“You? Mesilla? Late for work? And here I was thinking you were so together….”
Melissa laughs, both at the fact that he still has her name wrong, and also remembering this time yesterday, when he’d been witness to the cereal boxes falling on her head. “Yeah, every time you see me I’m just looking more and more like a klutz.”
“Well, maybe next time I see you, you can prove me wrong. Not that there’s anything terrible about being a klutz.”
Melissa’s thoughts come rushing at her: Next time. So he thinks there’ll be a next time. Or, no. He’s turning into my friend. I’m NOT someone he’d want to wake up with in that way, just a buddy. A buddy who will be unemployed—if I don’t get to work. Twisting a loop of hair around her finger, Melissa suddenly realizes that if she were to get fired today, she’d have yet another embarrassing situation associated with her name. First last year’s debacle, and now “the girl who fell asleep at the bar.” “I have to go,” she says, pushing past JMB. Her shoulder hits his chest and Melissa can feel the emotional wind sucked out of her. She wishes she had some sort of immunity to him. But she doesn’t.
“Anyway, hope you got enough sleep back there,” JMB says, thumbing to the bar, the open tent, the remnants of a night Melissa doesn’t really want to end.
What if this is my only night with him ever? The tower bells clang out in the distance, breaking the quiet morning. Melissa counts seven. Coffee is due to be served in a half hour. And she hasn’t even prepped the croissants, let alone baked them.
“Looks like snow.” JMB pulls a hat out of his inside jacket pocket.
“I hope so.” Melissa tilts her face skyward, letting the air wash her clean. If only air took away crushes and wasted evenings. “Guests are always in a better mood when there’s fresh snow.”
“Yeah, as long as there’s not too much.” JMB looks at her. “Zip up—you don’t want to catch cold.”
“Did you know that studies have shown that rapid changes in body temperatures have nothing to do with getting sick? It’s all viruses and germs.” Melissa grins at him. A buddy wouldn’t be so bad. JMB steps closer to her and zips her jacket for her. A hot buddy.
“Point taken,” JMB says. “At least I found what I was looking for last night.”
Melissa’s breath halts in her throat. Blush creeps over not just her cheeks but her chin—a sure sign she’s enraptured. “And what was that, exactly?”
JMB meets Melissa’s gaze. “This.” He’s close enough to kiss her, and Melissa allows herself the indulgence of thinking he will. But right then—when he could bend down, moving his mouth to hers, he bends down and pulls something from his jacket pocket. “My glove! I dropped it somewhere in the vastness of the bar and found it on the dance floor this morning. That’s what I picked up—remember?”
Melissa nods. “Right. Your glove. Of course. Well, I’m glad you found it.”
JMB pulls the glove on and puts a palm flat on her back. She wishes they could stay like that, connected, for longer, but the stress of what she has to do lies ahead, propelling her to look at him one more time, and walk away.
As she enters The Tops, the back door’s squeak alerts Dove and Harley to Melissa’s late arrival.
“So, do you have a story to tell or what?” Harley asks, brazen as ever. Fresh from the shower, her white turtleneck clings to her torso, highlighting every curve.
“Ignore Obscenely Dressed Girl over here,” Dove says, apron-covered and calm with a streak of flour on her cheek. “Just get your butt upstairs and help me.”
Melissa blushes for what feels like the tenth time today and changes from last night’s clothing into her uniform, feeling like she’s been caught doing something risqué. “Nothing happened, just so you know,” she says to Harley. Harley raises her eyebrows and grins.
“You have such a great smile,” Melissa says, just a little envious. Not that I want to be her, but just for a day—to see what it’s like to be tall and effortlessly gorgeous, without a care in the world.
“Shame I don’t show it, huh?” Harley rakes a brush through her wet hair, letting it dry this way and that, which only adds to her natural appeal.
Dove shrugs, tapping her foot as she waits for Melissa. “Ninety seconds and the croissants are burned. Not a threat—just a fact.”
Melissa nods, shoving her legs into black pants, her feet into socks and clogs. “Dove, I’m completely indebted—thanks for starting breakfast.” She looks at Dove, expecting her to take full credit and ask for a favor, but she doesn’t.
Dove sighs, flopping onto her bed while Harley continues to glow. “And to just what do we owe this rapid change of facial expressions? Yesterday you were all pout and attitude—and now suddenly you’re super-smiles?”
Harley’s lips curl up at Dove. “Nothing.”
Melissa’s ringlets are full enough that she needs only to place a hair elastic around a ponytail once—no twists. She does this now, in keeping with her job’s rules—cooks shall wear hair back at all times. “Ohh—that’s the kind of nothing that’s fun to hear about. Who is it?”
Harley shakes her head. “Go make your bread products. This trap is staying shut.”
“Suit yourself,” Melissa says, semiglad Harley didn’t spill. If she had, Melissa might have felt compelled to tell her own interior slush.
“Fifteen seconds,” Dove says. Melissa darts past her, up the stairs.
“See you,” Harley says.
“Where are you going?” Dove asks, sitting up on her bed. To the right, tucked between the mattress and the wall, is the photo she looked at all last night when the chalet was empty. The earl and countess had been at the first of their formal drink parties, Diggs and Luke had gone off in search of girls whose command of the English language was slim, and Harley had deposited Jemma at the Main House Films—better known as a holding pen for the younger set. Finally, Dove had the place to herself—with the beds turned down, she’d gone to sit in the living room to watch the twinkling lights of the village below, but felt out of place in the guest areas. After retreating to the bunkroom, she curled up in her pajamas, too tired to do anything other than stare at the photo of William. We look so right together, she’d thought before falling into a heavy sleep.
“I’m out of here.” Harley ducks into the back mudroom.
“Don’t you have to do the pleasantries at breakfast? As in, be the host?” Dove sees Harley’s appeal—her wild side, her energy—but doesn’t want to be the one covering for anyone else right now. Probably half of this year’s ski guide crop and snow-boarders were already trailing after her.
“Oh, I’ll be back soon enough—just checking out some necessary ski info,” Harley says. “And PS—we all have to show up at the Main House to get the holiday decorations.” She twists her mouth. “Let’s hear it for tinsel.” Let’s hear it for mistletoe, she thinks.
Dove doesn’t inquire just what all this means—where Harley’s headed now—but hears the door squeak as Harley leaves.
Dove slides her hand next to her mattress and pulls out the photograph. Sweet William with his uneven smile, his rough-chopped hair, jacketless on the mountain next to her. In the frame, they stand close enough to each other that no space shows. Dove remembers reading that you never know what you’ll miss about someone until you’re away from them, but she knew right away with William that she’d lie awake for hours missing his low, scratchy voice. Often it sounded as though he’d been yelling, or running—out of breath—and talking to him yesterday had given her the same twisted feeling inside, making her miss him more.
“I take it that’s not a family photograph?” Maxwell’s voice breaks Dove’s morning reverie.
She immediately presses the picture to her chest, and then slides it back to its hiding place. Not that there’s anything about William she needs to hide—not anymore. Not since her parents found out about him and threw a fit, the words and threats flying fast, their disappointment in her choices coating everything. “It’s just
a holiday picture, that’s all,” Dove says. She feels the need to be ultracalm around Max, to prove to herself she can be the collected one now, that he might have seen her at a time when she was vulnerable, but that she’s not like that now. She can’t bear the thought of having any part of her still like Max. Not like she did. But being around him starts to make her feel the old sensations rising. “You’re not meant to come back here.” She stands up. “Staff quarters and all.”
Max regards her with amusement. “Forgive me if I offend.” He gives a small butler bow. Dove remembers him bowing to her the one time they’d danced—at his eighteenth birthday—under the canopy, while her dress was still unstained and she didn’t know yet that the night would end poorly.
“You can’t offend me,” Dove says. With businesslike manners, she tidies her hair, coiling the blond rope of it back onto itself and pinning it up. Very prim, she thinks. Though she wishes she didn’t, Dove has accurate recall for the way Max’s hands felt in her hair. She thinks back to standing on the terrace at his parents’ country house, the formal gardens lighted by torches, music floating up from the dance. She’d wished he would kiss her for the longest time, but instead they talked while he combed his fingers into her hair.
“I can’t offend you because you’re immune to any offense—or specifically to me?” Max leans on the door frame, his hair morning-ruffled, his arms crossed over his polar-fleece–clad chest.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” Dove says. She wants him to leave so she can go back to thinking about William. It’s too easy to get sucked into witty repartee with Max. She’d fallen for that before—banter that convinced her he liked her, only to be rudely surprised at his party. In her mind she superimposes William into the memory of Max. Their looks don’t overlap at all—Max is tall and dark, lanky and brooding where William is open, smiling, lean and shorter—lighter all around. In her mental snapshot, William is with her on that balcony; it’s his hands in her hair, not Max’s. “I have to go clean.” She tries to keep her face neutral, her whole self detached and cool.
Max stands up straight, clearing his throat. “Right. Sorry.” Now he sounds genuinely apologetic, as if his morning plan had been to stand here chatting with her.
Dove is close to him now, waiting for him to move out of the doorway so she can attempt to make the beds. “If there’s nothing else …” She lets the sentence go unfinished.
Max steps aside. “Actually, there is one thing.”
“Yeah?” Dove stands in the doorway now, thinking that if they’d already done the holiday decorating, they’d be right under a sprig of mistletoe, and due for a kiss. She wipes the thought from her mind, focusing on how many bedrooms she has to clean, how much wood she has to haul in for the afternoon fire.
“Don’t bother with my room,” Max says. He licks his lower lip and puts his hands in his pocket.
“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Dove says, locking his eyes to hers. “You don’t …”
Max holds his hands up as if she’s an officer. “I’m not. I don’t. That’s not what …” He steps out of mistletoe range and into the darker corridor.
“Oh.” Dove suddenly gets it. “You don’t want me seeing you in there.” She waits for him to disagree and gives a dismayed laugh under her breath. “Don’t worry—I won’t interrupt any of your—romantic pursuits.”
“Lily …”
“Dove. Call me Dove, for god’s sake. You know full well it’s a real nickname.” Dove had been her nickname as a kid—due to being pale and ultrablond, and small—Max had known her then, too. They met first at primary school and then again at boarding school. He was the year ahead of her, and at Oxford University now. How had she summed him up in her journal? Max is my big missed opportunity—or if I give myself the credit—I’m his.
“Just … I don’t go by Lily anymore.” She sighs, feeling stupid. Of course he doesn’t feel bad that she’s the maid when she should be his equal—skiing, being catered to. After all, only last year she’d been doing all of that: partying at night, leaving wet towels on the floor to be picked up by the sorry chalet girl. Now she’s that girl. Wistful, Dove gives him one last look.
“Lily. Sorry—Dove. I meant to say Dove. I only came down to see you this morning to say thanks—for the chocolate. I haven’t had one since—”
Oh damn, she thinks. What a careless error. The Roccoco chocolates she’d left out. It never occurred to her that Max would interpret his as anything other than a standard good-night treat. “Everyone got one,” Dove explains.
“I know.” The light from the bunkroom swells from behind him, illuminating Max until he appears even larger than his height. “I just …”
“Don’t.” Dove says the word and wishes she’d left anything else—a flower, the weather report, anything except a chocolate from Roccoco—the one place they’d gone together. One date. One food. One kiss. Lots of talk. Dove shakes her head, trying hard to shove the past where it belongs—away and closed. As she walks past Max, he reaches for her arm.
“I’m serious, Dove. You don’t need to pick up after me. It’ll be one less thing you have to do, okay?” He looks at her and then breaks away, offering her a self-effacing smile. “I’m a slob, anyway.”
Dove feels the glacier in her melt just a little at his burst of smile, but then chides herself, knowing he’s just covering up his hookup intentions with his charm. “Whatever kind of mess-maker you are, I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Or, if I haven’t yet—I will.” She moves down the hall at a fast clip, hoping that he won’t follow and knowing if he did, she’d probably have to pinch herself to walk away again. By the staircase up to the main floor, she stops just for a second, waiting to see if Max is following—and Dove kicks herself inside and out when she hears the back door’s squeak again, knowing he’s left her again—and that she didn’t do anything about it.
“I’m ruined. I suck. I can’t do this.” Melissa repeats the phrase to herself as she flurries around the kitchen trying in vain to get everything prepped on time.
“Problems?” Dove rummages in the cleaning pantry for the brass polish. The kickrail that surrounds the fireplace is tarnished and she needs to finish that before breakfast, just in case the countess wants to relax in the living room. “Oh, here it is.” She holds the Nevr-Dull in her hands and looks at Melissa.
“No—no problems at all, if you take away the fact that I feel completely insane and unqualified for this job.”
“The croissants look great,” Dove says as consolation, gesturing to them with her chin. Melissa notices that Dove doesn’t point. She doesn’t curse, really. She doesn’t fumble or blame.
“Impeccable,” Melissa blurts out.
“Sorry?” Dove asks, her lilting accent going up at the end of the word.
“You. It’s like … since I got here I was trying to find the best word.” Melissa slides a tray of apples into the oven under the broiler for fast cooking. Maybe at some point, she’d have the timing down—or at least wake up in her own bed and have a few extra minutes—but for right now, there are no minutes to spare. Each one is cut-side down, and when they emerge, soft and cooked, Melissa will top them with cinnamon, raisins, and brown sugar, and a dollop of vanilla yogurt. I hope the countess appreciates this, Melissa thinks, stirring the yogurt so it thins out. The countess had mentioned in passing that she has a digestive imbalance, and Melissa knows from her parents, who are big health nuts, that since yogurt is acidophilus-intense, it might help. Melissa pours the yogurt mixture into a small glass pitcher, thinking that while she’s only creating more dishes to wash, everything seems nicer, more elegant when served from proper tableware. Dove doesn’t interrupt her, but watches, patiently waiting. “See?” Melissa says. “You’re just standing there while I’ve taken too long doing this. And you have work to do.”
Dove nods. “Yes. But you were in the middle of saying something. So I’m being patient.”
“But most people aren’t. Or, not all the time.” Meliss
a wipes her hands on the kitchen towel and furrows her brow. Eggs? No. They had them yesterday. What would complete the meal? “We have something bready, something fruity; now we need something indulgent …,” she mutters. Then, to Dove she adds, “Your manners are impeccable. It’s like nothing fazes you.”
Dove accepts this praise—if that’s what it is—and takes a new rag from the cabinet. “It’s just how I was raised.” Then she plucks at a stray hair. “Some things faze me, believe me.”
“Oh,” Melissa says. “Not that I was born under a rock or anything, but … maybe it’s just in comparison to Harley. Or not. I don’t know.” Melissa touches Dove’s hair. “When I was little I had a doll—and I hated dolls, by the way, but my mother insisted on giving me them in the hopes it would make me perfect or pretty or something. So I did weird things with them like throw them in the sea to find out if they’d come back with the tide—and had the dog play catch with them….” Melissa washes her hands for what feels to her like the millionth time, feeling the skin on her fingers pucker. “Anyway, I had a doll called Silver. She had your kind of hair.”
“So I’m like a doll?” Dove wrinkles her nose. “Just because I’m short, people always do that—you know, compare me to an animal or a doll—like I’m so fragile.”
“I never said you were fragile,” Melissa says. “Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s only … I mean, you have fairy-tale hair, the kind that should be trailing down from one of those pointy hats with the veils.” Melissa mimes this and Dove sighs.
“I’m kind of sick of it, to tell the truth,” Dove says, swiping a lock of it against her cheek and looking at it. Then she drops it and fiddles with one of her earrings—a plain diamond stud—and opens her mouth to explain everything—how she got here, what she left—when the oven timer goes off. “I have so much to do. Sorry. Good luck with the meal … it looks lovely, really.” Any impetus to give Melissa her whole story fades with the ding of the bell, which also serves as a reminder that the entire chalet awaits with rumpled linens and dirty bathroom sinks for her to scrub.
Balancing Acts Page 8