Southern Belle

“Mercifully they don’t exist anymore.” Gioconda gave a dramatic shudder. “I donated them to the Salvation Army. And frankly, darling, I’m not even sure they wanted them.” She pressed the automatic garage door, which opened immediately.

“Those doors always remind me of a spaceship,” Elm remarked, tilting her head dreamily. “Like in those movies where a spacecraft opens and you get zapped inside and—”

“Mamma mia. You haven’t changed in the slightest. Always that incredible imagination at work,” Gioconda exclaimed, laughing. “Still painting a lot, cara? I loved your last exhibition. And by the way, Franco and Gianni are still dying to do that exhibit in Florence we talked about.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Elm mused. All at once, a project that a few months ago had seemed a logistically impossible project struck her as challenging and exciting.

“Well, that’s a positive change,” Gio remarked, surprised. “The last time I mentioned it, you spurned the idea outright.”

“The last time you mentioned it, I was still living in La La Land,” Elm answered ruefully as the vehicle crawled into the garage.

“Ah, poverina,” Gio exclaimed sympathetically. “I suppose escaping into your fantasy world was the only way to bear that self-absorbed husband of yours. I’ll never understand why you married him,” she added, shaking her head, her well-cut, silky, shoulder-length black hair swinging elegantly.

“I guess it seemed a good idea at the time,” Elm replied with a noncommittal shrug. “But he won’t be my husband for much longer.”

“Thank God for that! When you told me you were leaving him and planning to get divorced, I made Umberto open a bottle of the vintage Crystal. We drank to your future and recalled all the good times.”

“Umberto! It’s amazing that he still works for you after all these years,” Elm smiled, fondly remembering the Mancini family butler.

“You bet. He still bosses everyone around and makes a general nuisance of himself. Nonno—you remember my grandfather?”

“Of course.”

“Well, Nonno offered to buy him a nice house in Umberto’s village in Sicily, and take care of him and his family.”

“And?”

“He was so insulted that the matter was never brought up again.”

Elm laughed. “I can believe that.”

“Frankly, I don’t know what Nonno would do without him. They still spend hours going over the defeat at Monte Cassino. They’re certain that if only they’d been the ones leading the Italian troops, history would have taken a different turn.” Gioconda parked neatly next to a shiny red Ferrari.

“Yours?” Elm quirked an amused brow in the direction of the car.

“But of course, bella. I haven’t changed. I’m still as extravagant as ever. Ah! There’s Maria.” Gio waved at the uniformed maid preparing to unload the car.

“Buona sera, signora.”

“Good evening.” Elm smiled back graciously, before following her friend up the carpeted steps.

At the top Gioconda pushed open the paneled wooden door and held it wide while Elm passed through.

“Benvenuto, cara. It’s wonderful to have you back.”

“It’s wonderful to be back,” Elm murmured, taking stock of the hall. “Wow, Gio, it’s totally different, perfectly divine,” she marveled, gazing appreciatively at the pine-paneled walls of the entrance, the regional antiques, the imaginative floral arrangements of wild flowers and berries. “That’s fantastic,” she exclaimed, enchanted, pointing to two heavy wax candles in wrought-iron stands flickering invitingly on an ancient wooden chest. “And that scent. I know that scent.” She stopped, closed her eyes and sniffed, breathing in the subtle mélange of cloves, pine and something deliciously mysterious. “It’s simply enchanting,” she murmured, delighted, fingers trailing lovingly over the polished wood, “Just lovely. Trust you to do a perfect job, Gio.”

“Glad you approve, cara,” Gio pulled off her fur jacket and reached for Elm’s coat. “Now, before we settle down to a well-deserved glass of champagne, I’ll take you up to your room. Umberto, siamo qui…” she called, throwing the coats over the carved hall chair. “He can’t hear a thing, poor old darling, deaf as a post.”

“Signora Contessa?” Umberto, on the alert, appeared out of nowhere, the same picture of unaltered ancient dignity that Elm recalled so well.

“Look,” Gioconda exclaimed, grabbing Elm’s arm, “look who’s finally returned to us!”

“Ah! Signora, quanti anni.” Umberto clasped Elm’s hand, his creased face breaking into a delighted smile. Elm returned the pressure, eyes moist. It was like opening a picture book and finding herself back in her own personal fairy tale, a bittersweet reminder of just how much and how little had taken place since.

“It’s marvelous to be back, Umberto,” she murmured, deeply touched, smiling into his kind old face, remembering all the times he’d left the door unlatched for them, the midnight snacks and the scolds. It was like time travel, and again her eyes stung.

“Enough,” Gioconda declared, grabbing Elm’s hand. “Now we will make some fine new memories!” She winked, dark eyes flashing. “I have another surprise for you, bella. Come on.” Like an excited child, she dragged Elm up the stairs, then down the tapestry-covered corridor to a door at the end.

Elm threw her head back and laughed, caught up in Gioconda’s contagious enthusiasm. When she peeked inside as her friend opened the bedroom door, she caught her breath and clasped her hands. “Oh Gio, it’s simply gorgeous,” she exclaimed, stepping into the room.

“You like it? I had it completely redone as soon as you said you were coming. They finished yesterday,” she giggled.

Enchanted, Elm moved about the room, touched more by the generosity of Gioconda’s gesture than the actual, undeniable loveliness of the decor itself. A luxurious mink throw lay strewn over a long ottoman at the foot of the king-size canopied bed, draped with old rose Toile de Jouy curtains that matched the walls. Scattered lamps shed their gentle glow about the room, their reflections shimmering in the large pine-framed mirror above the antique dressing table. It was feminine and sophisticated, warm and welcoming, everything she’d dreamed of during the chilling loneliness of the past two weeks. Turning, she embraced her friend tight.

“Thank you, Gio. This means more to me than you can possibly know.”

“Now, now, cara,” Gio scolded gruffly, wiping a tear from her own eyes. “There’s more.”

“More?”

“Look.” Gioconda moved and flung open another door. “Bathroom and walk-in closet, and over here,” she continued, moving toward two heavy quilted curtains, “is your very own special little nook.” She swept back the drapes with a flourish. “Voilà!”

Elm peered inside and let out a long sigh. “You’ve out-done yourself,” she murmured, stepping into the cozy little sitting room lined with carved pine bookshelves. A plump love seat piled high with tasseled velvet and brocade cushions stood invitingly before a blazing open fire, while more fat wax candles guttered gently on the low coffee table next to an array of glossy magazines and a basket of scented potpourri. “What can I say?” she whispered, raising her manicured hands expressively. “It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“If not for my dearest friend, then who would I do it for?” Gio laughed, thrilled at Elm’s reaction.

“I guess all I can say is a huge thank you.” The two women hugged again and Elm felt a warm glow of happiness.

“Now freshen up, cara. Umberto’s probably already uncorking the champagne,” Gio ordered. “And don’t worry about unpacking, Maria will deal with it later.”

Once she was alone in the room, Elm sank down, smiling, onto the well-sprung bed. She bounced on it twice, then sighed with pleasure. It was like waking up in a new world with no worries, no haunting shadows, and no doubts. It seemed that the mountain’s peace was finally hers to share once more.

Jumping up, all her fatigue forgotten, Elm pulled a hairbrush out of her purse and dragged it through the long strands falling on the shoulders of her white cashmere sweater. She’d made up her mind to have a true break, hadn’t she? To get her life in perspective before returning and facing the future. And that, she decided firmly, was exactly what she would do. She would live each precious moment of this blissful interlude to the hilt, savor each instant, engrave each sensation inside, then return to her own world a stronger and better person, able to face the decisions she would have to make.

And for the first time ever, she reminded herself proudly, those decisions would be hers alone to make.

7

Elm slid off the chairlift at the top of the Wassengrat run and straightened her ski poles. No more champagne anytime before Christmas, she swore, blinking and shaking her head, recalling the magnum her friends had insisted on opening last night to celebrate what her Old Rosey pals termed as her “return to the fold.” There were several of them at the delightful brasserie and club, where she’d sat on the zebra bench, enchanted, as old stories were exchanged and fun times recalled, and also a little ashamed that she’d lost touch with so many wonderful people. But they’d scoffed at her embarrassment, and made her feel so welcome, so at home, as though she hadn’t spent the past seventeen years away in a different world.

Now, after a long, delicious lunch accompanied by an excellent Bordeaux at the Eagle Club with Gioconda and several of her newfound friends—including Franco and Gianni, who were already excitedly planning the Florence exhibit of her paintings—Elm had spent what remained of the afternoon skiing with her pro, Rudy, whom she’d taken leave of at the bottom of the chairlift. Then, even though the hour was late, she’d decided to do one last run on her own.

It felt good to be by herself for a short while, skiing past the clusters of dark pines, taking her own lazy time to slide gracefully down the slope in the fresh virgin snow, feeling the cool wind whipping color into her cheeks and new life into her lungs. She’d often dreamed of these moments when things had been particularly dreary back home, when, lying languidly in the old canvas hammock, seeping in the damp summer heat under the protective shade of the live oaks, she’d picture herself shushing down the mountain, inhaling this crisp, invigorating air. Now that she was finally here, she felt revitalized.

It occurred to her that, since arriving in Gstaad, she’d had none of the symptoms that had so troubled her of late in Savannah. The dizzy spells had passed, the nausea subsided. Had it all been in her head? she wondered. Probably just a physical manifestation of the inner misery she’d been unwilling to acknowledge, she decided cynically.

She slowed, then stopped next to a knot of pines, watching the rays of soft winter sun indulge in a final flirt with the glistening white peaks before sinking gracefully into the valley. Although she’d left the States before learning the results of the extensive blood work ordered by Dr. Ashby, the Atlanta specialist Doc Philips had referred her to, she was certain now the tests would prove normal. Boy, was it good to feel like herself again. She smiled and gazed about her once more, capturing the beauty of the moment, the sun sinking behind the mountain, the range so clearly etched in the late afternoon light.