and haste, urge Melissa to keep moving on the sidewalk. Past the grocery where she stocks up, past the café where she sat with Gabe, she dawdles near the news agent, wondering if all the fuss over the weather is worth it.
I mean, it’s snow, for god’s sake. And we’re in a snow resort. How big a deal could it possibly be?
“I’m closing early,” the news agent tells her, already packing up the day’s papers and bringing them inside the small shop. Melissa watches the man, knowing she needs to get back to the chalet and resume her hosting duties, but also troubled by the lack of having presented Matron with a perfect plan for the ball. “Are you buying anything?”
Melissa shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, fending off the chilly air, and gazes at the foreign papers. World news from Rome, Paris, India, New York, and none of it mentioning the massive snow everyone predicts. Studying the sky, she asks the news agent, “Is all this for real?”
His accent thick, he responds with a huff, as if she’s crazy to doubt the power of a potential storm. “You never know until it’s ’appening.
“’Ere.” The news agent thrusts a paper at her before gathering the rest to bring inside. “It’s the afternoon edition. Won’t sell them all now—not like this.” He glances at the thickening clouds. “You can have for free a look at what’s ’appening.”
With her bare hand instantly cold, she grips the paper, planning to get rid of it as soon as the man’s inside and it’s polite enough to chuck it. Not that she’s not interested in the greater events of the Trois area, but right now she has other things on her mind. Then, just as she’s about to try to invigorate herself to make a move and head back to the chalet, she stops short.
There, on the front of the afternoon edition of the paper, is enough to make her lose her breath. “L’amour,” she reads, the word in capital letters, which only highlight the photograph underneath. There, fixed on the page, is Charlie, doting, her head on James’s shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around her. She’s looking at the camera’s lens; he’s gazing at her. Crap oh crap, oh crap. He’s so into her. Check out the way he’s unable to break away—not even for a major photo op. Melissa shakes her head. A glutton for punishment, she doesn’t throw the thing out, but instead takes it with her and goes back to the café. After ordering an urgent double hot-chocolate swirl in a glass, she sits nursing the remedy and reading the parts of the French she can understand. First she reads amour vrai —“true love,” and has to stop herself from spitting out her drink. Then some ski info about the race and …
“He loves her? True love?” Melissa traces the word copine with her finger, wishing she didn’t know it means “girlfriend.” So she’s his girlfriend. It’s official. This sucks. She keeps studying the picture, the angle of Charlie’s chin on James’ body, the way his fingers seem to be pulling at her like he can’t get her close enough. It’s only when she sees the word fiançailles that Melissa pushes the paper as far from her as possible, loses interest in her drink, and puts her head in her hands. Fiancée? Engaged?
A tap on the shoulder surprises Melissa, as does the ringing of the church bells.
“You feel asleep,” the café owner says.
“I fell asleep?”
“Feel, yes.”
Not wanting to argue about the wording, Melissa stands up, both feeling asleep and having fallen asleep, and feels her stomach churn with the sound of the bells. What did it say in the informational packet that was handed out last week when she first got to Les Trois? Melissa remembers the small print under the heading Weather Difficulties. Les Trois is located in a valley and therefore likely to have heavy snowfall. In the long run this gives us enviable conditions for skiing and boarding, but in the short term, it may be cause for alarm. Should there be
I mean, it’s snow, for god’s sake. And we’re in a snow resort. How big a deal could it possibly be?
“I’m closing early,” the news agent tells her, already packing up the day’s papers and bringing them inside the small shop. Melissa watches the man, knowing she needs to get back to the chalet and resume her hosting duties, but also troubled by the lack of having presented Matron with a perfect plan for the ball. “Are you buying anything?”
Melissa shoves her hands deeper into her pockets, fending off the chilly air, and gazes at the foreign papers. World news from Rome, Paris, India, New York, and none of it mentioning the massive snow everyone predicts. Studying the sky, she asks the news agent, “Is all this for real?”
His accent thick, he responds with a huff, as if she’s crazy to doubt the power of a potential storm. “You never know until it’s ’appening.
“’Ere.” The news agent thrusts a paper at her before gathering the rest to bring inside. “It’s the afternoon edition. Won’t sell them all now—not like this.” He glances at the thickening clouds. “You can have for free a look at what’s ’appening.”
With her bare hand instantly cold, she grips the paper, planning to get rid of it as soon as the man’s inside and it’s polite enough to chuck it. Not that she’s not interested in the greater events of the Trois area, but right now she has other things on her mind. Then, just as she’s about to try to invigorate herself to make a move and head back to the chalet, she stops short.
There, on the front of the afternoon edition of the paper, is enough to make her lose her breath. “L’amour,” she reads, the word in capital letters, which only highlight the photograph underneath. There, fixed on the page, is Charlie, doting, her head on James’s shoulder, his arm wrapped protectively around her. She’s looking at the camera’s lens; he’s gazing at her. Crap oh crap, oh crap. He’s so into her. Check out the way he’s unable to break away—not even for a major photo op. Melissa shakes her head. A glutton for punishment, she doesn’t throw the thing out, but instead takes it with her and goes back to the café. After ordering an urgent double hot-chocolate swirl in a glass, she sits nursing the remedy and reading the parts of the French she can understand. First she reads amour vrai —“true love,” and has to stop herself from spitting out her drink. Then some ski info about the race and …
“He loves her? True love?” Melissa traces the word copine with her finger, wishing she didn’t know it means “girlfriend.” So she’s his girlfriend. It’s official. This sucks. She keeps studying the picture, the angle of Charlie’s chin on James’ body, the way his fingers seem to be pulling at her like he can’t get her close enough. It’s only when she sees the word fiançailles that Melissa pushes the paper as far from her as possible, loses interest in her drink, and puts her head in her hands. Fiancée? Engaged?
A tap on the shoulder surprises Melissa, as does the ringing of the church bells.
“You feel asleep,” the café owner says.
“I fell asleep?”
“Feel, yes.”
Not wanting to argue about the wording, Melissa stands up, both feeling asleep and having fallen asleep, and feels her stomach churn with the sound of the bells. What did it say in the informational packet that was handed out last week when she first got to Les Trois? Melissa remembers the small print under the heading Weather Difficulties. Les Trois is located in a valley and therefore likely to have heavy snowfall. In the long run this gives us enviable conditions for skiing and boarding, but in the short term, it may be cause for alarm. Should there be
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