December, 1913
Fabrizio Ricci glanced around the garage at the Brown Palace, making sure everything was in order. Peerless Roadsters jostled next to Cadillac Phaetons and a single Ford Model T, a bit of an oddity for the Brown’s well-heeled clientele. Big or small, fancy or plain, he loved all his charges, even the smell of motor oil that permeated the air. His job was to keep the cars running and available to hotel guests. He loved driving cars he could never otherwise afford. Whatever money he didn’t give to help his family, he saved toward having his own shop.
No one would drive anywhere tonight in the storm that hit Denver yesterday. More than twenty-four hours later, the snow had not even slowed down. Anyone would be a fool to drive in weather like this. Even the trolleys that he sometimes took had stopped running. It was a good thing he kept a pair of Nordic skis in the garage. If he didn’t leave soon, he would have to spend the night at the hotel, or longer, if the snow kept up. As the only son remaining at home, he knew his parents depended on his help.
Fabrizio changed his work shoes for boots and strapped on the skis. He hadn’t planned for the cold, but he didn’t think that would be a problem, not with the long woolen scarf knitted in green and yellow by Mama. He would dress like that character in the Christmas story. What was his name? Bob Cratchit, that was it. A Christmas Carol had to be one of the best stories in the English language. Not as beautiful as Italian, of course, or that’s what Papa would say.
Fabrizio looked out the window at the swirling snow, wishing he had taken the time to go to the kitchen for a last cup of hot coffee before he left. Too late now. The snow danced in the air before landing gracefully on the ground. Bella neve. Beautiful snow.
Wrapping his scarf around his nose and throat before winding its length around his body, Fabrizio pulled his cap as far down on his head as it would reach and turned the collar of his coat up over the scarf. He hadn’t brought any mittens, but his work gloves should do the job. He pulled them on and hoped the oil stains wouldn’t get on his clothes. Mama complained about his soiled work clothes; four sisters created enough laundry without him adding any more.
Fabrizio opened the door and headed out into the snow. He shivered, tugging his coat closer. It wasn’t usually this cold when it snowed. He looked down the street. Where he should see the Daniels & Fisher tower lit against the night sky about a mile away at the other end of downtown, he saw nothing but a curtain of snow, obscuring all but a few feet ahead. Still, following the street should not present a problem.
The ground outside the garage was packed down, trampled by horses and guests who came and went at the hotel. The snow fell rapidly, filling in even the most recent footsteps. Wind flung handfuls back into the air, redistributing them across the ground. He dug his poles into the snow and pushed forward to the front of the hotel.
“Buona notte,” the doorman called. “Be careful tonight. See you tomorrow.”
“Buona notte,” Fabrizio called back. He headed west from the hotel, down Sixteenth Street toward the D&F tower, and then across the bridge to his home.
He picked up speed, getting into rhythm, feeling rather like a four-legged creature as he used the skis and poles. The push-and-pull gave way to the grace of gliding over the snow as if weightless. The exertion warmed him. He kept his eyes to the ground to avoid the sting of the snow, looking up only when warned by the jingle of a horse’s harness or the crunch of car tires. He breathed deeply, his nose aching from the rush of cold air. He closed his mind against the cold and thought instead of the bowl of warm, fragrant minestrone that Mama would have waiting for him. Three miles, that was all. He had walked the distance many times. He would be home soon.
Natalie Daire looked at the bright lights inside the train station where she had dropped off her friend Patricia Logan. She debated about stopping for a cup of hot chocolate. She was very cold, in spite of the red woolies and warm scarf and the driving bonnet that cut some of the wind. Father would have forbidden her attendance at Thalia’s party if he had known the snow would last so long. She knew he must be worried about her; that’s why she left the party early instead of spending the night as she had planned.
Her car, the Cadillac Model 30, had proved its worth as “The Standard of the World” on the drive from Thalia’s house. The train station stood halfway to her home in Westminster. She decided to drive to the Brown Palace, only a few blocks away. They must have a phone. She would call home and purchase a hot drink while she was there.
She leaned forward, breathing warm air against the front windshield, rubbing a small patch clear. She managed to move her feet in the correct clutch-release pattern to start the Cadillac moving forward again. The car slipped as she turned right toward the Brown Palace.
The tall buildings of downtown Denver provided some protection against the wind. The windshield wipers did their best, but she could only see a few feet ahead of her. Heaven and earth met and melted into a dotted wall of white in front of her. She slowed the car even further. One car passed, a silver ghost under the veil of snow. The Brown Palace couldn’t be much farther.
A figure loomed in front of her, bent against the wind, gliding over the snow, and straight in her path. Natalie slammed on the brakes. Tires skidded on the slippery street.
She didn’t know what happened next. One foot on the brake pedal tried to stop the car. The other on the accelerator veered away from the approaching figure. Her car spun in a circle and crashed into a wooden stall on the sidewalk. Natalie flung her head forward between her arms.
“Signorina, are you all right?” A deep voice penetrated the blackness behind her closed eyes.
The world stopped spinning. Natalie opened her eyes. A tall, black-haired man stood beside the car, dark eyes burning with concern. This must be the man who caused the accident.
“What were you doing in the middle of the street?” she demanded. “I was trying to avoid running into you.”
“I am sorry. You are unhurt?” He repeated his concern.
Natalie took another look at the man. He presented an improbable sight, a pole in each hand, feet ending in long skis, his coat tugged as tightly as possible against his body, a bright scarf wound around face and neck and torso like a barber pole, only burning black eyes visible beneath the visor of his cap.
No, she wanted to say. I’m cold and hungry, and I want to be at home with my family. Instead, she checked herself for injuries. Her hands had not loosened their grip on the steering wheel. Her feet had slid off the pedals. She shook herself. Her head complained, but the rest of her seemed fine. Fine particles covered her coat. Snow?
That was when she noticed the shattered windshield, the wiper blade paused in midair as if trying to rid the air itself of snow.
“Oh no. My car.”
“I can help.” He extended a hand to assist her from the carriage, removed his skis, and took her place in the driver’s seat. He turned the key, and the engine restarted. “The car, it is in good condition. Only the windshield is broken.”
“But I can’t drive home if I can’t see,” Natalie wailed.
“Come with me. I will fix it.” He brushed glass and snow off the passenger seat with a dark-stained glove and invited her to sit. “Let us go to the Brown Palace. You can spend the night, and tomorrow the car will be ready to go.”
“That’s where I was headed,” Natalie said. “I can use the hotel telephone to call my father and tell him what happened.”
After the man packed his skis in the backseat, he drove the car without regard to the snow that flowed through the broken window pane.
“Thank you for helping me.” She wondered where he was going when she had her accident. Away from the hotel.
“It is right to help others,” he said. “I can fix your windshield tonight.”
“No, no,” Natalie said. “Tomorrow is soon enough.” She hoped to see him again, to look at him in better light. Did his appearance match his deep, lightly accented voice?
“As you wish.” He did not speak again during the short drive.
They arrived at the hotel. The man carried her luggage inside the lobby. Natalie reached for her purse to tip him.
“Non, it was my pleasure, signorina.”
“It’s Natalie. Natalie Daire.”
“Signorina Daire.” The man did not offer his own name. He disappeared through a back door.
Half an hour later, Natalie sipped hot tea and looked out through the window from her top floor accommodations. Snow painted the windowpanes with a puzzle of crystals. “Thank You, God, for bringing me here safely.”
Tomorrow she would see her mysterious rescuer again.