Fiona Hood-Stewart - Southern Belle

And Aunt Fran was right. There would surely be times ahead when she’d miss the stability, however stultifying, of her former life. Living on her own in her home city, where people would still think of her as Senator Hathaway’s daughter and Harlan MacBride’s wife, might prove very uncomfortable. There would be the inevitable snide comments and cold shoulders, perhaps even a tabloid assault full of distortions. But right now she didn’t care about any of it. She’d face that hurdle when she came to it.

For frankly, she no longer cared what people thought. Savannah would just have to get with the new program or go get a life, she decided, breathing on the pane and drawing a smiley face on the glass with her fingertip. Then she remembered her father and her finger stilled, her ebullience fading. She loved him dearly, and the knowledge that he would never understand her reasons for divorcing Harlan, however valid, made her profoundly sad. She took a deep breath and sat back against the green velvet seat, acknowledging that this was the main reason, however cowardly, that she’d left Savannah without leaving word of where she was going. Aunt Frances had insisted, in her uniquely feisty fashion, that like it or not, Daddy was going to have to learn to put his daughter first for once. But Elm knew there was little use trying to explain. He would never listen. He’d merely offer irrefutable arguments about why her choices were all wrong.

The carriage door opened, cutting short her negative thoughts and the inevitable guilty feelings they aroused. Instead, Elm concentrated on the rotund, pink-cheeked ticket controller dressed in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform, a bright red leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

“Présentez les billets, s’il vous plaît.”

Elm responded easily, happy to see her French wasn’t too rusty, and produced her ticket. It felt good to hear that slow lilting Swiss accent once more, to know she was truly back. Then, as she returned the ticket to her large Hermès purse, another attendant appeared offering refreshments. She wasn’t at all thirsty, but the idea of tasting steaming hot Swiss chocolate again was irresistible. So what if it was loaded with calories and cholesterol? Her personal trainer wasn’t here to harp at her, was she? In fact, not one single person here would criticize or tell her how she should be leading her life.

Rebelliously tossing her hair back, Elm smiled at the woman and ordered a large hot chocolate with whipped cream. A minute later she was taking the piping-hot cup from the gracious attendant, breathing in the delicious, un-forgettable aroma, eyes watering as she sipped cautiously. Savoring the familiar taste, she was able now to take a critical look back at her moves over the past few days. To her own amazement, she, who’d always been considered vague and fey, had proved immensely efficient. She’d found replacements for all her charity duties, handing over the garden project to Joan Murdoch, her competent assistant, who was more than happy to oblige. She had packed up her paints and canvases and left instructions for the staff at Oleander and the house in town, as though she hopped off to Europe at the blink of an eyelid every day of the year. She’d even managed to find someone to man her booth at the Daughters of the Confederacy bazaar—no mean feat, since the fund-raiser was notorious for being the most tedious event of Savannah’s holiday season.

Incredible, she mused, relishing the rich, creamy drink and her own capabilities. Life had sent her an inside curve ball, and instead of despairing, she’d rallied and was experiencing an exhilarating rush of satisfaction. And it was incredibly uplifting to be free of Harlan’s constant recriminations and barbs, and her father’s subtle disapproval, she reflected ruefully. He always made her feel as though she could be doing better.

Placing her hand against the glass once more, Elm peered out again through the growing darkness to the twinkling lights of the distant chalets dotted on the snowy peaks. What must it be like to live up in a small wooden mountain dwelling, cozily ensconced behind red-and-white-checkered curtains, a blazing fire roaring in a rustic chimney? she wondered dreamily. She could easily imagine a family—little blond-pigtailed girls and boys in smocks—seated round a carved kitchen table, digging into large portions of rösti, the delicious Swiss equivalent of hash browns, and commenting on their day’s work, their hopes and fears. The cows would be huddled in the barns for the winter now, each animal ensconced in a stall with its name carefully painted above, next to the huge bells that would be donned again in spring when they returned to pasture and joined the poya—the famous yearly trek up into the legendary Swiss Alps.

As she stared deep into the night, following a tiny beam of light flickering up on the mountain, Elm remembered that as a student here, she’d been drawn to the sense of timeless serenity the mountains exuded, to the quiet rhythms of alpine life, always envying its apparent simplicity. Of course, now she knew that life, no matter where it was lived, was never simple.

The train stopped at several stations. First Les Avants, where in May the slopes were covered in radiant white blankets of sweet-smelling narcissus. Then Château-d’Oex, where Aunt Frances and her mother, whom she could barely recall, had attended finishing school long ago. Then the train chuffed past Rougemont—wow, how the town had grown, there had never been that many lights before—with its ancient seventeenth-century chalets bordering the tracks, and on, down into the low-lying mists of the Saanenland toward her final destination.

It was snowing hard when the train finally pulled into Gstaad station and Elm got up, excited, her tall, slim figure clad in elegant suede pants and a cashmere sweater, and hastened to the door of the compartment. She smiled and thanked a kind middle-aged man who stepped forward and helped her remove her luggage from the rack. Then, pulling on her long mink coat, she flung open the window and leaned perilously out before the train had come to a complete stop, watching eagerly as another slim, fur-clad figure hurried down the tiny platform, waving.

“Gio! Oh, my God!” She laughed, immediately recognizing Gioconda and waving back enthusiastically. As the train came to a halt she hauled her bags down to the platform and the two women tumbled into each other’s arms.

“Cara, I can’t believe it. You’ve finally made it! You should have let me send the car to the airport to meet you, darling, instead of using this uncivilized public transport,” Gioconda exclaimed, enveloping her in a perfumed embrace before beckoning to the porter. “Take the bags to the car over there, please.” She pointed and smiled, then turned once more, holding Elm at arm’s length and looking her over critically. “Bella. How marvelous to see you. You look beautiful, as always. A little pale perhaps, but that will soon be taken care of. I’m so thrilled you came.” She gave Elm another hug.

“So am I,” Elm’s eyes glistened as they linked arms and followed the porter under gently falling snowflakes to a gleaming four-wheel drive parked on the curb next to the yellow postal bus. Elm glanced at it nostalgically, welcoming yet another reminder of her school days.

While Gioconda chattered, Elm stared at her surroundings, allowing it all to sink in, still unable to believe she’d actually made it back to “her” mountain. She bit her lip and stood, hand on the car door, looking up through the snowflakes at the Palace Hotel, still rising like an enchanted castle, turrets brightly illuminated above the fairy-tale village, casting its magic spell over the wooden chalets lying peacefully below, their pointed eaves outlined by tiny trails of Christmas lights. Elm breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the chilly mountain air, and sighed. Already she felt like a different woman, as though she’d finally stepped out of a quagmire onto solid land.