Balancing Acts

by Emily Franklin

  “Hey! Can you slow down a little?” she asks for the third time, her grip tightening. She can just see the headlines now: “Incompetent Chalet Girl Falls Off Cliff on Way to Buy Weekly Provisions.” And for what? So the Trois Alpes’ shuttle van driver can make out with some random glamour girl. Granted, the driver is shockingly attractive, enough so he could be a heartthrob spewing French on-screen, but still.

  “Chill out,” the girl says, and it’s only when she takes off her sunglasses that Melissa realizes she’s face-to-face again with the tabloid princess Celia Sinclair. Celia gives Melissa a pointed look, then goes back to nuzzling the driver’s neck, which causes the van a momentary lurch sideways on the road.

  “Ahhh!” Melissa can’t help but respond. Every time the guy shifts the wheel to the right, Melissa slides one foot closer to the abyss. “There’s got to be a better way.”

  Celia pulls her lips away long enough to ask, “Paul, is there a better way to get to town?” She makes a baby-face pout that inspires rage in Melissa. What did I ever do to deserve this famous girl’s attitude? Nothing. Paul is clearly so overwhelmed with being attached at the mouth to Celia Sinclair that he can’t speak.

  “Umm …,” he says. “Another shuttle?”

  Melissa shrugs—it’s not as though she had a choice of transportation into town. The supplies have to be purchased by eight in the morning, and this shuttle was the first one. Any van would be better than this one. Even walking through the snow alone would have been better. Anything would be better than dealing with dangerous driving on sickening hills with Celia’s bitchiness. Up ahead, the hill leads into the small town of Les Trois—all of its shops, bars, and elite clubs, except for the supermarket, are closed in the early morning sunlight.

  As the van screeches to a halt outside the grocery store, Melissa pries her hand from the armrest. Celia flings her mane of hair that’s triple processed to look very natural and gives Melissa a fake smile. “Glad we could give you a lift this morning.”

  Melissa counters with an equally plastered-on smile. “Thanks for the ride … really. It was eye-opening.” She doesn’t add that it could be eye-opening for the rest of the world with the photos she snapped of Celia in lip-lock with Paul. She tucks away her phone. She slides the van’s door open and hops out, glad to be on firm ground. In her pocket she has a shopping list and the week’s petty cash, which Melissa counted twice before coming, nervous about losing it after Matron warned her about having to cover the cost of food herself if she went over budget or lost the money.

  “So you’ll wait for me here?” Melissa asks before closing the door.

  Celia snorts and laughs. Paul can’t focus on anything other than his movie star companion. Celia leans out the passenger window. “You clearly got up early this morning to do your … chores.” Melissa nods, feeling the fatigue sink in a bit more. “But we haven’t even been to bed yet—so you’ll have to make your own way back.”

  And with that, Paul turns the key, rumbles the ignition, and drives away with Celia close enough to be in his lap. Melissa stands there wondering what she’s supposed to do now—where’s her ride back? How is she supposed to get a week’s worth of food and drinks back up to the mountain and up the path to The Tops? Okay, don’t panic, she thinks. First things first, right? She looks at the grocery store and decides that worrying about step two doesn’t make sense if she’s yet to deal with step one. With money in her pocket she sets off across the narrow cobblestone street to Chez Vous to pile items in her cart and deal with later, later on.

  If I have to vacuum behind her one more time, I swear I’ll scream, thinks Dove as she trails Harley with the rug attachment. “Sorry, could you just … can you try not to track sand in here?”

  Harley, in her underwear and tank top from the night before, touches the soles of her feet and shrugs when she feels the grit of sand. “I had no idea it would stick to me so long,” she says and helps herself to coffee in a white mug as she surveys the clean kitchen, the empty living room, and the guest quarters, which look much better than her triple-bunked room.

  “Where did you even manage to find sand?” Dove asks. With her foot she presses the button to silence the vacuum. Some people need tropical waves, a massage, or a fancy four-star dinner to relax, Dove thinks. For me, all it takes is the peace I feel after the vacuum noise is gone. She feels pleased with herself about this—it’s a change for her—but then again, when she thinks about waves, and beaches, that sounds pretty good, too.

  “I went to Beach last night.” Harley says this as though it’s no big deal and sips her coffee. On her thumbnail, bits of red nail polish remain and she quickly picks at them, making a note to find some remover. If only there were something that removed all evidence of the past as well as paint. “It was decent.”

  “Beach?” Dove coils the vacuum’s hose up and takes one more look around. Provided Harley doesn’t make a mess, everything’s pretty much set for the guests’ arrival. Dove wonders for a minute who the guests will be—maybe a happy family with toddlers or a nice older couple with their grandchildren. She imagines people sitting around the fireplace and playing board games. Then she reconsiders—it could be a group of rowdy college students coming to Les Trois for a week of debauchery, skiing, and snogs. Which would be worse: baby spit-up everywhere or students who’ve had too much to drink heaving on the deck? Dove grimaces, realizing either way she’s the one to have to clean it up.

  “Yeah, I kind of wandered around, hung out with some people over on the big deck? At the inn? And then just wound up at Beach—it’s a really cool place to …” Harley finishes her coffee and puts the mug in the sink without washing it.

  “I know what Beach is,” Dove says, her mouth small and tight. She turns the water on and soaps Harley’s used mug, not minding the washing up so much as the fact that this classless girl—this boot-wearing, model-tall but mannerless person assumed that Dove wouldn’t even know what Beach is.

  “Oh, you know about Beach?” Harley asks defensively, with her hands on her hips. She’s met people like Dove before—people who come from nothing and need to pretend that they’ve seen it and done it all. With a brief blush, Harley realizes she’s one of those people, not that she’d ever admit it. Beach was cooler than Harley’d even thought it would be—a club built to look like a seaside resort with white umbrellas, glistening waves, tall drinks with mint stirrers, free white linen sarongs, and posh people dotting the shoreline—and all inside. Harley thinks about spilling everything to Dove, right now. She could say how until two days ago she’d never set foot out of Breckenridge, that the triple-bunk room is nicer than her whole trailer at home, that she left in a hurry—leaving scandal and a scare behind her—but she can’t let the words out. It’s easier this way, she figures, just gliding along, being someone else, someone different than she was before. But to do that, she’d have to admit why she wound up at Les Trois to begin with—why this certain mountain is her escape hatch. And Harley isn’t about to put herself and her past on the line.

  Dove, too, considers saying something—about how she knows what Beach is, how to her, Beach is nothing now. How all of this has happened and why—and how it’s just temporary until the day after New Year’s when her future will begin. For now, she has to keep the chalet in pristine condition—dust behind every decorative plate in the dining room, continually plump up the pillows in the living room, make beds, change sheets, keep the showers mildew-free, the bathrooms spotless, and be discreet about picking up after the guests. Dove sighs, thinking about the endless slog of work she’s done, and how she’ll be on a continuous loop with her mop, rag, and trash bags for companions. Unlike Harley, who seemed to already be enjoying the perks of her hosting position.

  “Well, I hope you had fun, anyway,” Dove says. “But next time—wipe your feet with the white towels they give you—they’ll let you take one if you want.” Dove calmly walks toward the bunkroom to change into her required uniform—white shirt tucked into slim-fit
ting black pants—before the guests ring the front doorbell.

  “I did have fun,” Harley says. She slicks a brush through her hair, twists it into a loop, and fastens it up with a hidden clip, going from morning-messy to prom-ready up-do in a matter of seconds. Dove wonders how Harley—with her unmade-up face, her faded jeans, her no-frills walk and mannerisms, knows how to do that. But Harley won’t say. “But not that much fun. Celia Sinclair was there, though, so that was cool.” Harley drops Celia’s name so she won’t have to mention who wasn’t there—that she keeps to herself. Harley gives Dove a smile, grabs her guest log, and goes upstairs to wait for the guests. She should feel nervous about hosting her first round of people, but she doesn’t. She knows from experience that all you have to do is smile, say what the judges want to hear, and look people in the eye.

  “We’re in for a long day,” Dove says. Her own hair is long and shiny blond over her shoulders. She thinks about what Melissa asked, if her hair was real. Princess hair, she called it. With this thought, Dove quickly pulls the locks into a low ponytail and ignores the rest of her reflection.

  Harley looks at Dove, thinking that at any American high school, this girl would be prom queen, or lead cheerleader, or whatever the highest social ranking would be—except she doesn’t know how to carry herself. She’s too shy, always looking down and keeping quiet. Maybe that’s why she got the dreaded cleaner’s position. “I don’t know how the day’ll be,” Harley says. She looks out the window and sees the smallest number of flakes begin to float down from the milky sky. “If the snow picks up, I’ve got to get out there….”

  “You have to host, Harley,” Dove says, pointing out of their room to the rest of the chalet where work awaits them both. “Remember, your job, the reason you’re here?”

  Harley spins around and looks directly at Dove. “Oh, I remember the reason I’m here, Dove, believe me. But it’s not the job.” Dove raises her eyebrows—maybe there’s more to Harley than meets the eye. Harley slides the guest log papers out of the brown envelope to look again at the information.

  “Hey—check it out,” Harley says. “The guy’s name is Earl.”

  “Interesting,” Dove says, smirking. At least she doesn’t have to memorize everyone’s name. All she has to do is clean up after them.

  “And the wife’s name is … Countess!” Harley full on cracks up. “Countess? How cheesy is that?”

  Dove’s smile fades as she looks at Harley. “You don’t know much about Europeans, do you?”

  Harley smirks back. “Why—what’d I do now?”

  Dove tries to grab the guest registry, but Harley’s height keeps it out of reach. “This is my domain—the bathroom? That’s yours.” Her tone is playful—Dove feels like they’ll eventually be friends—maybe—but the hierarchy of their jobs might get in the way.

  “Just so you’re aware—when you’re about to make an ass of yourself? Earl is not his first name. He is an earl. She is a countess. As in titled.”

  Harley’s tough act shows just the slightest crumbling. Her hand holding the guest log comes down. “I’m hosting an earl and goddamn countess? Who even knew people like that really existed out of fairy tales?”

  Dove looks away at the rug, keeping quiet, then speaks calmly. “Oh, it’s not such a big deal, Harley. Titles abound in Europe. You’re hosting an earl and countess—that’s below a marquess and above a viscount.” Harley stares at Dove, who rattles on in her quiet manner, her hands clasped politely all the while. “In Britain, you’re an earl; in Europe you’re a count. In Italy, there are so many you just don’t bother….”

  “I’m never going to pull this off,” Harley says. Her wide mouth and full lips slide into a frown, her eyes hinting at tears. “I don’t belong here.” The wind seeps into the cracks, chilling the room and reminding Harley of where she really longs to be—outside on the slopes, with nothing but the sound of skis on snow and the wind rushing by her cold face. She wants to be there right at this moment, with—

  “You’ll be okay, seriously,” Dove says, pulling Harley back to the present. “All you have to do is …”

  Harley does each action as she says it. “I know—smile, say what the judges—I mean the people—want to hear, and look them directly in the eye. Even if you screw up.”

  “Especially if you mess up.” Dove nods, remembering when she didn’t look someone in the eye, and what that cost her. They look at one another for a minute, feeling their first sense of camaraderie, and then Dove points to the guest list. “Now, which earl and countess do we have the pleasure of hosting?”

  Harley corrects her. “You mean who do I have the pleasure of hosting?” She doesn’t mean to be obnoxious, but she likes—for once—being the one who isn’t slugging around after people with a bucket and mop. She checks the list again. “We have the earl and his countess, their kids, and a couple of friends.”

  Dove nods. “Kids are good—if they scream and fuss, the guests sometimes tip more.”

  “It doesn’t look like the kids are very young,” Harley says, looking at the information packet. “They didn’t ask for a nanny. I guess that’s good—it leaves an extra bunk free in our room.” Harley thumbs to the unused bed.

  Dove can’t take the suspense anymore and grabs the list from Harley. “Oh, shit,” she says, reading the names.

  “What?” Harley says, giggling. She pokes Dove on her shoulder. “Did you suddenly realize it is a big deal having royalty here?”

  Dove tucks in her shirt, smoothing out any wrinkles, and bites her lip. “No. NO, it’s not that …”

  Harley’s glad—she’s not alone in feeling freaked out about the incoming titles. Does she bow? Call them sir? What? “It is—you don’t know what to do, either. Here you are acting all calm and cool, but really you’re just as nervous as I am.”

  Dove takes in a deep breath through her nose. “You’re right, Harley; I am just as petrified as you are. More, maybe.”

  “Why? You scared you’ll say the wrong thing? Forget to make their beds?”

  Just the thought of hearing the word bed in this context makes Dove feel sick. “No,” Dove says. She pauses on her way out the door, taking a box of individually wrapped chocolates from Roccoco, her favorite place in London. “I’m not scared of anything like that…. Let’s just say I know them. Or one of them. Well.”

  6

  Flirting is not a crime, but it’s not going to get the job done, either.

  WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN jams, jellies, and fruit spreads? Melissa wonders as she roams the narrow aisles, pushing one cart and pulling another. She realizes she looks like a donkey or some other work horse, caught between the one trolley that’s already piled high with all manner of pasta, tins of tomatoes, fresh greens, cheeses with names she can’t pronounce, and baguettes, and another that’s nearly filled with bottles of wine, seltzer water, and the thick fruit purees that the guests requested. Each one is expensive and Melissa knows she’s nearly at her budget limit, but she can’t ditch the one item the guests asked for specifically.

  “Come on!” Melissa grumbles at the cart in front of her as its tilted wheel makes it bump into the cereal boxes. Three boxes of Alpine Muesli fall down, two on the floor, one on her head. I signed up for this, why, exactly? Melissa wonders. But when she stands up, she has exactly the opposite thought. Oh, this is why I signed up. In front of her is the guy—that guy—JMB, his black and orange jacket unzipped to reveal a plain white T-shirt. She stares at him, taking in his dark jeans, heavy snow boots, and his perfect mouth. Aside from being tall, winter-tanned, with high cheekbones and a sturdy presence, JMB has something else, Melissa thinks, watching his every move. He’s got a casual grace. Confidence without cockiness like so many guys have to have. The combination of all of this makes Melissa aware of each of her limbs, her heart, her face blushing, aware of an invisible current of energy tying her to him.

  He runs a tanned hand through his dark hair, eyeing the bakery selections set on the wooden coun
ter in front of him.

  If this moment were scripted, Melissa thinks, he would turn around, see me, and we’d instantly connect—mind, heart, and lips. Instead, Melissa’s cart takes off again, this time forward. She grabs the cart behind her and then tries to steady the one in front, while still contending with the cereal boxes. She gives up with them, adding them to her cart, and chases the trolley as it heads down the aisle. I’m supposed to cook gourmet meals for fifteen when I can’t even shop for the food without injuring myself? Melissa grabs for the cart’s red handle while the clerk behind the cash register clucks his tongue in disapproval. Knowing my luck, I’ll be banned from the store and have to make meals out of snow, she thinks. She succeeds in getting the cart to stop moving, only to be bashed in the butt by the other one. “Ow!” she yells, louder than she wanted the sound to come out. The clerk shakes his head and mutters something in French at her, while Melissa crouches down, imprisoned by her own clumsiness and the metal carts. “I’m an idiot,” she says to herself.

  “And you’re talking to yourself.” JMB stares down at her, one of his hands on each of the carts. He steadies them while managing to cause a small avalanche in Melissa’s chest.

  “I’m not insane, by the way,” she says and stands up. “I’m just …”

  “New at this?” he suggests, smiling at her. His eyes crinkle at the sides, making his grin appear wider, softer. Melissa notices a thin scar over his top lip and can’t stop herself from staring at it. She wonders what it would feel like to touch it; she nearly allows her hand to wander there until she blushes and clenches her palms into fists to keep them under control.

  “Yeah, new at this,” Melissa says. “Obviously, I’ve shopped before but not for so much at one time.” She looks at the contents of both carts—piles of paper towels, an oversized bag of basmati rice in a burlap sack, hoards of apples and carrots—enough for a week? What if the guests love carrots and eat through them? Or what if she hadn’t figured the correct amount of pasta? “Honestly, I have no idea what I’m doing—I just hope it turns out okay.” She looks directly at JMB. He looks back, the scar on his lip rising as he speaks.