Chapter 13

Dawney did not yet know whether or not Cole was an excellent ski teacher, but of one thing she was certain: she had to watch out for him and try, absolutely, to keep their relationship on a strictly professional level.

And also keep in mind what she had risked, ten years earlier, because of him. Easy to say, hard to do, since first the sight of Aspen and his chalet had been enough to make her fall as if under some kind of spell and, soon after, his care and, above all, his smile, had made her more vulnerable.

When she had then entered what would be her room for a month, her heart had missed a beat when, on the bedside table next to the bed, she had found a beautiful arrangement of white daisies, red gerberas and red roses, already arranged in a crystal vase with fresh water. And next to it the unmistakable box of Queen Elizabeth chocolates. On the white satin comforter cover, which had edges decorated with hand-stitched gold edelweiss, were a bathrobe and clean towels and, next to it, a gold-colored trousse. When she had opened it and began to take out its contents on the bed, she had found herself looking at a toothbrush, toothpaste, solid deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, bath pearls, body lotion, four mascaras, four lipsticks, each of a different color, an eye shadow set, and a perfume, all signed Dior and Coco Chanel!

Some then were limited editions, and she knew this, because her sister, more than once, had shown them to her on the Internet.

“I swear, Dawney, I would kill to try even one. Unfortunately, however, they are insanely expensive and beyond the reach of ordinary mortals.”

Dawney, on the spur of the moment, decided she would not use them. She put everything back in the gold-colored trousse, then, without a word, slipped it into an outside pocket of her suitcase. As soon as she returned to Los Angeles in late January, she would give it to her sister: she was sure that when she realized what it was, she would be jumping for joy and letting out excited squeals for at least an hour. That done, she retrieved her trousse from her Louis Vuitton suitcase, then headed for the bathroom.

Blatantly ignoring the hot tub, she took a quick shower, then, after drying off, put on a pair of white ski pants and a mint green turtleneck pullover. When she looked at the clock on her phone again, she realized that it was fifteen minutes to one o'clock and the “date with Cole” in the dining room.

She decided to take advantage of that quarter of an hour by combing her hair and thinking of a way to tell him, “tactfully and gently,” that she thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but that she was not interested and intended to keep their relationship on a working level.

That sounded perfect, but the point was: would she succeed in practice as well?

'It's hard to say it,' she thought pragmatically. 'If he had been like twelve, or ten, years ago, I don't doubt that I would have succeeded.'

The problem was that, now, Cole was very different. And, because of that, she did not know how to catch him, or how to behave.

“Time to time. If he pretends, I will find out right after I tell him what I intend to tell him.”

But what if he was not pretending? Well, at that point, things would have been more complicated. Now as she was now, she had no doubt that she would have no trouble fending off a temperamental, whimsical rock star, but the caring, nurturing man? A man she had secretly longed to have by her side ever since her world had collapsed on her?

“That would be trouble there...and I would have to draw down all my supply of cold blood.”

She got out of bed then, after placing the brush on the nightstand next to the bed, which showed on each of the three drawers a beautiful hand-carved alpine rose and the edges carved with small triangles, she walked to the door.

She opened it: the hallway was silent. Perhaps Cole was still resting.

She still decided to go downstairs. At most, while she waited for him, she would look in the refrigerator to see what Ms. Grahm had planned for lunch, then reheat it for both of them.

As she descended the stairs, however, she smelled a delicious fragrance coming from the kitchen. Intrigued, she turned left, then walked through the door and entered the room. A cheerful fire was already crackling in a Finnish stove located at the entrance. To the left of the stove was a pile of wood, placed neatly in a wrought-iron wood rack, while in front of it, and all along the stone wall, was a rustic kitchen with cherry wood cabinets and beige teak countertops. To the left of where she stood was a table, covered with a pale yellow and white striped tablecloth, and four rustic chairs with a carved heart on the back. A large white refrigerator, which included a small freezer, and several stainless steel appliances completed the furnishings.

Cole was standing, busy stirring something cooking in a pot and a smaller saucepan, and he looked very focused. He, too, had changed and, like her, was wearing a pair of ski pants and a turtleneck sweater, but his were black.

'At least that hasn't changed. Black has always been his favorite color,' Dawney thought, observing him in silence.

Not knowing whether he had heard her or not, and not wanting to frighten him, she knocked on the doorframe of the door.

He turned and, seeing her, gave her a smile. “Hi,” he greeted her.

“Hi,” she replied, then turned her gaze to the pots and pans. “I was coming down the stairs and smelled a very good perfume.”

“Yes, Mrs. Grahm left me some polenta and Italian beef stew for noon,” explained Cole. “Do you like it? She told me once that, in her parts, in Chamonix, they often made them during the winter.”

“I don't know them,” she said. Her experience of foreign specialties was limited to the Italian pastries at Rossini's, to the French bakery in which her sister had taken her when they had gone shopping on Monroe Drive, and to the sushi she had sometimes gone to eat with her siblings when her parents were still married and had no financial problems or creditors breathing down their necks. “But I will try them.”

He nodded, then pointed with the wooden ladle, which he was using to stir the polenta, to a cabinet in front of her.

“There are the dishes and glasses, while in the drawer under the sink,” and, so saying, pointed it out to her, “the cutlery and napkins.”

Dawney nodded, then walked over to the cabinet, opened it and took out two white plates with a red rim. She placed them on the table, after which she also retrieved two very plain glass glasses and set them in front of the plates.

She was just finishing arranging the cutlery and napkins when Cole turned off the gas and, after placing two cork trivets on the table, arrived with the larger pot.

“Now I also bring the Italian beef stew,” he said, then headed back to the kitchen and grabbed the smaller pot as well.

When everything was ready, Dawney took his plate and made to put the polenta on it, but he stopped her.

“Sit down quietly, there is time for work. You are my guest and it is only right that I serve you.”

She grimaced. It did not seem fair to her that he should do everything: he had already taken care of lunch, after all.

“Let's say I pass you the plates and you fill them?” she asked him in a light tone, as if she were talking to a very stubborn patient.

“All right, but then you promise to sit down.”

“Okay,” agreed Dawney. For this time.

He filled both plates with a golden-yellow polenta and a generous portion of Italian beef stew, which was, as Dawney saw it, a dish of small pieces of beef dipped in a deep red-brown sauce that smelled of herbs, onion, and other things she could not distinguish.

When she set down his plate, then she sat down, Cole stepped back for a moment to open another of the cabinets. He pulled out a pitcher from it and filled it with tap water, then set it on the table. Immediately afterwards, he retrieved a bottle of red wine from under the sink and, after placing it on the table and taking a bottle opener from another drawer, opened it:

“This is an Ariel Cabernet Sauvignon. It is an alcohol-free red wine that I always get sent from my personal Napa Valley producer,” he explained to her. “He also makes a very good white wine and occasionally sparkling wine, all without alcohol. Would you like to try it?”

She stared at him, doubtful, then brought her gaze closer to read the label. However, when she read, black on white, alcohol-free red wine made in Napa Valley, California, she was reassured.

“I have never had alcohol-free wine before, so yes, I will try it. I'm curious to see what it's like.”

Cole poured her half a glass. “I start giving you this way so you can try it. If you like it, I'll refill your glass,” he said to her.

“That's good, thank you,” answered Dawney.

After that last exchange of banter, they began to eat in silence. The Italian beef stew was very good, melting in the mouth, and the polenta, as she later discovered, accompanied it excellently. She also allowed herself to try a sip of the alcohol-free wine that Cole had poured for her and, to her amazement, realized that although it was non-alcoholic, it was very good. It was like drinking wine, in essence, but without health risks and, most importantly, without the danger of getting drunk and having, later on, some traffic accidents or other unpleasant experiences.

When they finished, Cole cleared the table, then asked her if she wanted some coffee.

“No, thank you, I'm good.”

He nodded, then returned to his seat and, after pulling back one sleeve of his turtleneck pullover, looked at the Longines watch on his wrist.

“It's quarter past two now,” he said, then pulled back his sleeve, covering the watch again. “The doctor will arrive by three o'clock, so we still have forty-five minutes. What would you like to do while we wait for him?”

He had bewildered her again. While eating, she had prepared a speech for him, but that comment, said in a neutral tone, did not seem to hint at any kind of romantic interest.

“We can listen to some music in the living room if you want. I have quite a nice record collection, and not just of rock music. Then, as soon as the doctor is done with the examination, we can go for a walk in the surrounding area...it's a beautiful walk in the middle of the woods and, as you saw, the road has been cleared.”

“I like this as a program,” admitted Dawney. “Are you sure you don't want to postpone the walk until tomorrow? After all, your doctor told you that you should rest this month. That's why you asked me to go with you to Aspen, right?”

Cole took a few minutes to give her an answer that was satisfying to her, but at the same time did not reveal his true intentions.

“That's true, I had a very delicate heart surgery and am still recovering, but that doesn't mean I have become an invalid,” he calmly answered her. “Then a little exercise will only do me good, I've been sitting too long in the hospital. And you will be with me and keep an eye on me, won't you?”

Dawney arched an eyebrow, but then nodded in agreement.

“It is so,” she said, considering herself satisfied with that answer.

She had probably taken it too far, and, the breakfast in the limousine, as well as the fresh flowers and the trousse of designer goods, had been just a way for Cole to thank her.

She should not forget that he was still a billionaire and, those gifts, probably represented nothing to him and did not hide something deeper.

“Shall we go to the living room then?” Cole asked her, tearing her from her thoughts.

“Don't we put the kitchen in order first?” she asked him, looking at the dirty dishes and pots left on the table. “If you are tired, I can do it too, but at least if the doctor chooses to come here for the examination, he finds everything in order.”

“All right, if you prefer, we can take care of it now.”

Dawney got up from her chair, then picked up the pots and pans and took care of storing the leftovers. Cole, meanwhile, washed the plates, glasses and cutlery and put them on the kitchen counter top to dry. She then took care of washing the pots and pans, after which she and Cole dried and arranged everything in the cabinets and drawers.

“How did you become a rescuer?” He suddenly asked her, grabbing a rag and starting to wipe the table.

She, who was cleaning the sink at that moment, paused, uncertain whether or not to answer him. In the end, however, after much thought, she decided there was no reason not to do it. And she did.

“I went to a professional school for three years,” she began to say, “at first it was hard, very hard, but then... after a few days I started to like it and, at the end, I graduated with honors. I then did three years of apprenticeship in some suburban hospitals and, finally, I was hired by the L.A Hospital.”

He nodded, not knowing whether or not to go ahead with the questions. He had sensed her hesitation when he had asked her the first question and did not want to spoil the atmosphere of...calm and tranquility that had just been established between them.

He decided that, for the others, there was still time. After all, they had a month ahead of them and, more than anything else, he wanted Dawney to trust him again.

“Today is the fifteenth of December,” he said, choosing a neutral topic. “In nine days it will be Christmas Eve. I was thinking...obviously this if we don't come back too tired from the walk, would you like to do the Christmas tree together? I usually do it in the hall, near the staircase, but this year I was thinking of putting it in the living room...there is much more space there.”

The Christmas tree... her mother had not done so since her father left home on Christmas Eve itself twelve years earlier. She then had not thought about it any more: first because she had been kicked out of the house and had spent, the next two years, chasing the Razor Edge, then...after she had been miraculously brought back to life, there had been the homeless shelter, the backbreaking jobs she had worked to pay for professional school, school, graduation, the three years of apprenticeship...and finally she had even been too tired to think about it, since even though her mother had taken her back into the home, she had spent the previous seven years more in the emergency room than at home. And, even there, she had paid more attention to the patients arriving in the ER than to the twinkling garlands that occasionally appeared in early December along the edges of the reception desk, or to the small Christmas tree, strictly made of plastic, that nurses, when they were not overworked, put up in the waiting room and decorated with what they could find, such as small Christmas balls, paper angels, LED lights, and chocolates for the little ones.

She had always enjoyed making the Christmas tree...and, although she would never admit it openly, she had missed, and missed, doing it with her family.

“Let's see when we come back,” she answered. “If it's not too late and you're not too tired, we might even think about it.”

Cole took that as a yes.