LITMIR.BIZ

      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.

      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

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