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“Who says we like smart and independent?” Johnny queried with a teasing gleam.
“Well!” Grace huffed. “Anything would be better than that creature you were parading at the Kentucky Derby last year.”
“True, Mother, a mistake, I admit,” Johnny conceded, remembering the model he’d invited at the last minute. “And as for trying to push suitable women in my direction, Mother dearest, please don’t.” He rose, shoved his hands in the wide pockets of the robe and sent her a laughing but firm smile.
“He’s right, Mother, no canny little intros, okay?” Liam seconded.
“You’re both impossible.” Grace threw up her hands, sank among the cushions and shook her head. But she smiled all the same. “I suppose I just have to be thankful for small mercies,” she sighed, referring, Johnny knew perfectly well, to Nicky’s summary disposing of Lucia.
With a laugh he left the room and headed on upstairs, planning to get on with some work before the holiday really began.
6
Dusk hovered, enveloping the small old-fashioned mountain train as it began its gentle climb into the Swiss Alps, leaving Montreux and Lake Geneva below, shrouded in a veil of December evening mist.
Seated in the wide velvet seat of the carriage, tired after the exertions of the journey and the tension of the past few days, Elm leaned back, folded her hands and looked about her appreciatively, relaxed for the first time since boarding the plane in Atlanta. It was exactly as she remembered: the carved wooden bar serving hot chocolate and tea, the gleaming brass luggage rails and pristine starched white linen squares to lay your head against. She smiled, feeling her jet lag dissipate, strangely comforted by the discovery that time had preserved her memories.
Leaving Savannah and the plantation had proved much easier than she’d expected. In fact, as momentous as the step away from that world had seemed, actually taking it had been surprisingly simple, and she was almost dizzy with relief. Not even the lingering concern that her father would be disappointed and angry about what she’d done was enough to dim her newfound sense of conviction.
Harlan and the pain of his betrayal couldn’t touch her here, she realized, her smile growing, illuminating her soft brown eyes and curving her full mouth. She savored the sense of freedom, suddenly grateful that she was seated by herself on the MOB and heading to Gstaad, a place where she’d gone to boarding school and spent so many happy moments of her adolescence. A month ago she wouldn’t have believed it possible. But then, a month ago she’d still been drifting in a gray fog of denial. And now her vision had cleared.
Elm glanced around the carriage and wondered if all she’d lived through the past few days showed. Her lips twitched. She doubted that the plump gray-haired lady in the seat diagonally opposite, reading a newspaper through thick, purposeful lenses, was remotely interested in her carriage-mate’s tribulations. The knowledge that no one here knew—that absolutely no one would send pitying glances, make catty or well-meaning remarks—was bliss. Not that those things should matter, she reminded herself. She’d followed society’s rules and dictates for too long, and all they’d ever brought her was pain and anguish. From now on, she vowed, she’d make her own rules.
With a satisfied if still shaky sigh, she peered through the large train window, but the brightly lit carriage made it hard to see out. For a moment she stared at her own reflection with new awareness. She was filing for divorce, turning her well-ordered world upside down. But despite all the upheaval, the tension lines around her mouth had eased and her eyes held a glimmer of something—could it be hope?—that she hadn’t seen for some time. Maybe it was just an illusion, but the mere fact she’d found the courage to come here filled her with a sense of optimistic expectation, as if she’d been given a new lease on life. She was thirty-four years old, yet inside she felt fifteen, suddenly young and ready to face her future all over again.
Pressing her forehead against the chilled windowpane, Elm bit her lip and gazed at the ice-covered stream hugging the railroad tracks. Above the stream, dark pine trees grew taller and taller as the train climbed, their thick branches sagging under the weight of sharp icicles and ten inches of fresh snow.
Elm swallowed and finally let out the long breath she’d been holding. She had every reason to agonize, but so many more to rejoice. After all, she’d faced the truth, confronted the fact that she’d been living in a sleepy world of illusion, and finally forced herself to wake up and take the upper hand. Her one regret was that it had taken her this long. Of course, the immediate future was easy—a long-awaited and much-needed vacation. Going back would be far more complicated. Aunt Frances—the one person other than Meredith whom she’d revealed her plans to—had said as much.
And Aunt Fran was right. There would surely be times ahead when she’d miss the stability, however stultifying, of her former life. Living on her own in her home city, where people would still think of her as Senator Hathaway’s daughter and Harlan MacBride’s wife, might prove very uncomfortable. There would be the inevitable snide comments and cold shoulders, perhaps even a tabloid assault full of distortions. But right now she didn’t care about any of it. She’d face that hurdle when she came to it.
For frankly, she no longer cared what people thought. Savannah would just have to get with the new program or go get a life, she decided, breathing on the pane and drawing a smiley face on the glass with her fingertip. Then she remembered her father and her finger stilled, her ebullience fading. She loved him dearly, and the knowledge that he would never understand her reasons for divorcing Harlan, however valid, made her profoundly sad. She took a deep breath and sat back against the green velvet seat, acknowledging that this was the main reason, however cowardly, that she’d left Savannah without leaving word of where she was going. Aunt Frances had insisted, in her uniquely feisty fashion, that like it or not, Daddy was going to have to learn to put his daughter first for once. But Elm knew there was little use trying to explain. He would never listen. He’d merely offer irrefutable arguments about why her choices were all wrong.
The carriage door opened, cutting short her negative thoughts and the inevitable guilty feelings they aroused. Instead, Elm concentrated on the rotund, pink-cheeked ticket controller dressed in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform, a bright red leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Présentez les billets, s’il vous plaît.”
Elm responded easily, happy to see her French wasn’t too rusty, and produced her ticket. It felt good to hear that slow lilting Swiss accent once more, to know she was truly back. Then, as she returned the ticket to her large Hermès purse, another attendant appeared offering refreshments. She wasn’t at all thirsty, but the idea of tasting steaming hot Swiss chocolate again was irresistible. So what if it was loaded with calories and cholesterol? Her personal trainer wasn’t here to harp at her, was she? In fact, not one single person here would criticize or tell her how she should be leading her life.
Rebelliously tossing her hair back, Elm smiled at the woman and ordered a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. A minute later she was taking the piping-hot cup from the gracious attendant, breathing in the delicious, un-forgettable aroma, eyes watering as she sipped cautiously. Savoring the familiar taste, she was able now to take a critical look back at her moves over the past few days. To her own amazement, she, who’d always been considered vague and fey, had proved immensely efficient. She’d found replacements for all her charity duties, handing over the garden project to Joan Murdoch, her competent assistant, who was more than happy to oblige. She had packed up her paints and canvases and left instructions for the staff at Oleander and the house in town, as though she hopped off to Europe at the blink of an eyelid every day of the year. She’d even managed to find someone to man her booth at the Daughters of the Confederacy bazaar—no mean feat, since the fund-raiser was notorious for being the most tedious event of Savannah’s holiday season.
Incredible, she mused, relishing the rich, creamy drink and her own capabilities. Life had sent her an inside curve ball, and instead of despairing, she’d rallied and was experiencing an exhilarating rush of satisfaction. And it was incredibly uplifting to be free of Harlan’s constant recriminations and barbs, and her father’s subtle disapproval, she reflected ruefully. He always made her feel as though she could be doing better.
Placing her hand against the glass once more, Elm peered out again through the growing darkness to the twinkling lights of the distant chalets dotted on the snowy peaks. What must it be like to live up in a small wooden mountain dwelling, cozily ensconced behind red-and-white-checkered curtains, a blazing fire roaring in a rustic chimney? she wondered dreamily. She could easily imagine a family—little blond-pigtailed girls and boys in smocks—seated round a carved kitchen table, digging into large portions of rösti, the delicious Swiss equivalent of hash browns, and commenting on their day’s work, their hopes and fears. The cows would be huddled in the barns for the winter now, each animal ensconced in a stall with its name carefully painted above, next to the huge bells that would be donned again in spring when they returned to pasture and joined the poya—the famous yearly trek up into the legendary Swiss Alps.
As she stared deep into the night, following a tiny beam of light flickering up on the mountain, Elm remembered that as a student here, she’d been drawn to the sense of timeless serenity the mountains exuded, to the quiet rhythms of alpine life, always envying its apparent simplicity. Of course, now she knew that life, no matter where it was lived, was never simple.
The train stopped at several stations. First Les Avants, where in May the slopes were covered in radiant white blankets of sweet-smelling narcissus. Then Château-d’Oex, where Aunt Frances and her mother, whom she could barely recall, had attended finishing school long ago. Then the train chuffed past Rougemont—wow, how the town had grown, there had never been that many lights before—with its ancient seventeenth-century chalets bordering the tracks, and on, down into the low-lying mists of the Saanenland toward her final destination.
It was snowing hard when the train finally pulled into Gstaad station and Elm got up, excited, her tall, slim figure clad in elegant suede pants and a cashmere sweater, and hastened to the door of the compartment. She smiled and thanked a kind middle-aged man who stepped forward and helped her remove her luggage from the rack. Then, pulling on her long mink coat, she flung open the window and leaned perilously out before the train had come to a complete stop, watching eagerly as another slim, fur-clad figure hurried down the tiny platform, waving.
“Gio! Oh, my God!” She laughed, immediately recognizing Gioconda and waving back enthusiastically. As the train came to a halt she hauled her bags down to the platform and the two women tumbled into each other’s arms.
“Cara, I can’t believe it. You’ve finally made it! You should have let me send the car to the airport to meet you, darling, instead of using this uncivilized public transport,” Gioconda exclaimed, enveloping her in a perfumed embrace before beckoning to the porter. “Take the bags to the car over there, please.” She pointed and smiled, then turned once more, holding Elm at arm’s length and looking her over critically. “Bella. How marvelous to see you. You look beautiful, as always. A little pale perhaps, but that will soon be taken care of. I’m so thrilled you came.” She gave Elm another hug.
“So am I,” Elm’s eyes glistened as they linked arms and followed the porter under gently falling snowflakes to a gleaming four-wheel drive parked on the curb next to the yellow postal bus. Elm glanced at it nostalgically, welcoming yet another reminder of her school days.
While Gioconda chattered, Elm stared at her surroundings, allowing it all to sink in, still unable to believe she’d actually made it back to “her” mountain. She bit her lip and stood, hand on the car door, looking up through the snowflakes at the Palace Hotel, still rising like an enchanted castle, turrets brightly illuminated above the fairy-tale village, casting its magic spell over the wooden chalets lying peacefully below, their pointed eaves outlined by tiny trails of Christmas lights. Elm breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the chilly mountain air, and sighed. Already she felt like a different woman, as though she’d finally stepped out of a quagmire onto solid land.
“Stop painting pictures in your head and get into the car, cara,” Gioconda urged, laughing, moving to the driver’s seat while the porter placed the bags in the back.
Elm smiled absently and climbed into the vehicle. Barbra Streisand’s “Memories” played on the CD deck. It was wonderfully appropriate. For a moment her eyes filled, and she leaned back against the soft leather seat, overwhelmed by emotion. Gioconda drove past the skating rink, where a group of young girls in bright, billowing ice-skating skirts twirled gracefully under the heavy flakes, like ballerinas in a music box. Elm swallowed hard, touched by how perfect it all was, how untainted and lovely and precious. Almost too good to be true.
Could seventeen years really have passed since she’d done figure eights on that same ice herself? And what had she achieved since then? she wondered. Then she pulled herself up with a jolt. It was pointless to get maudlin, as Aunt Frances would say. What mattered was that she was here now, almost as though she’d had to return to her beginnings to start all over again.
“I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone,” Gioconda was saying, bringing Elm back to the present. “There are several people already in town. A couple of old Roséens, Jim Talbot for one. Remember how fat he used to be?”
“No wonder. He lived at von Siebenthal’s bakery eating doughnuts, if I remember correctly.”
“Damn right. Anyway, he’s quite slim now.”
Elm shook her head. It all seemed part of another world and she felt suddenly ashamed that, barring Gio, she had not kept in touch with her old school pals.
“You’ll never believe me when I tell you who I saw the other evening.”
“Who?” Elm asked, grinning.
“Johnny Graney. Now, you remember him. You had a mega crush on him.”
Elm frowned, then nodded, laughing. “Of course I remember. Is he still as devastatingly handsome? I used to lurk around the basketball court during practice, hoping for a glimpse of that killer smile. Gosh, how silly we were in those days.”
“Deliciously, wonderfully silly,” Gioconda agreed, driving through the tunnel, then out at the roundabout and past the mölkerei—the local dairy.
“Gee, it’s still there,” Elm exclaimed, delighted to see so little had changed. “Are the yoghurts still as scrumptious?”
“Absolutely. You’ll have some for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
They turned right and drove on, up past the Park Hotel. A few meters later the car veered right again into a small side road and Elm could see Gioconda’s chalet twinkling through the layer of snow being swished rhythmically back and forth by the windshield wipers.
“I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed, a frisson coursing through her. “Everything looks exactly the same,” she marveled as they turned into the driveway and she was able to distinguish the chalet properly. “Do you remember all those wonderful weekends and vacations we used to spend here, Gio? It seems like only yesterday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Gio groaned dramatically, “I’ll be thirty-four next month. Can you imagine? Me? Positively ancient.”
“Rubbish,” Elm laughed, “You’re as gorgeous now, Contessa, as you’ve always been and you know it.”
“Bah! Non lo so. The men seem to think so, but I have a mirror. I’m seriously contemplating some of those injections I hear so much about.” Gioconda’s eyes twinkled. Then she shrugged as only Italians can shrug and sent Elm a mischievous grin. “But, anyway, you’ll be happy to know, cara, that the chalet only looks the same on the outside. I’ve redecorated the interior completely, thank God,” she added. “Remember those dreadful brown velvet chairs of my grandmother’s?”
“I do.” Elm grinned back, recalling Gioconda’s pithy comments at the time. At fifteen, Gio had already possessed a tremendous sense of style, she realized, amused. “What color are they now?”
“Mercifully they don’t exist anymore.” Gioconda gave a dramatic shudder. “I donated them to the Salvation Army. And frankly, darling, I’m not even sure they wanted them.” She pressed the automatic garage door, which opened immediately.
“Those doors always remind me of a spaceship,” Elm remarked, tilting her head dreamily. “Like in those movies where a spacecraft opens and you get zapped inside and—”
“Mamma mia. You haven’t changed in the slightest. Always that incredible imagination at work,” Gioconda exclaimed, laughing. “Still painting a lot, cara? I loved your last exhibition. And by the way, Franco and Gianni are still dying to do that exhibit in Florence we talked about.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Elm mused. All at once, a project that a few months ago had seemed a logistically impossible project struck her as challenging and exciting.
“Well, that’s a positive change,” Gio remarked, surprised. “The last time I mentioned it, you spurned the idea outright.”
“The last time you mentioned it, I was still living in La La Land,” Elm answered ruefully as the vehicle crawled into the garage.
“Ah, poverina,” Gio exclaimed sympathetically. “I suppose escaping into your fantasy world was the only way to bear that self-absorbed husband of yours. I’ll never understand why you married him,” she added, shaking her head, her well-cut, silky, shoulder-length black hair swinging elegantly.
“I guess it seemed a good idea at the time,” Elm replied with a noncommittal shrug. “But he won’t be my husband for much longer.”
“Thank God for that! When you told me you were leaving him and planning to get divorced, I made Umberto open a bottle of the vintage Crystal. We drank to your future and recalled all the good times.”
“Umberto! It’s amazing that he still works for you after all these years,” Elm smiled, fondly remembering the Mancini family butler.
“You bet. He still bosses everyone around and makes a general nuisance of himself. Nonno—you remember my grandfather?”
“Of course.”
“Well, Nonno offered to buy him a nice house in Umberto’s village in Sicily, and take care of him and his family.”
“And?”
“He was so insulted that the matter was never brought up again.”
Elm laughed. “I can believe that.”
“Frankly, I don’t know what Nonno would do without him. They still spend hours going over the defeat at Monte Cassino. They’re certain that if only they’d been the ones leading the Italian troops, history would have taken a different turn.” Gioconda parked neatly next to a shiny red Ferrari.
“Yours?” Elm quirked an amused brow in the direction of the car.
“But of course, bella. I haven’t changed. I’m still as extravagant as ever. Ah! There’s Maria.” Gio waved at the uniformed maid preparing to unload the car.
“Buona sera, signora.”
“Good evening.” Elm smiled back graciously, before following her friend up the carpeted steps.
At the top Gioconda pushed open the paneled wooden door and held it wide while Elm passed through.
“Benvenuto, cara. It’s wonderful to have you back.”
“It’s wonderful to be back,” Elm murmured, taking stock of the hall. “Wow, Gio, it’s totally different, perfectly divine,” she marveled, gazing appreciatively at the pine-paneled walls of the entrance, the regional antiques, the imaginative floral arrangements of wild flowers and berries. “That’s fantastic,” she exclaimed, enchanted, pointing to two heavy wax candles in wrought-iron stands flickering invitingly on an ancient wooden chest. “And that scent. I know that scent.” She stopped, closed her eyes and sniffed, breathing in the subtle mélange of cloves, pine and something deliciously mysterious. “It’s simply enchanting,” she murmured, delighted, fingers trailing lovingly over the polished wood, “Just lovely. Trust you to do a perfect job, Gio.”
“Glad you approve, cara,” Gio pulled off her fur jacket and reached for Elm’s coat. “Now, before we settle down to a well-deserved glass of champagne, I’ll take you up to your room. Umberto, siamo qui…” she called, throwing the coats over the carved hall chair. “He can’t hear a thing, poor old darling, deaf as a post.”
“Signora Contessa?” Umberto, on the alert, appeared out of nowhere, the same picture of unaltered ancient dignity that Elm recalled so well.
“Look,” Gioconda exclaimed, grabbing Elm’s arm, “look who’s finally returned to us!”
“Ah! Signora, quanti anni.” Umberto clasped Elm’s hand, his creased face breaking into a delighted smile. Elm returned the pressure, eyes moist. It was like opening a picture book and finding herself back in her own personal fairy tale, a bittersweet reminder of just how much and how little had taken place since.
“It’s marvelous to be back, Umberto,” she murmured, deeply touched, smiling into his kind old face, remembering all the times he’d left the door unlatched for them, the midnight snacks and the scolds. It was like time travel, and again her eyes stung.
“Enough,” Gioconda declared, grabbing Elm’s hand. “Now we will make some fine new memories!” She winked, dark eyes flashing. “I have another surprise for you, bella. Come on.” Like an excited child, she dragged Elm up the stairs, then down the tapestry-covered corridor to a door at the end.
Elm threw her head back and laughed, caught up in Gioconda’s contagious enthusiasm. When she peeked inside as her friend opened the bedroom door, she caught her breath and clasped her hands. “Oh Gio, it’s simply gorgeous,” she exclaimed, stepping into the room.
“You like it? I had it completely redone as soon as you said you were coming. They finished yesterday,” she giggled.
Enchanted, Elm moved about the room, touched more by the generosity of Gioconda’s gesture than the actual, undeniable loveliness of the decor itself. A luxurious mink throw lay strewn over a long ottoman at the foot of the king-size canopied bed, draped with old rose Toile de Jouy curtains that matched the walls. Scattered lamps shed their gentle glow about the room, their reflections shimmering in the large pine-framed mirror above the antique dressing table. It was feminine and sophisticated, warm and welcoming, everything she’d dreamed of during the chilling loneliness of the past two weeks. Turning, she embraced her friend tight.
“Thank you, Gio. This means more to me than you can possibly know.”
“Now, now, cara,” Gio scolded gruffly, wiping a tear from her own eyes. “There’s more.”
“More?”
“Look.” Gioconda moved and flung open another door. “Bathroom and walk-in closet, and over here,” she continued, moving toward two heavy quilted curtains, “is your very own special little nook.” She swept back the drapes with a flourish. “Voilà!”
Elm peered inside and let out a long sigh. “You’ve out-done yourself,” she murmured, stepping into the cozy little sitting room lined with carved pine bookshelves. A plump love seat piled high with tasseled velvet and brocade cushions stood invitingly before a blazing open fire, while more fat wax candles guttered gently on the low coffee table next to an array of glossy magazines and a basket of scented potpourri. “What can I say?” she whispered, raising her manicured hands expressively. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
“If not for my dearest friend, then who would I do it for?” Gio laughed, thrilled at Elm’s reaction.
“I guess all I can say is a huge thank you.” The two women hugged again and Elm felt a warm glow of happiness.
“Now freshen up, cara. Umberto’s probably already uncorking the champagne,” Gio ordered. “And don’t worry about unpacking, Maria will deal with it later.”
Once she was alone in the room, Elm sank down, smiling, onto the well-sprung bed. She bounced on it twice, then sighed with pleasure. It was like waking up in a new world with no worries, no haunting shadows, and no doubts. It seemed that the mountain’s peace was finally hers to share once more.
Jumping up, all her fatigue forgotten, Elm pulled a hairbrush out of her purse and dragged it through the long strands falling on the shoulders of her white cashmere sweater. She’d made up her mind to have a true break, hadn’t she? To get her life in perspective before returning and facing the future. And that, she decided firmly, was exactly what she would do. She would live each precious moment of this blissful interlude to the hilt, savor each instant, engrave each sensation inside, then return to her own world a stronger and better person, able to face the decisions she would have to make.
And for the first time ever, she reminded herself proudly, those decisions would be hers alone to make.
7
Elm slid off the chairlift at the top of the Wassengrat run and straightened her ski poles. No more champagne anytime before Christmas, she swore, blinking and shaking her head, recalling the magnum her friends had insisted on opening last night to celebrate what her Old Rosey pals termed as her “return to the fold.” There were several of them at the delightful brasserie and club, where she’d sat on the zebra bench, enchanted, as old stories were exchanged and fun times recalled, and also a little ashamed that she’d lost touch with so many wonderful people. But they’d scoffed at her embarrassment, and made her feel so welcome, so at home, as though she hadn’t spent the past seventeen years away in a different world.
Now, after a long, delicious lunch accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux at the Eagle Club with Gioconda and several of her newfound friends—including Franco and Gianni, who were already excitedly planning the Florence exhibit of her paintings—Elm had spent what remained of the afternoon skiing with her pro, Rudy, whom she’d taken leave of at the bottom of the chairlift. Then, even though the hour was late, she’d decided to do one last run on her own.
It felt good to be by herself for a short while, skiing past the clusters of dark pines, taking her own lazy time to slide gracefully down the slope in the fresh virgin snow, feeling the cool wind whipping color into her cheeks and new life into her lungs. She’d often dreamed of these moments when things had been particularly dreary back home, when, lying languidly in the old canvas hammock, seeping in the damp summer heat under the protective shade of the live oaks, she’d picture herself shushing down the mountain, inhaling this crisp, invigorating air. Now that she was finally here, she felt revitalized.
It occurred to her that, since arriving in Gstaad, she’d had none of the symptoms that had so troubled her of late in Savannah. The dizzy spells had passed, the nausea subsided. Had it all been in her head? she wondered. Probably just a physical manifestation of the inner misery she’d been unwilling to acknowledge, she decided cynically.
She slowed, then stopped next to a knot of pines, watching the rays of soft winter sun indulge in a final flirt with the glistening white peaks before sinking gracefully into the valley. Although she’d left the States before learning the results of the extensive blood work ordered by Dr. Ashby, the Atlanta specialist Doc Philips had referred her to, she was certain now the tests would prove normal. Boy, was it good to feel like herself again. She smiled and gazed about her once more, capturing the beauty of the moment, the sun sinking behind the mountain, the range so clearly etched in the late afternoon light.
