Southern Belle

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.