a warning issued, be advised to return to your chalet immediately and wait for word from the office.
In English, she asks the café owner, “Is that the warning bell?”
The café owner, all serious-looking and businesslike in her manner as she readies to close the café, shakes her head. “We already had the warning. This one—this is to say we are in the storm.”
Melissa does a quick check outside. “Storm?” Fine, so I’m from Australia, where we’re not exactly snow mavens, but there’s hardly a flake falling from the sky. She drops a few Euros onto her table, tucks the paper with its horrible photo in her jacket so she can moan over it with Dove later, and steps again onto the cobblestone streets to start once and for all back to the resort.
Once outside, she thinks about what Gabe said. Prepare for it. She can hear phrases like seasonal frequencies of intense snowfall episodes and storm path migration ringing through her ears as the flakes begin to fall. Phrases from the chalet informational packet she read when she first arrived at Les Trois, but it all seems unreal and long ago. Dreamy at first, Melissa spins around in the snow, catching a few flakes on her eyelashes and then on her tongue. It’s romantic, really, provided you have someone to be with. Which I don’t.
“I feel like I’m in an advertisement for …” Dove pauses. “What’d you say the name of this thing is?”
Max’s elbow touches Dove’s arm as he responds. “Marchese Belloch 2000. Best money can buy.” He lets go of the steering mechanism with one hand to pat the side of the snowmobile as if it’s a pony. His hand grazes her thigh but he instantly whisks it away.
Dove watches the scenery glide by all in a wash of the first few flakes that have started falling. Over the hum of the engine she thinks she hears something. “Was that a clanging noise?”
Max shrugs and turns his head to show he’s listening, but then shakes it off. “Didn’t hear anything. Must be the hydraulics.”
Dove tucks her chin farther into her red neck warmer and hopes for the hundredth time that she’ll make it in time for the IM with William. In her mind she has visions of how it will go—with him telling her how much he misses her, leading off with how miserable he’s been without her, and then maybe following up with plans for what they’ll do once she arrives on New Year’s Day. I’ll ask him about Harley, of course — way too curious to find out if he’s met her yet. Dove swallows. It’s weird that we haven’t heard from her. Or maybe it isn’t — I mean, mail takes forever and we don’t have e-mail access and … I trust him, though. Even if Harley is wild and hot and exactly the kind of girl you don’t want bumping into your boyfriend on the beach in a string bikini. At least she knows me and could bring my name up. “Wait—I heard it again—I think those were bells.”
“Maybe someone’s getting married?” Max points to a far-off field. “See that? Over the hill? I think one of my professors lives there. Or—vacations nearby or something.”
“Weird coincidence.” Dove looks at the compact farmhouse set back from the paths and trees, all cozy among the falling snow. “Do you miss it?”
Max turns, his helmet making him look like a futuristic bug. “Miss what?”
“School.”
Max turns back to the path, zooming up a steep hill, past a mound of old snow and veering left to avoid a patch of thick ice. He doesn’t respond.
Dove wants to check her watch but can’t or she’ll lose her grip on Max and fall off. “I have to admit,” she says, trying to wash over the school question, which clearly didn’t sit well, “this is a pretty sweet ride.”
“Better be.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
Max puts on the brakes, slowing the whole mobile to a stop. He puts his hand on Dove’s knee, then thinks better of it and takes it away. Dove thinks it’s the kind of touch—gentle but firm—that stays with you after
In English, she asks the café owner, “Is that the warning bell?”
The café owner, all serious-looking and businesslike in her manner as she readies to close the café, shakes her head. “We already had the warning. This one—this is to say we are in the storm.”
Melissa does a quick check outside. “Storm?” Fine, so I’m from Australia, where we’re not exactly snow mavens, but there’s hardly a flake falling from the sky. She drops a few Euros onto her table, tucks the paper with its horrible photo in her jacket so she can moan over it with Dove later, and steps again onto the cobblestone streets to start once and for all back to the resort.
Once outside, she thinks about what Gabe said. Prepare for it. She can hear phrases like seasonal frequencies of intense snowfall episodes and storm path migration ringing through her ears as the flakes begin to fall. Phrases from the chalet informational packet she read when she first arrived at Les Trois, but it all seems unreal and long ago. Dreamy at first, Melissa spins around in the snow, catching a few flakes on her eyelashes and then on her tongue. It’s romantic, really, provided you have someone to be with. Which I don’t.
“I feel like I’m in an advertisement for …” Dove pauses. “What’d you say the name of this thing is?”
Max’s elbow touches Dove’s arm as he responds. “Marchese Belloch 2000. Best money can buy.” He lets go of the steering mechanism with one hand to pat the side of the snowmobile as if it’s a pony. His hand grazes her thigh but he instantly whisks it away.
Dove watches the scenery glide by all in a wash of the first few flakes that have started falling. Over the hum of the engine she thinks she hears something. “Was that a clanging noise?”
Max shrugs and turns his head to show he’s listening, but then shakes it off. “Didn’t hear anything. Must be the hydraulics.”
Dove tucks her chin farther into her red neck warmer and hopes for the hundredth time that she’ll make it in time for the IM with William. In her mind she has visions of how it will go—with him telling her how much he misses her, leading off with how miserable he’s been without her, and then maybe following up with plans for what they’ll do once she arrives on New Year’s Day. I’ll ask him about Harley, of course — way too curious to find out if he’s met her yet. Dove swallows. It’s weird that we haven’t heard from her. Or maybe it isn’t — I mean, mail takes forever and we don’t have e-mail access and … I trust him, though. Even if Harley is wild and hot and exactly the kind of girl you don’t want bumping into your boyfriend on the beach in a string bikini. At least she knows me and could bring my name up. “Wait—I heard it again—I think those were bells.”
“Maybe someone’s getting married?” Max points to a far-off field. “See that? Over the hill? I think one of my professors lives there. Or—vacations nearby or something.”
“Weird coincidence.” Dove looks at the compact farmhouse set back from the paths and trees, all cozy among the falling snow. “Do you miss it?”
Max turns, his helmet making him look like a futuristic bug. “Miss what?”
“School.”
Max turns back to the path, zooming up a steep hill, past a mound of old snow and veering left to avoid a patch of thick ice. He doesn’t respond.
Dove wants to check her watch but can’t or she’ll lose her grip on Max and fall off. “I have to admit,” she says, trying to wash over the school question, which clearly didn’t sit well, “this is a pretty sweet ride.”
“Better be.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
Max puts on the brakes, slowing the whole mobile to a stop. He puts his hand on Dove’s knee, then thinks better of it and takes it away. Dove thinks it’s the kind of touch—gentle but firm—that stays with you after
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