called Claire my best friend? She’s so different now. Hard to believe she was the first person I used to discuss any prob lem with, my confidante in every way. Max’s fingers curl lightly around Claire’s. Dove has instant recall for the way his fingers felt in her hair, the way his hand gripped her shoulder. If I’m over him, really over him, why do I still feel some of that sting? Putting on a brave face, Dove nods to them and goes off to manage the rest of the party. For tonight, I’ll be host for Melissa. Tomorrow, I’m heading back to the travel office. The longer she stays, the more she’ll have to confront those pent-up feelings for Max—and for Claire.
Chalet Girls—
Check out the front of this postcard! Is it the most fantastic view or what?! Lucky me, I’m experiencing it for real from my own new bedroom. Can’t tell you exact details in a postcard (you never know who reads the mail these days), but let’s just say the social life here is everything I dreamed of—and more.
Ran into (or, rather, surfed into) an old friend of yours, Dove, who was quite eager to talk. And Melissa, if you ever get tired of chasing ski bums around, head for the sand. It’s warmer, cooler, and much, much more fun.
Yours with a tropical drink,
Harley
8
W ITH THE VAN PARKED in front of the supply store, Melissa slips the key out of her pocket and enters the large room. During the day, the place had seemed magical, filled with possibilities for the Winter Wonderland Ball, every inch devoted to amazing images. Now, though, with the night casting darkness through the windows, and shadows hulking in the corners, the place gives Melissa the creeps.
Two minutes, she thinks, making sure to leave the door cracked open. No way am I going to get locked in here. She lets out a small scream when she bumps into something solid, then laughs when she realizes it’s a life-sized unicorn. The laugh makes her side hurt, which then makes her laugh more. Okay, now I feel lame. Still moving tenderly due to the overwhelming ache in her rib cage, Melissa slides her hand along the wall, hoping for a light switch, since the only other source of light comes from the main room, which only makes things more eerie.
Ah, success, Melissa thinks as her hand meets with a panel of switches. She flicks a couple of them only to find they do nothing. Great — how am I supposed to find idea inspiration when I can’t see anything? Then she flicks the last switch. Strung overhead are what seem like millions of the tiniest blue lights; illuminated, the ceiling looks like a mountain sky at night. Seeing this gives Melissa a little shiver, and just enough light to make her way around the enormous room as she looks for the perfect theme for the party.
Icicles, fairies, Shakespearean dances—all too clichéd. Melissa rests her hand on one of the carousel’s brass poles and looks at the odd collection of items around her: Greek columns, giant tribal masks painted green, yellows, and red, feathered birds, a shrunken castle, a mermaid with purple hair, and leaning everywhere, mirrors. Melissa thinks for a second and then moves so she can begin to sort through some of the stuff. She slides aside an oval mirror and then hefts a large rectangular one and puts them both near the merry-go-round. Reflected in them both, Melissa sees her own image. Her curly dark hair is slightly matted from lying down at the Infirmary, and she notices that she’s leaning, cramped over just slightly to the left, no doubt from her injuries. In her pocket she feels the invitation to the secret party, and then she pulls out a pen and piece of paper, jotting down ideas, hoping that something will gel if she writes.
This is no good . Melissa shakes her head, annoyed. I came all this way, with broken ribs, just to wander amidst the weird sculptures and mirrors. The last thing I need is to be confronted by a thousand images of myself. She turns to avoid looking in the mirrors she’s set
Chalet Girls—
Check out the front of this postcard! Is it the most fantastic view or what?! Lucky me, I’m experiencing it for real from my own new bedroom. Can’t tell you exact details in a postcard (you never know who reads the mail these days), but let’s just say the social life here is everything I dreamed of—and more.
Ran into (or, rather, surfed into) an old friend of yours, Dove, who was quite eager to talk. And Melissa, if you ever get tired of chasing ski bums around, head for the sand. It’s warmer, cooler, and much, much more fun.
Yours with a tropical drink,
Harley
8
W ITH THE VAN PARKED in front of the supply store, Melissa slips the key out of her pocket and enters the large room. During the day, the place had seemed magical, filled with possibilities for the Winter Wonderland Ball, every inch devoted to amazing images. Now, though, with the night casting darkness through the windows, and shadows hulking in the corners, the place gives Melissa the creeps.
Two minutes, she thinks, making sure to leave the door cracked open. No way am I going to get locked in here. She lets out a small scream when she bumps into something solid, then laughs when she realizes it’s a life-sized unicorn. The laugh makes her side hurt, which then makes her laugh more. Okay, now I feel lame. Still moving tenderly due to the overwhelming ache in her rib cage, Melissa slides her hand along the wall, hoping for a light switch, since the only other source of light comes from the main room, which only makes things more eerie.
Ah, success, Melissa thinks as her hand meets with a panel of switches. She flicks a couple of them only to find they do nothing. Great — how am I supposed to find idea inspiration when I can’t see anything? Then she flicks the last switch. Strung overhead are what seem like millions of the tiniest blue lights; illuminated, the ceiling looks like a mountain sky at night. Seeing this gives Melissa a little shiver, and just enough light to make her way around the enormous room as she looks for the perfect theme for the party.
Icicles, fairies, Shakespearean dances—all too clichéd. Melissa rests her hand on one of the carousel’s brass poles and looks at the odd collection of items around her: Greek columns, giant tribal masks painted green, yellows, and red, feathered birds, a shrunken castle, a mermaid with purple hair, and leaning everywhere, mirrors. Melissa thinks for a second and then moves so she can begin to sort through some of the stuff. She slides aside an oval mirror and then hefts a large rectangular one and puts them both near the merry-go-round. Reflected in them both, Melissa sees her own image. Her curly dark hair is slightly matted from lying down at the Infirmary, and she notices that she’s leaning, cramped over just slightly to the left, no doubt from her injuries. In her pocket she feels the invitation to the secret party, and then she pulls out a pen and piece of paper, jotting down ideas, hoping that something will gel if she writes.
This is no good . Melissa shakes her head, annoyed. I came all this way, with broken ribs, just to wander amidst the weird sculptures and mirrors. The last thing I need is to be confronted by a thousand images of myself. She turns to avoid looking in the mirrors she’s set
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