DOVE SLINGS THE ROAST into the stove and finishes I the red currant sauce with a touch of lemon juice, letting the mixture bubble up and heat in a copper pot. In the dining room, Harley regales the earl and countess and their clan with stories of her trailer-park upbringing. Clearly, the upper echelons of society are enchanted or at least amused by her vastly different background. Dove can hear their laughter and energetic conversation, which is a good distraction to the undercurrent of worry about Melissa. Matron reported that Melissa, along with a group of other skiers whose names she didn’t mention, are hunkered down at the Cliff House for the night. With the storm raging outside, The Tops is cozy, though Harley and Dove keep checking to see if there’s any further word.
She’ll be back by morning, Dove reminds herself. And I’ll just tell her we covered for her—hopefully everything will be okay. Dove hears Max’s deep laugh from the next room and wonders what Harley said that was clever enough to register with him.
“It’s funny,” Harley says to Dove when she dashes into the small, hot kitchen, “but they like hearing me talk about my real past. Not some made-up version—but the way things really were for me.”
Dove nods as she stirs the sauce. “This is almost done. Think you can hold them off for three more minutes?”
“Sure.” Harley dips a finger into the roiling red sauce and winces with the sting of a burn. “Tasty, though.”
Dove shakes her head. “I told you not to touch my food while I cook—it’s a pet peeve.” She turns the gas off and arranges all the appetizer plates, then begins to ladle sauce onto each one. “You do a great job hosting, Harley. Really.” She looks at Harley, who now even dresses the part—black slim turtleneck, hair pulled back to the nape of her neck, and a long pencil-cut charcoal wool skirt she bought in town.
“It’s like—there’s a part of me that wanted so badly to leave Colorado and pageants and working on the Martingale Ranch and serving high-hat tequila….”
“You worked on a ranch?” Dove asks. “That sounds so cool.”
Harley shakes her head and grins. “It was, but probably it sounds more exciting to you because you’re …”
“I’m what, exactly?” Dove can’t let Harley finish, impatient to put the final touches on the dinner. She pours the sauce so that each plate has a thin perfect circle in its center while wondering what breakthrough observation Harley’s about to blurt out.
“You’re a princess,” Harley says and uses kitchen tongs to pluck at Dove’s white blond hair, which is twisted into a bun. “And you have the hair to prove it.”
Dove laughs a little, knowing Harley’s only joking—or at least partly. “You know what, though?” Dove looks around, taking in the kitchen’s scents and calm order. “I think if they could see me right now, my parents would be proud of me.” Dove’s eyes well up just a bit, though she doesn’t allow any actual tears to stumble down her cheeks.
“Harley!” the earl shouts from the dining room. “Come back—we’re in desperate need of your cheer!”
Harley puts the tongs down and watches as Dove begins to fry wedges of breaded Camembert cheese to go along with the sauce. “You’re good at this,” Harley says. “Why shouldn’t they be proud? Not that I’m one to talk. There’s nothing you can do to please my mother—except win Miss Rocky Mountain Teen or whatever. And probably that wouldn’t be good enough….” Harley looks down, wondering if her present is still in danger of being trod upon by her past.
“I am good at this,” Dove says. “Cooking. Cleaning … well, maybe a passing grade. But it’s not Oxford. It’s not the same as university.”
“Not everyone goes to college,” Harley says, pausing before going back to her hosting duties. “Whether it’s here or some other far-flung locale—or even back to the Martingale Ranch—or not. It’s kind of beers, boys, and saddles.”
Dove raises her eyebrows. “Not all bad …”
“Oh, so there’s a wild side to you, Miss Dove?” Harley clucks at her.
“More than you know,” Dove says. “Or maybe more than I know. Anyway, these need tending or they’ll burn.”
“I’ll help you serve—just call me in.” They stare at one another, both thinking the same thing. Without Melissa to act as their intermediary, they have to be civil. “She’ll be okay.”
“You sure?” Dove wrinkles her nose. “I just keep thinking of her freezing up there, and …”
“We’ll take care of everything here, that way all she has to do is make it through the night without getting frostbite—”
Dove gasps. “Oh, I didn’t even think about that. She’d want us to do the dinner really well.” She puts triangles of cheese into the oil where it begins to get crispy on the edges. “Here—this one’s done. Each person gets two wedges—wait till I finish another plate, then you can serve two at a time.”
“Okay.” Harley stands there, impressed with Dove’s efficiency. “Melissa would want the dinner to go off without a hitch—which it seems we’ll pull off….” She pauses. “And I think she’d also like it if we didn’t sit up all night worrying about her.”
Dove nods, but doesn’t comment on that last part. “Serve the countess first, of course.” Harley nods. “If I’m telling you things you already know, just ignore me.” Harley nods again. “And I set the table with the sterling cheese forks—they look odd, with a flat edge. But that’s what’s best for melting cheese. If the cheese were firm, you would use the—”
“Wow—you know your shit,” Harley says. She takes the second plate and begins to transfer them from the kitchen to the dining room where they are met with ooohs and ahhhs.
“I take it they like what they see?” Dove asks when Harley bounds back into the kitchen.
“I said they’re fried cheese,” Harley says.
Dove’s smile fades, her shoulders slump. “No—who the hell wants fried cheese as a starter at a fancy dinner party?” Dove finishes arranging the wedges so that each plate is identical and helps Harley serve the final four.
“These are hand-rolled Camembert done in a panko crumb served with a red currant citrus puree.” Dove holds her two plates out, going to Diggs and Luke to serve them, but Harley gets there first, leaving Dove to hand one to some random friend of Luke’s and the last to Max.
She places the plate directly in front of him, turning the cheese so the points face away, proper etiquette. Max turns it back to face him. She turns it away and then he turns it back until she lets out a small but audible humph. Under the table she flicks his arm and then smiles at everyone else. “Enjoy!”
Back in the kitchen, she turns the roast, readies the plates and vegetables, checks on the chocolate mousse Melissa had started to prepare, and wonders what the real cook is up to, if she’ll be happy the dinner’s going well, or feel as though Dove’s stepped over the line, trying to be a better chef. I just hope she’s okay, she thinks, setting all the dirty utensils and pans into the right side of the sink, which she’s filled with hot soapy water. The bubbles come up to her elbows and for a second, she drifts away, imagining floating in the water—warm waters—with William. She eyes the clock. He’s due to call in two hours—they’ve never missed a day since being apart—well, except that once when he was in transit from here to the island of Nevis in the West Indies, where the boat is docked. Last night he told her he had an important announcement—a special conversation to have—and Dove can tick down the minutes now until she hears from him. Starters, main course, sorbet, dessert, coffee, and my phone call.
Then quickly Max is beside her, his arm plunged into the warm water next to hers, their skin touching underneath the froth. Dove’s instinct is to pull away, but something holds her there until Max speaks. “Thought I’d help by clearing.”
“Don’t bother,” Dove says. Then she knows she sounds rude. “I mean, thanks for the help, but I’ve got it all under control.”
She looks up at Max. He looks down at her, his body still close to hers. “Do you?”
Dove stands there in the wake of Max’s intensity, her insides swirling. She washes the bubbles from her skin and turns her attention back to the roast, taking it out of the oven to rest before slicing it so that the meat will stay juicy.
“Hey.” Harley clears the plates and checks on Dove’s timing. She notes Max’s proximity to Dove and wedges herself in between them, feeling territorial about her fellow chalet girl and her guests. “I have a story that should take about five minutes—think me, a greased hog, and my high school drama teacher chasing it with a broom.”
Dove smiles, gritting her teeth as she tries to ignore Harley’s hip pressing into Max. “You’re an original, Harley.”
“She is,” Max says, his eyes boring into Dove’s. He wipes his hands on a towel and then leaves.
“Thanks—listen….” Harley watches Max exit and puts the plates into the soapy water and then on her way out, tugs at Dove’s hair again. “Two thoughts.”
“Tell me,” Dove says, glazing the baby carrots with a port-wine reduction sauce. “I’m all ears. They’re the one part of my body that’s not overheated from the oven, sore, or busy.”
Harley laughs. “One—you come out with me tonight. Not now—but later—”
“I’m not into the hot-tub scene.”
“Not the tubs—the tanks—the outdoor water tanks near the Fauxcean.”
“The Fauxcean—I haven’t been there in a while.” All the way on the other side of the resort, the Fauxcean was a once-warehouse that had been converted into an indoor ocean complete with phosphorescent waves, fish, and nighttime snorkeling—its tag line, “fake, but good.”
“The party’s there and out back.”
“No, thanks,” Dove says. “I have an important phone call.” She smiles, so Harley knows it’s William.
“All right, all right. But—should you change your mind …”
“What was the other thing?” Dove asks, slicing into a large caramelized onion.
“Oh,” Harley says over her shoulder on the way to the dining room. “If you ever want to really lose the princess image? Let me do your hair.”
Dove keeps working on the food, staring at the roast from behind the wisps of white-blonde fringe that have come loose from the knot at the back of her head. Max had said he loved her hair—that one time when they’d danced at his eighteenth. I should chop it for that reason alone, Dove thinks, then recoils from the suggestion. No—what he thinks doesn’t matter. It’s what I like, how I feel. William never mentioned her hair—he said he wouldn’t care if she shaved her head or never cut her hair again—he liked her for everything else. Dove smiles to herself, then eyes the clock once more before cutting into the roast.
The meal over, the dishes set to dry on the racks, the lights in the kitchen switched off, Harley puts a quick line of brown-red lipstick on and turns to Dove.
“You sure you’re not coming?”
Dove nods. “I don’t feel right about it. Aren’t you worried about her? What if she’s trapped on the chairlift …”
“Or being eaten by wolves?” Harley shakes her head. “Where I come from—ski country, that is—shit like this just happens. You know—people go off-piste or they do something stupid….” Harley sighs, her edginess rising to the surface. “I mean, Matron gave the radio report. There’s a group in the Cliff House—we have to assume she’s in there. Unless she did something stupid.”
“Don’t attack her when she’s not here to deflect you.” Dove grimaces, wishing she could somehow be reassured that Melissa was okay. “Melissa didn’t do anything stupid,” Dove defends. She checks her watch. Ten minutes. She has to get Harley out of here so she’ll have some privacy.
Harley considers pushing the issue, telling Dove that it’s always dumb to ignore weather patterns, but then wonders if maybe her annoyance is coming from somewhere else. Maybe I wish I were stuck away from here, or with a certain someone. She sighs, retreating. “No, you’re right. She wasn’t acting crazy. She just got stuck in a storm.” Harley looks outside as though the answer might be right on the frosted window ledge.
Dove sees Harley’s face and thinks that it does have a small bit of tension collecting in the brow. Maybe she is human after all, not some leggy robot who can switch off emotions at the drop of a glove. “So you’re staying positive.”
“Sure. Besides, we’ve got to keep moving here. Do our jobs, keep up the life of the party….” Harley grins. She snags her leather jacket from her top bunk, and before slipping into it, checks her bikini straps are secure under her shirt. “All set for the tropics,” she says. Then, on her way out, she adds, “You gotta stay positive until given reason to believe otherwise…. She’ll be okay.”
Dove nods, watching Harley leave. She goes to the mirror and stands with her arms down, her hair fully descending the length of her back. Even in the bunkroom’s dim light it looks silvery, the way it had always looked in the summer at her parents’ estate. “You look like a princess,” Dove says to herself, imitating Harley. “Princess hair.” It’s rather a fitting image, Dove thinks, looking at her phone and waiting for the inevitable ring. Princesses who have no real job, no real say about what they do, no real power nor control—sounds like my life. Well, my life before.
The minutes tick by, with each moment accentuated by the gusting wind, the silence in the room. When William is ten minutes late, Dove decides to be proactive and call him. After all, there’s no set rules about it, right? I called yesterday; today’s his day, but I can try again. She dials, waits, and the line rings over and over again, then slips into his message. She doesn’t talk. Then she waits, thinking William is probably below deck and doesn’t hear the phone, and will call her back. Another five minutes. This is ridiculous, Dove says, glaring at her own reflection, annoyed with everything, with herself for waiting, with her hair for casting an image she revolts against. She calls again, waiting for his voice, but doesn’t get to hear it—just his voice mail. “Hey—this is William’s phone.” His short outgoing message always gave her a happy feeling, but this time it makes her scowl. We always talk. Every day. And it’s your turn, she thinks as she looks into the phone. But she doesn’t say that. Instead, Dove speaks eloquently, calmly. “It’s me—hope you’re okay. Call.” Not like an order, but a reminder.
She places the phone down on the bureau, still hoping it will ring, or that the reason he missed the phone call is because the lines are down, though the one time that happened, he left word via ship-to-shore wire that was then printed and sent to the Main House. Before losing it completely and overreacting, Dove pulls her boots on, stuffs herself into a puffy jacket, and stomps off to check the bulletin board there.
By the time Harley arrives at the Fauxcean, the electronic wave is cranked up to full power, causing a massive drenching on the sandy shore every eight minutes. Outside, the hordes of paparazzi lurk in the cold, waiting for a shot of Celia Sinclair and whichever boy-candy she has draped on her arm. Harley walks past them, smiling and playing to the cameras with her best model pose, hoping they’ll mistake her for a celebrity.
“Over here!” yells one photographer. Harley turns.
“Nice!” another one shouts.
Harley remembers reading that you’re always supposed to leave them wanting more, so she hurries inside, overhearing questions about who she might be from the other photographers and loving every minute of the attention.
Inside, swimsuit-clad guests, ski guides, nannies, and random staff boogie board on the waves, lie on towels on the fake beach, or try their hand at snorkeling in the underwater dark. Stretched out on a chaise longue, Celia Sinclair eyes the door for any of her fellow starlets and sips her tall tropical drink.
“This rocks,” Harley says, squeezing past a clump of bikinied girls. She waves to Celia in a moment of solidarity, but Celia quickly dispels any notion that they’re connected.
Celia rolls her eyes at Harley and then turns on her side, blatantly ignoring her.
Harley makes a face back, but then shakes her head. You think I care if you notice me? I’ve got bigger fish to fry than third-rate movie stars who pick up boys like fast food. And with that, Harley sheds her outer clothing, revealing her multicolored swimsuit. She smirks at it, remembering when she had to wear it at the last pageant—how she bolted right afterward and never looked back. Taking in the wealth and wonder around her, she smiles. How amazing it is to go from one life to another, she thinks. Then she spies the reason for being here.
“James!” She waves to him but he can’t hear her over the ocean noise, steel drum music, and loud conversations. He’s playing volleyball on the sport-side of the Fauxcean, and she walks to him, ignoring the looks from other guys.
James gets ready to serve, holding the ball in his right palm, his right hand in spike position. He throws the ball up and is about to hit it when Harley speaks. “Hey there, sailor. You didn’t go skiing after all.” She wonders why James would have skipped out on the run with Melissa and Gabe.
James gets ready to spike. “Had to take care of something.” He doesn’t say what.
Harley fiddles with the bikini straps, calling attention to herself. She looks incredible in the suit—and hopes it’ll sway James’s eyes to her. James doesn’t lose focus on the ball for a second, though—and manages to score a point.
“You’re not easily distracted, are you?” Harley asks, impressed. She slurps rum and coke from a tall plastic cup. Drink trays are scattered every few feet or so, color-coded by cups—red for raspberry shockers, blue for blue whales, clear for rum and coke.
James swigs from her cup, sweat beading his upper lip. “Old trick from the coach. He always says you have to be prepared for any and all distractions—weather, crowds, people shouting things from the stands—and you have to just ignore it.”
“Girls in bikinis?” Harley says, her tone low and suggestive.
“That, too.”
Harley sits on a long beach chair and pats the end of it, hoping James will sit there. She wonders if he’s had anything to drink, as most of the people in the club seem to have. He sits next to her. “So, now you’re pretty good at fending off anything that comes your way?” Harley leans forward, flirting shamelessly. She finishes her drink, feeling the warm buzz of alcohol race through her.
James tries not to look at her bikini top, but his eyes falter on Harley’s body, and she stretches out on the chair, resting her legs on his lap. “I’d say I’m pretty good at resisting whatever comes my way—if it gets in the way of my game.”
Harley sits up. Now’s the time, she thinks. Enough flirting, enough following him around. Enough having him get to know my friends. What did he have to take care of today that prevented him from skiing?
“Harley,” James says, looking her full-on. “I’m kind of glad to see you, actually.”
She gets ready, moving in a little closer. Her shoulder rubs his; their thighs touch. In one forward motion she’ll be able to kiss him. “Oh, yeah?”
James pauses. “I wanted to say …”
Harley puts her finger on his lips, overacting the part of the sultry, bathing suit—clad girl, but liking the ambience. “Wait. See if you can resist this distraction.”
She replaces her finger with her mouth, kissing him full on the lips, then moving so she’s sitting on his lap. She kisses him hard, holding on to his muscled back, loving the feel of his hands on hers. Then he pulls back. “What was that?”
Harley, still in a trance from finally doing what she wanted for so long—kissing James—the James—that her normally strong voice sounds warbly. “Just the end result of years of …” She looks up, notices Celia Sinclair staring at them, and leans in to kiss him again.
Right as their mouths are about to meet again, a voice interrupts. “Do it.”
Even Harley’s taken by surprise with the command. Still in her position on James’s lap, she looks to see who had voiced the idea. She looks over her shoulder and sees Dove, out of place with her puffy jacket on, her face filled with sadness.
“Hey, Dove,” Harley says.
James picks Harley up off his lap and slides out from under her. In the fake sunlight, Dove wonders if the red on James’ cheeks is due to being hot, or embarrassed. Poor Melissa, she thinks. The one guy she hoped for turns out to be with Harley. “Here. Do it.”
“Do what?” Harley asks, wondering why James moved away from her, her insides still reeling from the kiss, the way he responded, his mouth.
Dove shoves a pair of silver scissors toward Harley. “Cut it off.”
James stands up. “Whoa—not sure what’s happening here, but don’t think I need to be a part of it.”
Harley stands up, nearly as tall as James, both of them dwarfing Dove. “James—don’t go. Stay with me….” She wishes it hadn’t come out so needy, so honest. That she had more of a cover-up. But when you’ve liked someone for so long, it’s impossible to be anything but candid.
James shakes Dove’s hand and pats Harley on the shoulder. “I have to go. I was supposed to be at the Main House a few minutes ago to check …”
Dove interjects. “If you’re wondering about your buddy—Gabe’s fine. I was just there, checking on something else, and radio word came in with a list of all the people at the Cliff House.”
James looks relieved. “Oh, man, that’s great.”
“So you’ll stay?” Harley asks him. She holds the scissors, anxious for his reply.
James slides his feet into worn flip-flops and looks beyond Harley to one of the thatched palapas—the huts where people sit drinking or talking. “No—I came here to distract myself—you know, lame attempt at dealing with the stress of having people I care about trapped on a mountaintop.” He gives a weak laugh. “Pathetic, but …”
Harley frowns. “I thought you didn’t get distracted.”
James faces her. “I don’t.” He looks at her, hoping she’ll get his point, but not voicing it. “Have a good night, okay?”
“Harley.” Dove pulls on Harley’s arm. Harley refuses to break her stare—watching James walk away. He better leave now, better go home and fall asleep and dream of me. But James walks over to the palapa by the cresting wave, and stays there, talking to a girl whose strawberry blond hair is visible even from a distance. “Who is that?”
Dove looks over. “Charlie. She’s a nanny—for Celia Sinclair’s group.”
Harley glares at Dove, looks around to glare at Celia Sinclair but can’t find her. “And how do you know this?”
Dove holds up a hand. “Hey—don’t shoot the messenger…. I’m just telling you what I know. Maids are always the one cleaning up other people’s stuff; thus we know more of their dirt.”
Harley sighs, responding to the stress in Dove’s face. “So, what’s up?”
Dove frowns, the emotion of the evening coming back to her. “I was so worried, right? I mean, first about Melissa, and then … the dinner freaked me out—”
“But it went great; they loved it….”
“No, but—it’s like—my mom’s the one who taught me how to cook. And being in there, doing that job, I just felt like it was right, like I wasn’t just reacting to my parents and taking the first job that came along.”
“What’s this about?” Harley listens but looks again at James, who has a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. With her hands crossed over her chest, Harley still feels exposed, too bare in her bikini. With a shudder, she watches as James and Charlie walk toward the fluorescent exit sign and leave together.
“This is about how much it sucks when people break their promises.”
“He didn’t call?”
Dove shakes her head. “And maybe you’re right—waiting by the phone, being that girl? It’s just silly.”
Harley nods. “Right. I mean, where’s the power in that? You should go for what you want.”
“Exactly,” Dove agrees and then puts her hands on her hips. “So, now, do it.”
“What?”
Dove takes the scissors from Harley’s hand and holds them next to her head. “Chop it off.”
Harley’s eyes widen. “Oh, no, Dove—I didn’t mean …”
“I’ve decided. I do have princess hair. And a princess life. More than you can ever know. And even if it’s superficial—so be it. At least it’s a start.”
Harley opens the scissors and then pauses. “Have you been drinking?”
Dove looks at her. “Maybe.”
“No, Dove, I don’t want to do this—you’ll regret it. Don’t act out of anger.”
“Oh shut up and just get on with it.” She takes the scissors back and in one quick motion cuts a long hunk of hair from the side. It falls to the sandy ground in a gentle blond puddle. Dove stares at it.
“Well?” Harley waits for Dove to freak out, to scream and say she made a mistake. But Dove just waits. “Okay … here goes.”
After the cut blond locks pile on the ground, Dove feels her head. “I’m floating.” Her hands hold her small head, feeling the choppy strands.
Harley surveys her work. “I have to say, you look incredible.”
Dove shrugs. “Different?”
Harley nods. She touches the front of Dove’s hair, making the short bits stand up. “You’re like a pixie, but not overly cute, if you can imagine.”
Dove smiles. “And no princess?”
“None.”
Harley feels a tap on her shoulder and sees James. Back for more, she thinks. She looks around but sees no trace of Charlie. “Hey.”
“Thanks, Harley,” Dove says. She looks at James in his navy blue shirt, his steady presence, his magnetic eyes. She sees why Harley and Melissa like him and hopes they don’t get hurt. He appears to be a player.
Harley nods at Dove.
“Want to go for a swim?” James asks them. He takes off his shirt and Dove is sure she hears a gasp from Harley.
“I have to go,” Dove says. She can’t stop touching her hair. I feel free. Light. Different.
“I’d love a dip,” Harley says, focusing her attention back on James. “You’ll be okay, Dove?”
Dove nods. “Have fun.”
James nods to Dove. “It’s just a swim, okay?” Then to Harley he adds, “We can talk?”
Harley shrugs, giving him one of her sexy looks. “Whatever floats your boat.”
Dove sees them pad off through the sand toward the water, with Harley’s arm on James’ back. She rakes her fingers through her very short locks and wonders what it looks like, then heads outside to see for herself.