The view was spectacular. There was a small village below us, rooftops covered in a silky-smooth white, and chimneys with puffs of blue-gray smoke drifting up into the sky. Trees bent together under the weight of the newly fallen snow. It was coming down really fast now, melting on my cheeks, my nose, my eyes.
“Oh, I would love to live there,” I sighed.
“Yeah, that would be fun, huh?” said Eric. And then I felt his hand gently rest on the small of my back. It was that place just below my ribs where my mom used to rub me as I fell asleep at night. She had the gentlest hands, the smoothest touch. If I was crying or scared or I just couldn’t fall asleep, it was always the spot that soothed me. Nobody since then had ever touched me there. Until this moment. And now, even through my thermals, my sweater, my jacket, I could feel my spine tingling.
“Well, I guess maybe we should head back. It is coming down pretty thick,” Eric said.
It was true. It looked like one of those snow globes that Ashley was talking about, and it was getting hard to see. Still, I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t want our afternoon to end. But, of course, I said, “Okay.”
Eric called out Fozzie’s name. I had forgotten all about him. There was a rustling in a small line of trees ahead of us and then Fozzie leaped out, bobbing over mounds of snow, his coat white and sparkly.
“Good boy,” said Eric, rubbing him down. He fished into his pocket and pulled out a piece of bacon for him. Fozzie jumped up and down, licking his lips. “Home, boy! We’re going home!”
Without missing a beat, Fozzie started back in the direction of the inn.
“He knows the way,” said Eric.
We walked back in silence. The wind had picked up now and was blowing everything sideways. Fozzie had his head to the ground, and I could only see his tail at some points. The whole left side of my face was soon wet and frozen. My left eye was caked in snow and I could feel my eyelashes frozen together. But I didn’t care. I loved every minute of it. I loved the knowledge that Eric and Fozzie and I were walking through this storm together. It felt like we were explorers, like Lewis and Clark or maybe Ernest Shackleton, and we were marching toward new lands and new heights.
“There’s gold up in them thar hills!” I said into the wind at one point. I know, dork. I had heard it in one of those films they make you watch in history class. It made Phoebe laugh whenever I said it.
I didn’t count on Eric hearing me, to be honest. But then he called back, “By Jove, we’ll find it. Even if we have to die tryin’!” and then we both laughed, even though that meant swallowing a bunch of wet snow.
By the time we got back to the inn, the sky was a deep plum color and there were thick piles of snow against the back door, draped over the lamps, the porch, the eaves.
“Where were you?” Martha cried, taking Eric’s face in her hands. “We were so worried about you! Come here! Come here!” She helped us peel off our jackets and we went into a small pantry, where we could leave our drenched boots and scarves, hats, and mittens. Then Martha gave us fluffy blue towels to help us dry off. Luis toweled off Fozzie, pulling clumps of ice out of his paws.
“Your father called from Burlington. He said he was going to stay put until the storm died down a little,” Martha told Eric. Then she turned to me. “And your father called to say they were at the chalet eating French fries, waiting for the plows to come through. I didn’t tell either of them that I thought you got buried by an avalanche. Look at you! You must be freezing! Can I make you something to eat? I bet you’re starving. What if we pull out some of these new groceries and make a picnic here in the kitchen?”
“Sounds good,” said Eric. “We’ll help.”
I went upstairs and changed into another pair of jeans and my warmest sweater. Then the four of us pulled out fresh mozzarella and roasted peppers, green olives, avocados, and crisp spinach. Martha sliced up a long baguette that was still steaming from the oven. Luis opened a bottle of red wine. “Ssh, don’t tell your papa, Eric,” he said smiling.
We pulled up stools in front of the big island in the middle of the room and just ate and drank and talked and laughed. This time I was careful to take small sips of the wine. Martha and Luis told us about meeting in Florence. Martha had been traveling with her girlfriends after college. Her parents were very nervous about her going that far away, and she was only supposed to be there for a month, but instead she stayed ten years. We heard about their kids, their grandkids, the house they had in Scudderville, where there was a squirrel living in their roof and a shed where Luis was trying to make a rocking chair.
“He’s been working on that damn chair for three years now,” said Martha. “At this point it should rock itself.”
“I’m almost done,” he said, nudging her in the side.
“I hope I see it before I die,” she said, grinning. Her teeth were stained purple from the wine.
For the rest of the afternoon, Eric and I sat in front of the fire. Eric brought down a game of Scrabble and we played on the coffee table. I got thirty-four points for the word apex but he still beat me with a triple word score on juggle. Then we just sat and stared at the fire some more. Fozzie was snoring and making little yip yip sounds in his sleep. I wondered what he was dreaming about.
I started dozing, too, until Martha came through the door.
“For you, my dear!” she sang, handing me the house phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, chicken,” said Dad. “We just got the okay. Plows are almost through. We’ll be there in about a half hour.”
“Okay,” I said, and clicked off.
I looked at Eric.
“What is it?”
“The roads are clear. They’re coming home.” I put a smile on my face, but it felt pasted on. All I could think about was how much I didn’t want this to end. I just wanted to hold on to the glow of the fire, the sound of Martha and Luis chatting in the kitchen, the smell of garlic and butter floating under the door, and Eric in the chair next to me.
Agh, Levy! Didn’t you learn anything from that whole Drew experience? Guys are either unavailable emotionally or total horndogs.
But that didn’t seem really fair to Eric. I mean, he had started out kind of bossy, but that all made sense now. And now that we had spent some time together, I thought he was pretty funny, especially when he pretended he was Fozzie and said things like, “I’m the mayor of this town and I declare that we should all eat yellow snow and then take naps for the rest of the day!”
And he had a great laugh and he also said (as Eric) that he liked how I was full of stories and he thought my turtle hat was fantastic. And his fingers were long and skinny and stained with ink….
“Hey! Will you show me some of your drawings?” I asked, sitting up straight now.
Eric shook his head. “Nah, that’s boring. Don’t you want to just relax before the others get back?”
“No. I really want to see them. Come on, please?” It felt urgent now. Like a need, somehow.
“If you insist.” Eric smiled.
He went up the back stairs behind Phil’s office and brought down a large black sketchbook. It was frayed at the edges and held together by a big rubber band with pages slipping out of all sides.
“I can’t believe you want to see this stuff,” he mumbled. “Please promise me you’ll stop me before I bore you to tears.”
“Promise,” I said.
We settled down on the rug, and he opened up the worn cover. The drawings were breathtaking. They were of snow-covered mountains — but not like, here are some trees, here’s some snow. Each branch, each pine needle was so delicate and exact. I could smell the cold air, the wet bark. Then there was one of Fozzie as he lay on his beanbag bed, every hair placed just so. A series of sunsets behind a line of trees and even though they were all in charcoal, I could see the colors — the orange melting into pink into lilac into nothing. He turned the page.