Читать книгу Southern Belle - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 16

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.

Elm prodded the snow with her pole and thought of Harlan. How strange that he already felt like part of her past. Indeed, everything that had formed her world back in Savannah, her daily activities and commitments, seemed distant and detached. Two weeks ago she’d been deeply involved in the garden project at Oleander that represented so much to her, listening to the heartbreaking stories of the women she’d recruited from the local women’s shelter, admiring them for having the will to survive the abuse they’d suffered. She’d marveled then at the contrast to her own safe, sterilized world, where the worst thing she faced was the inevitable round of fund-raisers and photo-ops with Harlan.

And even though the veil of security had now been stripped away, she suddenly realized that she’d had more in common with those women than she’d have imagined possible. She hoped that, like them, she’d continue to stand firm and tap into some well of inner strength to carve herself a new life. Of course, her life was made much easier than theirs. She had financial security to lean on. But that didn’t make it easy, all the same. The main thing was she’d made a start, she admitted proudly. Since the moment she’d told Meredith to file the divorce papers, she hadn’t had one doubt that she had made the right move.

Elm wiped her glasses and gazed about her. Perhaps she should just stop questioning herself and enjoy the time away.

Although her toes were slowly going numb, Elm adjusted her woollen cap and glasses and gazed about her once more, nose tingling. Her painting had made her an acute observer of her surroundings, but she’d never dared to focus that intense vision on herself. Now was as good a time as any to change that. After all, you could live a whole lifetime in a second, she reflected, drinking in the beauty; it was all up to what you saw, what you made of it, how you let it touch you. And now she was determined to see it all, feel it all, absorb each detail from the trees to the snow and the flickering lights already shining in the village below, which reminded her how late it must be.

The run was empty, she noticed, reflecting that the other skiers were probably sipping glühwein and hot chocolate at Charlie’s Tea Room, or listening to strains of the piano before the vast open fireplace at the Palace Hotel.

Moving her right ski tentatively on the snow, Elm realized uneasily that conditions were fast turning icy. Better get going, she decided, setting off down the hill, anxious now to reach the bottom and make her way back to Gioconda’s chalet.

She was about two-thirds down the slope when she felt her left ski slide out of control. Desperately she tried to recover her balance but without success. Then, to her horror, Elm watched another skier appear out of the trees and glide straight into her path.

Oh, my God! She tried to shout a warning but no sound came.

Next thing Elm knew, she lay tumbled in the snow entangled with a complete stranger, wincing at the string of oaths she heard. Her victim was male and expressed himself in British English. There was no doubt he was seriously upset. Dragging her arm free, Elm mumbled an embarrassed apology and managed to get up.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, mortified, reaching for a fallen ski pole. The man rose, too. He stood several inches above her, likely a good six foot two. Elm cringed, watching as he shook off the excess snow like a goggled St. Bernard, and wished the earth would swallow her up.

“I really am so sorry,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t you look where you’re going?” he muttered, flexing his right arm before removing the pair of shiny goggles and a black woolen hat.

“I’m afraid my ski got caught on the ice and I went out of control. You’re not hurt, are you?” she enquired anxiously.

Their eyes met and all at once he grinned. “Nothing a hot bath and a drink won’t cure,” he replied, scrutinizing her.

“Thank goodness,” Elm murmured, relieved, struck by his dark good looks, bright blue eyes, chiseled features and thick dark hair graying at the temples. He seemed strangely familiar, she realized, frowning. Then, removing her woolen cap, she shook out the snow, tousled her hair and took off her glasses, which had misted up after the fall.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, eyeing her carefully.

“Fine,” she answered, tucking her hat into her pocket. “Look, again, I’m dreadfully sorry. It was all my fault. I lost control of my skis on an icy patch up there.”

“That’s okay.” He glanced at the darkening sky around them. “Better get to the bottom before we end up skating down this thing, though. I’ll lead the way.”

Elm was about to protest at his arbitrary attitude of command when a quick look at the ominous shadows cast by pine trees changed her mind. Perhaps it was no bad thing the stranger wanted to lead the way. With a shrug she followed him. He was obviously an ace skier, though she had no difficulty following him to the bottom of the slope, despite the increasingly icy conditions. She just wasn’t going to break her neck trying to prove herself, she decided, shushing down the run after him.

Leaning on his ski poles at the bottom of the slope, Johnny Graney watched appreciatively as the slim, white-clad figure crossed the last few hundred yards, then made a neat sharp stop next to him.

“Okay?” he inquired solicitously.

“Fine.” Elm pressed the tip of her pole into the back of her binding. Johnny followed suit, wishing she’d remove her glasses once more so that he could catch another glimpse of those incredible brown eyes, such an unusual contrast to the blond mass falling about her shoulders. At least if he was going to be rammed into by a strange woman, he reflected philosophically, then by all means let it be by a beautiful one.

As though guessing his silent wish, Elm stood in the snow, shook her skis, then removed her glasses. For a moment he frowned. He knew that face, was certain he’d seen it before. Was she an actress? Someone he’d met in London or New York? He flexed his memory while removing his own equipment, determined to find out who she was.

“How about a glühwein or a hot chocolate in the village?” he threw casually, surprising himself.

“Oh, I really don’t think—”

“You said you were sorry for running into me.” He grinned, eyes flashing in his bronzed face. “Make up for it by joining me.”

Elm was about to refuse when she suddenly realized that, actually, she wouldn’t mind having a drink with this handsome stranger. It was Gstaad, after all, not Chicago. Everybody knew one another.

“Okay, why not?” She smiled.

“Great. Maybe we should introduce ourselves. In a formal manner,” he added, lips twitching as he removed his right glove.

Elm grinned ruefully and did the same.

“You first,” he urged in a smooth British accent.

“Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia.”

“Pleased to meet you, Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia. I’m Johnny Graney from Ireland slash Pittsburgh, U.S.A.” A warm tingle coursed through Elm’s fingers. Then all at once, memory jogged, realization dawned and she drew them back quickly.

“Johnny Graney?”

“Guilty.” He sent her a curious glance. “This sounds like a line, but haven’t we met before?”

“Uh, as a matter of fact, we have,” Elm responded, feeling as if she’d been thrown into a time warp. Johnny Graney had been her first serious crush, the boy she’d mooned over some twenty years earlier. It came as something of a shock to realize just how much time had elapsed—and, apparently, how much she must have changed, she reflected with a touch of humor. Johnny was clearly having a hell of a time trying to place her.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I—” He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’m afraid I just don’t remember.”

“How flattering,” Elm replied dryly. “But it makes sense. At the time, you were only peripherally aware of my existence.”

“I was?” His face took on a look of comical horror. “You must be joking,” he added, throwing up his hands. “If I’d ever met you, even for a split second, I’m certain I’d remember.”

Elm burst out laughing and watched his face color with polite embarrassment. He’d been a dangerous flirt back then, and every girl’s hero. She couldn’t resist teasing him a little longer. “I can see I made a lasting impression on you,” she said, glancing down. “It’s kind of cold. Shall we move?” Picking up her skis, she acquiesced when he immediately insisted on carrying them with his own.

“Look, I feel awful. At least give me a hint,” he begged.

“Should I?” she taunted, eyeing him playfully, deliciously aware that she was flirting, something she hadn’t done in years.

“Come on, be a sport. Heck, you almost massacred me back there. Are you planning torture, too? What kind of a woman are you?” He raised an amused brow, and Elm smiled sweetly.

“It’s too cold for conversation.”

“Okay. The Palace Hotel—I promise a table next to the fireplace if you tell me who you are and where we met.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Elm Hathaway from Savannah, Georgia,” he said thoughtfully, placing their skis on the back of a new silver Range Rover. “I know that rings a bell somewhere.”

“This is really quite demoralizing,” she pouted, sighing heavily as he held the door of the vehicle for her. “To think I’ve changed to the point of being unrecognizable—”

“I never said that, I merely—”

“I know,” she continued, enjoying the game. “You meet so many women it’s hard to keep track. Don’t worry, I understand.” She sent him a sympathetic, pitying look.

“Hey! Hold it,” he exclaimed, coming around and getting in the driver’s seat, rallying as he turned the key in the ignition. “If it was a long time ago as you’re implying, maybe you were a skinny, gawky little thing. A sort of ugly duckling who’s since turned into a swan.”

“A skinny ugly duckling—” Elm spluttered, laughing, “I was never an ugly duckling.”

“In that case, you’ll just have to help me out,” he insisted, driving out of the parking lot.

“I don’t know.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Seeing you strain your memory is rather satisfying,” she remarked, leaning against the cream-colored leather, remembering the numerous times she’d haunted the basketball court and the soccer field, just waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

“I give up,” Johnny declared dramatically as the four-wheel-drive vehicle wound down the mountain and back toward the village.

“What, so easily?” She raised a brow and looked him over with a sly grin. “I seem to recall a certain basketball team captain rallying his players with a speech about never giving up and fighting until the death, et cetera, et cetera…quite dramatic stuff, really,” she added with a sigh, “and so disappointing to know it no longer holds true.”

The car braked abruptly. “My God.” He turned and stared at her. “Now I remember. Little Elm Hathaway, the Southern belle from Savannah. You had a picture of me under your pillow—” a slow wicked grin dawned “—and that bitch Janine whatever-her-name-was stole it and showed it to the whole school at dinner.”

“Yes, well, we don’t need to dwell on that,” Elm muttered hastily, blushing despite herself. It had proved the most lowering experience. “Uh, I think there’s a car behind you,” she added, trying to divert his attention.

Johnny took his eyes off her and drove once more. “Well, well. It’s a small world indeed.” He flashed her another sidelong grin. “My only excuse for not recognizing you at once are the developments since then.”

“Developments?” Elm eyed him suspiciously.

“Put it this way, you were, uh…proportionally different.”

“Proportionally?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

As he watched her expectantly, clearly daring her to take the bait, it occurred to Elm that she was way out of her depth. This man was obviously a practiced playboy and entirely too aware of his own appeal. But boy, this was fun. Curiosity won and she raised a questioning brow. “Okay, I’ll bite. So tell me, was I a freak?”

“No,” he said, turning into the parking lot of the Palace, then drawing up under the porch where the valet hastened down the steps. “But even you must admit that you were a bit of a gangly girl—lovely, of course, but gangly all the same. Whereas now,” he drawled, “you look every inch a woman—with certain inches being especially impressive.”

She blushed. Well, she’d asked for that, she realized, feeling his gaze intent upon her and grateful that the valet had opened her door, providing her with a quick escape.

Elm alighted from the vehicle and strode up the steps toward the hotel entrance, ruefully aware that the passage of twenty years had done nothing to strengthen her defenses against Johnny’s charm. Thankfully, he didn’t mean anything by his nonsense; he’d probably used that line a thousand times. Johnny Graney, she reflected with a grin, was obviously a serial flirt.

And luckily, she assured herself, she was smart enough to realize it.