Chapter 5 Ember
Ember
Ihalf-listen to Aksel talking to Ransom while I stare out the window.
It’s usually a short drive into town—the roads here are kept immaculate—but today must be an anomaly.
The snow hasn’t been cleared as thoroughly, which is why Freja is driving extra cautiously.
And why it’s taking longer than I’d like to get to the village…
and away from the distracting pull of Ransom’s cologne.
He wears Sauvage. Every time I go to the airport, I spray some on myself at Duty Free like a pathetic schoolgirl. And then while I fly, I can smell him around me.
God! What am I doing?
I need to get over this man. It’s been five years. Five years. He dumped me because I was young and immature. If his idea of maturity is that woman in that inappropriate outfit, then more power to him.
Maybe she gives really good head, Ember.
I give good head.
I close my eyes. The last thing I need is to remember having sex with him while he’s sitting near me with his soon-to-be wife.
“Yes, like that, Sweet Em. Suck me deep.” His hands are tangled in my hair as he controls my movements while I’m on my knees in his bedroom. I have a hand holding him and another between my legs, because I’m so turned on.
“No. You don’t come until I make you,” he growls. “Both hands behind your back.”
It’s erotic, the way he takes charge. It’s also erotic when he lets me take charge. Ransom is a considerate and generous lover.
He empties in my mouth, asks me to keep him there, keep him warm for a little longer, his eyes closed.
Then he throws me on his bed, and his mouth is on my clit.
“My turn.” He suckles. “And yours.”
I squirm at the memory, intoxicated by the remembered taste and feel of him.
Universe, you suck!
“Latika and the kids are landing at Geneva soon,” I hear Aksel say. “They’ll be here by dinner.”
I smile at the thought of my favorite people in the world. My niece and nephew. Anika is eight. Thomas, who likes to be addressed as Thomas the Tank Engine, is five.
“Did they get the stuffed animals I sent?” Ransom asks.
My head swivels. What’s he doing sending my little people gifts?
“Yeah,” Aksel chuckles. “Thomas named his polar bear ‘Dr. Ransom’ and gave it a backstory involving a tragic glacier accident.”
“I can’t wait to meet your children,” Calypso interjects. “Ransom’s told me so much about them.”
“Anika is a live wire.” Ransom sounds indulgent and proud. I don’t look at him. Can’t. “Is Thomas still a Tank Engine?”
It’s too painful to hear him talk about Aksel’s kids with Calypso because it makes me think about him having kids with her. So I zone them out and turn to the window again, watching the snow-covered trees flash by as we descend into town.
The sun sets in a couple of hours, even before it turns five—the sky is a wash of powder blue and lavender. The snow has stopped falling, but the trees still wear it like a hush. Everything in Chamonix looks like a postcard—too perfect to be real.
I have always felt privileged to live a life that allows me to spend time in this magical winter wonderland.
This time of year is special in so many ways.
The air smells of chimney smoke and roasting chestnuts.
Bright red garlands and white fairy lights are strung across Rue du Docteur Paccard.
Shopfronts gleam with holiday displays: gilded chocolates, fur-trimmed boots, watercolor snow scenes, and so much wool it could clothe a small village.
We go to our favorite restaurant, La Calèche, one of Chamonix’s oldest. We’ve been coming here, with our parents, since we were children.
Dark timbered walls, copper pans hanging like medals, and the warm scent of cheese and garlic envelops us when we enter. A scent that is oh so familiar.
The music is Christmassy, and Freja ribs Aksel about it. He’s all pretense. I have seen him dress like Santa for his kids, and sing songs along with them.
A server seats us at a long table by the window.
This time, I take my seat first and hope Ransom has the good sense not to sit too close. He, Calypso, and Jonathan end up across from Aksel, Freja, and me.
“This is so quaint.” Calypso looks around. “Reminds me of when I was in St. Moritz. I went skiing there with—”
I turn away from the name-dropping and watch the snowflakes glittering outside like crushed crystal.
The server fills our glasses with water and takes our drink orders.
“Didn’t know you were into rum,” Ransom comments when I ask the server for their hot rum cocktail.
“They do it well here,” I say quietly.
I wish he’d stop talking to me, stop seeking me out. It’s hard to keep a straight face. Really, really hard. No matter how I feel about Calypso, I can’t compete with her. Ransom is a charismatic man, and he deserves to be with a beautiful, sophisticated woman like Calypso.
Regardless of my upbringing, which was stupendously resourceful and rich in all things, I am not like them—the Calypsos, Margots, and the Frejas of the world. I am…how did Ransom put it once? Charmingly nerdy.
“What’s good here, Ransom?” Calypso pulls his attention away from me. I’ve seen her do it several times now.
She’s as subtle as a chainsaw because I see Freja lean to look at me, wiggling her eyebrows, silently asking, “What the fuck is this woman’s damage?
” I shake my head, replying just as quietly, “Fuck if I know.” Aksel joins the silent conversation with his chin jutting out in query.
We both shrug, “Yeah, she’s weird.” It’s sibling shorthand.
“The fondue,” Ransom suggests to Calypso.
She wrinkles her nose. “But it’s so heavy.”
“It’s winter. We’re supposed to eat heavy food.” Freja peers unnecessarily at the menu, which has remained unchanged for two decades.
“Being cold is no reason for gluttony.” Calypso laughs sarcastically, condescendingly.
Okay, enough is enough.
I’m annoyed at Ransom for bringing someone like her as a guest. But, I guess we have to get used to her if he marries her.
Jesus H. Christ!
“There’s a study out of Karolinska that showed people naturally crave calorie-dense foods in colder months.” I hold Ransom’s girlfriend’s gaze. “It’s for thermogenesis and mood regulation. It’s biology, not greed.”
Calypso straightens. Her eyes sharpen. “Thermo what?” she asks flippantly. “Scientists use such technical terms, don’t they?”
“Thermogenesis is the process of heat production in living organisms, a crucial part of metabolism and energy balance.” Aksel’s tone is steely.
He’s in his big brother protective mode.
“It refers to the dissipation of energy through the specialized production of heat, and it plays a role in maintaining body temperature and managing weight,” Freja adds.
The air goes taut with discomfort—Calypso’s.
You take one of us on, you take all of us on. That’s the Rousseau way.
The tension breaks when the server arrives with a bottle of Bordeaux, a Pauillac that Aksel had ordered. As the wine is tasted and poured into glasses for everyone, the conversation diverts.
No one wants to be rude to Calypso, but she’s not fitting in with us with her attitude. I feel bad for her. I know what it feels like to be an outsider. I decide to make an effort to make her feel more welcome. It’s not her fault that I’m still totally in love with her future husband.
“So, what does editor-at-large mean?” I ask because everyone is talking around Calypso.
She looks at me like I’m disturbing her, and I regret my impulse to make her feel included. Ransom turns then, as if curious to listen to our conversation.
She smiles, now that she has his attention.
“It means I don’t have to be chained to a desk like the rest of the editorial staff. I pitch high-level features, oversee shoots, and conduct interviews with people of interest. Just last month, I interviewed Zendaya, and we did a photoshoot.”
“Wow.” I inject some enthusiasm into my tone. I have a vague idea that Zendaya is… someone important? Maybe a singer? Who the hell knows!
Calypso takes a sip of her wine and adds with a knowing glance, “It’s a role you grow into once you’ve earned a name. It’s less about deadlines, more about vision.”
Ransom’s eyes catch mine. There’s a challenge in them—as if he’s saying, ‘Don’t fuck with my woman.’
“Calypso is very sought after.”
“How wonderful it must be to interact with so many different people.” It wouldn’t be for me, but Calypso is an extrovert, so she probably enjoys it.
“Different influential people, darling,” she corrects me dismissively.
Okay, so this was a bad idea. Ransom is glaring at me like I’ve committed a crime, and Calypso is eyeing me as if I’ve come down with something contagious.
Thankfully, the food arrives. It’s a relief as conversation is all about who ordered what and why.
I love Alpine food. Regardless of Calypso saying it’s heavy, I enjoy how unapologetically indulgent it is.
My plate is loaded with crispy potatoes, melted reblochon, and caramelized onions. Freja ordered the raclette and is expertly scraping it over boiled potatoes.
“I almost skied professionally,” Calypso tells everyone when Freja mentions we’ll be heading for the slopes the following day. “But then I got into modeling and that was that.”
“Professionally?” Freja cocks an eyebrow. “Tell us more.”
Calypso laughs—light, airy, and about a decibel too loud. “Oh, you know. I was on this junior team thing when I was, like, fifteen? My coach said I had raw talent. But then I did this campaign for Roxy and kind of got scouted, and suddenly the only slopes I was on were for photoshoots.”
She titters and spears a tomato from her salad. “I still have great form. And my balance is insane. From Pilates, mostly.”
Aksel changes the topic because no one wants to break it to Calypso that he actually skied professionally—during his university years at the Sorbonne, no less, where he competed on the French collegiate circuit and still holds some obscure slalom record that he likes to bring up to show off.
“Thomas loves to ski,” he says with paternal pride. “He falls more than he actually skis, but the kid loves it.”
“He’s the cutest kid on the planet.” Freja makes kissy sounds. “I can’t wait to get my hands on him and Anika.”
“You all seem very close, though you don’t live in the same city…country,” Calypso remarks. “My brother lives in London and I hardly ever see him.”
“Not even for the holidays?” Freja asks, horrified.
She can’t imagine a world where we’re not together at least once a month. I got into a lot of trouble with her when I missed Christmas last year, but I had been swamped and just couldn’t make it.
Calypso shrugs.
“Ember lives close by in Boston, so she and I have a monthly date.” Freja leans back, pushing her half-eaten plate toward her husband. “We live in DC…because of this guy’s job.”
Jonathan raises his glass. “Guilty! Freja hates DC, but she tolerates it for me.”
“I don’t hate it,” Freja protests. “I just—it’s just such a company town. And there are days I don’t want to know what kind of pork is in a spending bill—I just want to know what’s on the damn plate.”
“And where do you live, Aksel?” Calypso asks as she snuggles into Ransom.
“Brussels.”
“I love Brussels, but nothing beats San Francisco. Right, darling?” She lifts her face to Ransom, and he brushes his lips against hers.
My heart sinks.
“But the three of us and our families get together at least four or five times a year.” Aksel wraps an arm around me.
Calypso raises her brows. “Families? Oh, you have a partner, Ember?”
I shake my head and drink my hot rum, making a sincere effort not to look at Ransom, because whenever I think about making a family, I think of him.
How is it possible that the year we spent together meant so much to me and yet nothing to him?
“You know, your mother mentioned you were at Stanford, Ember,” Calypso muses. “Did you and Ransom meet up while you were there?”
The way she asks the question makes me uncomfortable. I wonder if maybe Ransom told her about us, and that feels like a betrayal because we’d decided we’d tell no one. What would the point be? It would just unsettle his family and mine.
Ransom doesn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m at the hospital, and Ember hid in a lab, Cali, it’s not like we were even in the same building.”
Hid in a lab.
“But you’re all friends,” Calypso protests.
“Well…I’m closer in age to Aksel and Freja,” he adds, dripping some more acid onto my wounds.
“Ransom likes me best amongst the three of us,” Freja chirps. “Right, Ransom?”
“Absolutely.”
I feel his gaze upon me, but I don’t dare raise my eyes, which are threatening to fill with tears. If that happens, he’ll know that I’m still in love with him, and I’ll be humiliated.
Freja’s phone beeps, and she groans after reading the message. “Mama wants to remind everyone that we’re to dress up for Christmas Eve dinner. She wants to do some murder mystery theater nonsense.”
“Is this going to be as bad as the time she did the musical night?” Ransom asks laconically. “I don’t think I’m in the mood for an opera singer to teach me how to bleat like a lamb”—he says that in a German accent—“while I’m trying to eat one.”
“Worse!” Aksel downs his drink in one go. “She hired someone to run the show.”
“Wanna bet whoever it is shows up in a Hercule Poirot costume and says, ‘Ooh, my little gray cells’?” Freja attempts a poor imitation of the Belgian detective.
While they fill Calypso in on how Mama always goes overboard with her ideas of making Christmas Eve dinner fun for the family, Ransom leans forward. “You okay?”
I look up at him, now in better control of my emotions. “Of course.”
“She doesn’t know…or rather, I never told her,” he assures me, his tone low. For my ears only.
I tip my chin in acknowledgment. “Okay.”
“But…I think she guesses.”
I draw in a deep breath. “Why would she do that?”
“Because I can’t stop looking at you.”