Swept Away

Veronica hesitated, saw the tears in Jenny’s eyes, turned and rushed across the street. Jenny wouldn’t want to be seen crying.

She spent the next day storing her valuables and securing her house. Then she packed her bags, put them in the foyer, stuffed a few things in a small suitcase and left for her parents’ home in Pickett, North Carolina.

As she’d expected, her stepfather was not pleased about her plans. “How can you just walk away from what you devoted your entire adult life to? It bothers me seeing you this way, like you don’t care what happens. Stay here with us for a while and get yourself together.”

“I’m taking some leave I’ve got coming to me, Papa. When that’s up, I’ll have to make a final decision about the job.”

“That’s better, but don’t walk away from it like you could get another one just because you asked for it.”

She looked into her stepfather’s sad eyes and knew that for the first time in her life she was going to ignore his advice, to disobey him, and she hurt—not for herself, but for the man who had sacrificed so much for her. But she drew a measure of contentment from her mother’s words, telling her that she should always be true to herself.

“Your papa means well, and he’s even right. But if you feel you have to find what’s missing in your life, honey, do it now. Right now when you’re free, when it won’t affect anyone but you. Don’t compromise on important things.” Veronica noticed that she released a long, labored breath. “And always be sure of what you feel.” She patted Veronica’s hand. “I’ll be so glad when spring comes.”

After supper, Veronica sat alone on the back porch. As a child, she’d spent many lonely hours on the porch of their old house, knowing the world around her and dreaming of the universe that she had yet to discover. She’d known the approaching automobiles by the sound of their motors and the screech of their tires, knew the neighbor who chopped wood by the rhythmic noise of his ax, recognized every dog by its bark. She had loved the old porch and had given every splintered slab of wood its own name and its own story, had imagined them as ships that took her to special places. An only child, she’d spent most of her childhood alone while her parents worked at whatever jobs they could find. She glanced around at the lovely porch furniture, the yellow brick walls, and the yellow curtains that blew out of the kitchen windows. For the last four years, she had enabled her parents to live comfortably, and she would see that they always did, but she had to follow her dream. An early spring breeze whistled around her, and she tugged her woolen sweater closer, gazed up at the sky illumined with millions of stars and thought about Schyler. If only…A shudder passed through her. Too late for that.

The next morning she kissed her parents goodbye. “I’ll be in Europe for a while, Papa. Write me in care of American Express.”

She went back to Owings Mills, got the bags she’d left in her foyer and took a Swissair flight to Switzerland.

“I’m going to do everything I always wanted to do and see the things I’ve longed to see,” she promised herself as her Swiss guide helped her strap on her ski boots.

“You’ve only had two lessons, and you’ve done pretty well, miss, but you’re not skilled enough to go chasing down these mountains by yourself,” Tomass, her German-Swiss guide cautioned her.

Emboldened by her early success and invigorated by the calm, crisp mountain air, she felt as if she could soar over the snow-covered peaks that surrounded her.

“I’ll be careful, Tomass. Promise.”

He finished lacing her boots and towered over her, reminding her of Schyler. “If you respect these mountains, they’ll respect you. Some champion skiers have gotten careless or cocky and breathed their last breath right here.”

They compromised. She bought another hour of his time, and they skied together, her cares falling away like discarded clothing as they flew with the wind at her back.

“We’d better call it quits,” he said, two hours later. “Be sure to get a hot tub, because every bone you’ve got will be screaming.” At the chalet she thanked him, returned the rented skis and set out for a hike across the lush, green valley.

Beauty as far as she could see. She hadn’t known that the Alps, the grand mountain range of Europe that stretched from Italy through France and Switzerland to Austria, was of such imposing grandeur, so spectacular a feast for the eyes. She walked briskly, marveling at herself and the world around her, hardly able to believe she’d just skied on the Jungfraujoch, that rugged prize of the Swiss Alps that stood 11,333 feet at its peak and where skiers had challenged nature for over 850 years. At its foot nestled Grindelwald, arguably one of the most scenic places on earth. She gaped, spellbound, when her eyes first beheld it. Then she turned away from the awe-inspiring scene of snow-covered mountain, green valley and alpine roses that perfumed the air, wanting to banish the desire to have Schyler Henderson hold her hand as she stood there. She took a deep breath and quickened her strides through the meadow, enjoying a feeling of spiritual renewal.

Bewitched by the scenery, she lost track of time and place. Against the majestic white peaks, wildflowers of every color littered the fields, putting to shame the Ricola television advertisements.

“Guten Tag, Fraulein. Where you headed?”

She hadn’t seen the man as she strolled along deep in thought. “Hello. Where’m I going? Well…nowhere special. I’m just walking.”

The tall, blue-eyed blond gazed at her with frank appreciation of what he saw. “It gets dark early in these mountains. Where you staying? There’s no lodging anywhere near here.”

She noticed that he said it matter-of-fact-like, as though her situation were hopeless. “I’m staying at a hotel in Interlaken.”

“Interlaken? You’re at least a three-hour trek from there. You’d better come with me.”

Go with this stranger? She didn’t think so. She smiled her best I’m-in-charge smile. “Thanks, but I’ll get there okay.”

She didn’t fool him. “By morning you could be covered with snow. You don’t know these mountains, miss. You’d better come with me.”

He started to walk away and tendrils of fear unfurled through every molecule of her body. Suppose he was right. “Wait. Where are you—?”

His piercing eyes, as blue as the clearest sky, didn’t smile when he said, “Home. My parents will put you up. There’s no moon tonight, so I have to get there before dark. Nothing to fear. So come.”

He walked on, so she followed him, and followed, and followed until she thought her knees would crack.

“How…how much farther is it? I’m winded.”

He pointed to a distant light, the only other sign of life for as far as she could see. “Another couple of kilometers or so. Come along now.”

Another two miles. She stifled a groan and geared up her strength. When at last she stumbled into the two-story, unpainted chalet with its sloping roof and windows lined with boxes of blooming geraniums, she felt as if she hadn’t an ounce of energy left.

“Papa,” her rescuer told the older man who greeted them at the door, “she’s lost, so she’s staying the night.”

Words were exchanged in German, and for a while she wondered if the old man would let her stay. But he smiled, shook hands with her, and switching to French, asked her name. When she told him, he welcomed her and called his wife, from whom she received another welcome. Veronica followed the woman up the rustic stairs to a cheerful room. She’d never seen so many handmade quilts, hand-embroidered sheets and pillowcases as were stacked on shelving in the room. She thanked the woman and dropped into the nearest chair.

“Nous prendrons le dîner dans quelque minutes,” the woman said, as though anyone who didn’t speak German would speak French. “We eat in a few minutes.” Veronica followed the woman to the bathroom, which was clearly the only one in the house, for a woman’s shower cap hung on the same hook as a man’s razor strop and razor. She hadn’t known that men still used them. Glad for the chance to refresh herself, she did so as best she could. She went back to her room, and a short time later, heard a knock on her door.

“Miss Overton, we’re ready to eat.”

She opened the door, and he stared down at her. “My name is Kurt.”

He left her standing there and headed down the stairs, giving her no choice but to follow. As soon as she got to a bookstore that carried English titles, she intended to read about the Swiss culture. Unless she was missing a beat, the status of Swiss women was not too high. In the dining room, whose centerpiece was an enormous stone fireplace over which hung a rifle, several oil-filled lanterns and a large, noisy cuckoo clock, Kurt’s parents and a man she assumed was his brother sat at the table waiting for them. Kurt’s father said grace, a long soulful-sounding supplication in German. Then he introduced her to his other son, Jon. The family ate without conversation of any kind, limited their words to requests for the meat, or the bread or whatever else was wanted. They drank wine with their dinner, but she declined, thinking it best to face the night with a clear head. After the meal, the woman of the house refused Veronica’s offer to help clean up, but Veronica wasn’t certain that she was expected to sit around the fire with the men.

Kurt’s father lit his pipe and cleared his throat. “You understand French perfectly?” he asked her in French.

She told him she knew what was being said.

“Good,” he replied in French, “my son Kurt needs a woman, and he likes you. Not many women want to live out here, because it’s too harsh. But we have a good farm, and we live well. We want you to stay.”

Her heart landed in the pit of her stomach. When she could close her mouth, she said the first words that came to her mind. “I wouldn’t think of living with a man I wasn’t married to.”

Since the old man didn’t understand English, Kurt replied. “I’d take you for my wife, if that’s what you want.”

Stunned, she felt as if her brain had shut down. He couldn’t be serious. She looked at him. He meant what he’d said. They had already entered the twenty-first century, and this guy spoke of getting married as if that were the same as shelling a peanut. One thing was certain: she’d better not laugh.

“I’m sorry,” she managed at last, “but I can’t do that.”

She couldn’t believe the disappointment that registered on his face. “You’re already married?”

“I’m not married, Kurt, but where I come from, we treat marriage differently. I’m sorry. Please thank your mother for the dinner.” She asked to be excused and was glad she remembered how to say it in French.

Her nerves rioted throughout her body when she realized that Kurt was following her. She stopped at the top of the stairs and confronted him.

“Why are you following me up here, Kurt?”

“You won’t marry me, and you will leave tomorrow morning. Will you at least spend the night with me?”