the hotel kitchen, gobbling eggs and biscuits and drinking a cup of coffee as hot as he could stand it. “Grazie.” He set his plate beside the sink and headed for the garage.
No new cars had arrived since the Cadillac on the previous evening. Snow covered the windows set
high in the garage doors. He hoisted himself on a box and looked out. The driveway he had shoveled yesterday afternoon had already filled again. No one should drive in this weather. If the streets were cleared, snow would fill them again within minutes. He hoped the manager would allow him to leave.
First, he would repair the young signorina’s windshield as promised. He had a piece of glass that was the right size. He did not worry whether she could pay for the work. She came from money; anyone who owned a fine piece of machinery like the Cadillac Model 30 did. He ran his hands over the Dewar Trophy–winning auto. Well built. Sleek. Expensive. In the same class as its owner. So why could he not get her soft blond curls, frozen in place by the snow, or those expressive gray eyes out of his mind? Fabrizio, Fabrizio, he scolded himself. You must not let a pretty face fool you. Someone like Signorina Daire had no place in the dreams of a poor immigrant.
If only his heart would listen. He finished replacing the windshield.
John Livingston, the hotel manager, lifted an eyebrow when Fabrizio asked if he could go home and stay until the snow stopped. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I do not know,” Fabrizio admitted. “But I must try. They will worry.”
“You have my blessing. It’s my guess that no one will require your services for a few days.” Livingston shook his head at Fabrizio’s foolishness. “But if you can’t make it home, you’re welcome to stay here. There’ll be plenty for you to do.”
Fabrizio thought of his worried parents and the cramped quarters he had shared last night. He must try to reach his family’s home located in the Highlands district of Denver. Once again he wrapped his bright green and yellow scarf around his neck, strapped on the skis, and slipped his hands into his gloves. He looked over the world gone white, took a deep breath, and braced himself for the cold air.
Once outside, he could get no rhythm going. Instead of gliding over the surface, his skis sank into deep snowdrifts. Memories of the lovely Signorina Daire interfered with his concentration. Her face swam in front of his eyes, adding color to the landscape. He made it as far as the place where the accident had occurred the previous evening. Snow covered the wooden stall, obliterating any hint of what had happened only twelve hours before. The sight reminded Fabrizio of one of his favorite Bible verses. “Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” Isaiah could have been looking down Sixteenth Street in Denver when he wrote those words.
Was Signorina Daire looking at the same scene? Did she like snow? How foolish to drive in such weather. What father would allow his daughter to drive in a blizzard? His own papa would not allow his daughters to drive at all, even if they could afford a horseless carriage. But he suspected that the spirited young woman would not accept any curtailment of her activities without a protest. She might even be one of those—what was the word?—suffragettes.
Fabrizio realized he had been staring at the stall for several minutes. Thank the good Lord that neither of them was hurt. Now he must get moving before he turned into a statue made of ice. He pushed ahead with his ski pole. It broke through the crust into a deep pocket, plunging several feet. He toppled forward and flailed his arms, catching himself on the edges of the stand before he could fall.
The street stretched before him. Tall buildings protected it; snow would drift even higher away from the center of the city. He faced the truth. He could not make it home. Mama and Papa would trust the Lord for his safety; and he must do the same for their needs.
He made a wide circle and started back for the Brown Palace. Already snow had filled in his tracks. He prayed the Lord would keep his family safe and warm. Somehow he didn’t mind returning to work. He might see the enigmatic Signorina Daire again.
The clock was striking ten when Natalie stirred on Wednesday morning. It took a moment to orient herself. She snuggled under a dark green comforter. The mattress on the immense four-poster was soft but unfamiliar. She stretched and banged into the headboard. The nudge set up a complaint in her head. Natalie ran her hands over her forehead and discovered a bump.
The events of the previous night came back to her in a rush. The drive from Thalia’s house. The decision to spend the night at the Brown Palace. The mysterious stranger who appeared out of the darkness and caused an accident—who then in turn rescued her and brought her safely to the Brown. Her entire body ached, her head most of all.
She rubbed her eyes and stared at the clock, not believing the hour. Surely it couldn’t be that late. The light coming through the window suggested early morning. Natalie tugged her negligee about her and walked over to the window. Where she expected sunshine—after more than twenty-four hours, surely the storm had stopped—instead she saw the same wall of white, snow flying in ten directions at once. She doubted that she could leave today. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to find out if that nice young man had repaired the Model 30 as promised.
Natalie rang the bell for one of the hotel maids. A brief glance in her dressing room mirror confirmed that her forehead sported a bump the size of a mothball that was coloring. She touched it gingerly. She remembered the shattered windshield and thanked God that she wasn’t hurt more severely. Not a single scratch. Perhaps it was just as well that she could not return home today. Father would worry if he could see her face or the car.
She wanted hot tea and a warm breakfast; then she would search out the young man who had been both the cause and savior of last night’s accident. Perhaps he was visiting the Brown from Europe. He spoke with some kind of accent. French perhaps? She didn’t think it was Spanish; several of their household help came from Mexico, and she knew a little of the language. He called her “Signorina.” Italian, definitely.
Sunny Italy. Given the blizzard, he might wish he had decided to stay home for the holidays. What was he doing on Sixteenth Street in the middle of a blizzard, wearing skis? Perhaps he was an angel, sent from heaven because of the accident. Natalie smiled to herself. She doubted that angels wore bright scarves or had such handsome dark looks.
She debated on whether to don the dress she had worn to Thalia’s party for a second day or to wear a different gown. She thought of the handsome stranger and opted for a new outfit. Fur trim accented the tiered skirt, and the robin’s egg blue of the material flattered her coloring. After the maid helped her dress, she studied her reflection in the mirror. What could be done about the bruise on her forehead? She fingered her hair and teased a few curls over it. Perhaps it would deflect attention from the multicolored hues. Satisfied at last with her toilette, she left her room and headed down the stairs in search of brunch.
Walking into the foyer of the Brown Palace always gave Natalie a thrill. She loved the sight of liveried doormen, the low hush of voices from tables, the magnificence of the stained glass overhead, even when obscured by snow as it was now. In addition to the cosmopolitan mix of guests, she could usually count on meeting acquaintances, more often than not one of Daddy’s fuddy-duddy business associates. Unlike that handsome stranger. She intended to find the mysterious Italian; she could ask him about the car as an excuse for seeking him out.
She rang the bell at the front desk, and a young man whose lilting voice and bright red hair proclaimed his Irish heritage appeared. “May I help you, miss?”
“I am looking for one of the guests.” Natalie felt heat rise in her cheeks. Maybe the clerk would attribute her color to the blast of warm air from the vents. “He assisted me last evening, and I wanted to thank him properly.”
“What is his name?” The clerk, whose name tag read “PATRICK,” smiled.
“You see, that’s the problem.” Natalie twisted a handkerchief in her hands. “He disappeared without introducing himself.
He appeared to be Italian. Tall, dark, in his twenties.” Do I dare say handsome? “Oh yes, and he was wearing a very distinctive scarf. Yellow and green stripes, as bright as a summer day.”
He’s here? Natalie rotated on her heels. First she noticed a snow-crusted cap covering dark hair, then the bright yellow and green scarf. She suddenly was very glad that she had decided to wear her most becoming frock.
“Fabrizio! I see that you decided to return.” Patrick greeted him warmly.
Fabrizio. So that was his name. The syllables rolled around in her mind. It tasted exotic, like basil and garlic and maybe a hint of sweet tomatoes. But why was he traveling in this weather? On foot?
“Miss Daire, is this the gentleman?” Patrick spoke in a low tone. She appreciated his discretion.
“Yes.” God must be behind this encounter; she didn’t expect to run into him so soon.
“You should know …”
Fabrizio approached the counter before Patrick finished his sentence.
“Fab—” Natalie stopped. They had never been properly introduced, after all. She coughed and spoke again. “I wanted to thank you for your assistance last night.”
“Signorina Daire.” The snow on Fabrizio’s head melted in the warm lobby, and his dark hair sprang into curls. “Your car, it is ready.” He paused. “But you will do well not to leave today. The snow, it is too deep.”
Natalie shook off his admonition. “I intend to wait out the storm at the Brown. But thank you for seeing to my car.” She took in features of Fabrizio’s appearance that she had missed in the dark the previous evening. His coat was frayed around the edges. A faint oily odor clung to him. And his shoes—her father would never wear such shoddy workmanship. She looked into his beautiful brown eyes with growing suspicions.