Chapter 21
Ember
We hike single file through the woods behind the chalet, snowshoes crunching over freshly packed powder.
The snow is pristine. A white hush over the world. Pine trees flank both sides, heavy with snow that sparkles in the rare sun.
It’s a cinematic winter that looks like it’s been curated by a location scout for a Hallmark movie. Unreal and quiet and so beautiful it hurts.
I’m at the back of the group, following Latika, who is following Freja, who is following Margot, who is following Anika, who is following Tanya.
It’s our annual Rousseau Women’s Hike that usually ends with a lot of drinking.
Mama has a lot of “traditions.”
“Snow pants are deeply unflattering,” Latika complains.
Tanya turns around and calls, “Who are you trying to impress? The wildlife?”
“Maybe,” Latika replies loftily.
It’s cold. My fingers are already tingling despite the hand warmers tucked into my gloves.
Latika spins and walks backward. “Are we going to talk about the snake in lip gloss or just pretend she was a figment of our collective imagination?”
“Oh God,” Freja mutters. “Don’t summon her.”
“Calypso?” Mama says her hands are on Anika’s shoulders. “Thank God, she’s gone to…wherever women like her go.”
“Probably a hotel where the pillows come with collagen,” Freja suggests.
I laugh in spite of myself. The fact that I can is a minor miracle.
“She was a piece of work,” Tanya adds. “You okay, Ember?”
I nod. “I’m fine.”
I’m not. But I am faking it, big time.
He left me a note this morning. It’s in the pocket of my jacket, under my snow gear—close to my heart, because that’s exactly what it touched.
My fingers stilled as I picked up the box of chocolates and envelope tied together with a red ribbon sitting outside my door on the floor.
The scent from the box hit me first—faintly citrus, a whisper of spice.
And suddenly, I wasn’t in Chamonix. I was back in San Francisco. Cold, damp wind. Late afternoon light. The sharp smell of rain-soaked asphalt.
We’re standing outside Dandelion Chocolate on Valencia Street, huddled beneath a crooked, black umbrella.
“Why are we going in here again?” Ransom asks, glancing at his watch.
“Because…chocolate,” I reply. “And because I’m cold. And because you want to make me happy.”
He sighs, feigning resignation. “You’ve weaponized logic.”
Inside, I drag him to the display. “Ooh! Cardamom and orange.”
“That sounds like something you put on roast duck.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” I tease.
“Safe in 90% cacao bitter chocolate?”
I pick up the bar and inhale deeply. “It smells like a Moroccan spice market and Christmas at the same time.”
He chuckles.
I turn to him, raising an eyebrow. “Buy it for me?”
He smiles—slow, indulgent. “I’ll buy you the whole shop if you keep looking at me like that.”
Later, as we drive home, I unwrap the bar and break off a square.
“Want some?”
He nods, so I pop it in his mouth while he’s focused on the road.
“It tastes like magic, doesn't it?” I whisper.
He glances at me. “Baby, it does to you, and that’s all that matters. I’ll keep supplying you with these…in case you ever forget what magic tastes like.”
His note in the envelope was a little on the nose.
I remember the magic.
— R
I press a hand to my chest, where his note is tucked.
A paper-thin apology for a heartbreak that cracked me open.
And yet….
How he managed to get chocolate from my favorite chocolaterie in San Francisco is a mystery. I’m charmed, despite myself. Touched, even though I don’t want to be.
Damn you, Ransom.
“Hey, that’s cheating,” Freja squeals when Anika’s snowball hits her.
“No, it’s not.” Anika chases her aunt.
Their laughter echoes off the trees.
We’re about halfway through the trail. Some of us have taken a break, gathered around a ring of benches that surround a fire pit we didn’t bother to light.
The air is crisp, our breath visible as we sip hot chocolate from brushed steel thermoses Chef Pascal packed for us.
It’s thick, rich, and laced with something extra—cognac, just enough to feel the heat bloom in your chest.
“How’s the heart?” Latika asks as Mama and Tanya join the snowball fight with Freja and Anika.
“Sore,” I admit.
Her brown eyes are gentle. “He says he’s sorry?” It’s a question.
She wants to know if I believe him. If I intend to forgive him. If I want to be in a relationship with him. Or, if I’ll simply walk away.
“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” I admit. “I feel so weak…and stupid.”
Latika squeezes my shoulder. “Love is not weak…though it can be stupid at times. But, Ember Rousseau, you’re one of the smartest people I know. I think it’s okay to trust your heart.”
I take a long sip of chocolate. “My heart steers me into places where I get hurt. I’d much rather listen to my head.”
“You love him,” she states.
“Yes.”
“You think he loves you?”
“I don’t believe him…I don’t want to. I…think I’m scared.”
Warmth flickers in her eyes. “Whatever you decide, we’re behind you. Just don’t let anyone else’s judgment—yours included—steer the wheel. Do what feels right for your spirit, your heart, your healing.”
It’s good advice. I want to take it—I will, as soon as I stop being afraid.
We hike all the way into town in a loose, laughing line, boots crunching snow, coats zipped tight, cheeks rosy from the cold.
The air smells like chimney smoke and frost, and the lights in Chamonix sparkle like someone scattered a box of stars.
Tonight’s plan is to have drinks at Le Monchu, and then dinner there or at another restaurant. Chef Pascal is taking the night off.
La Monchu is a Chamonix institution. It’s indulgently alpine with the warmth of a blazing fireplace. The chairs are draped with furs, evoking the ambiance of old mountain huts.
We claim a long table near the windows where we can watch the snow as it starts to fall again.
Anika is bouncing with excitement and asks for a “grown-up drink.”
“No alcohol,” Latika warns, because Mama, like my father, has a French sensibility when it comes to wine, which means she’s perfectly okay with offering Anika a sip or two or three of her vin chaud that has significant quantities of cognac mixed in with the mulled wine.
Mama orders warm apple cider with sparkling water in a champagne glass for Anika, who beams.
Freja orders a round of vin chaud for the rest of us.
When the drinks are served, Mama raises her mug. “We toast to resilience, ridiculousness, and maybe just a little revenge.”
Freja grins. “Spoken like a woman who once hunted down a man in Paris for ghosting her and returned all his suits…with…holes.”
“Since I’m now married to that man and have been for several decades, I stand by my comment,” Mama declares, haughty as a queen.
Laughter spills out around the table like warmth itself.
“Is everyone going skiing tomorrow?” Aunt Tanya asks.
Latika frowns. “I’m going to pass. My butt hurts from all the falling I did yesterday.”
She’s not an experienced skier, though Aksel is determined to teach her, despite her lack of interest. He’s convinced that once she learns, she will love it.
“No way around it.” Freja waves her glass. “You gotta fall to learn. I once fell off a ski lift in Austria while getting on. Just—boom. Face first into a snowbank. The boy I liked pretended not to know me the rest of the day. I was wounded.”
“I think it’s silly to get hurt because a boy is mean to you,” Anika remarks.
“I’m raising a feminist.” Latika clinks her glass against her daughter’s, who giggles.
“I once pretended to be an Olympic figure skater.” Tanya swirls her vin chaud. “I even gave the bartender my stage name. All to impress a man who was sitting next to me. He was such a dish.”
“What happened?” Latika asks, clearly delighted.
Tanya sighs. “He turned out to be a sports journalist.”
Across the table, Anika’s eyes widen. “Did he write about you?”
Tanya sips her drink with a proud little shrug. “No, darling. I disappeared as soon as I found out, because he knew I wasn’t who I was saying I was.”
There’s a clatter at the entrance.
The men arrive—Jean, Bob, Thomas, Jonathan, Aksel…and Ransom.
He’s the last through the door, shaking snow from his coat, his gaze sweeping the bar until it lands on me. His hair is damp at the temples, his cheeks flushed, and he looks completely, heart-wrenchingly beautiful in a way that makes me want to…slap him.
Yes, slap him, Ember, not kiss him, not hug him. Slap him! Got it?
He smiles softly at me. I look away.
Damn, but he’s making this harder than it needs to be.
If he’d only stayed wrapped up with Calypso, it would’ve hurt—but at least it would’ve been a clean kind of hurt. Not the kind where I have to keep saying no to something I want with everything in me, because I know it isn’t good for me.
The table adjusts to fit them in.
Ransom ends up directly across from me again, because…he’s….
I focus on Thomas who, at five, can read the menu and is doing so patiently. Only he’s reading the cocktail list.
“What is Sexy Snow Bunny?” he asks innocently.
“Something and someone you can’t have until you’re much, much older.” Aksel takes the menu away from him and waves to a server.
The drinks arrive, and in short order, Thomas is drinking hot chocolate, his face smeared with whipped cream.
“You know, sometimes when we’re all together like this, it feels like we’re in a Wes Anderson movie.” Latika wipes Thomas’s mouth with a napkin. “Anyone else feel like that?”
“What’s a Wes Anderson movie?” Anika pipes up curiously. “Have I seen one?”
“Fantastic Mr. Fox,” Aksel replies.
“With the sneaky fox and the weird music?” Anika remembers and is excited.
“We saw it with you, Uncle Ransom.”
He ruffles her curls. “We did.”
I want to know when they watched the movie together, and how? Where?
She’s my niece. Hands off.
I feel his gaze, like static against skin.
The conversation moves back to skiing, and everyone talks about the best slopes.
“Park City, hands down,” Aunt Tanya exclaims.
Aksel shakes his head. “Cortina d'Ampezzo.”
Ransom looks at me, holds my gaze. “Aspen,” he says softly.
My heart stalls.
We went to Aspen once, three glorious days together. I remember a candlelit dinner with aching clarity. That was when I thought we were becoming something more.
He kisses my wrist. “It feels so damn good to be with you, Em.”
Now, he’s looking at me the same way. He remembers. He wants me to remember as well. Like I could forget. I was the one crazy in love with him, he was the one who told me to take a hike.
For five years…he’s been Ransom, family friend, and now he wants me to believe he loves me? Always did? But was he just too stupid and too much of a coward to know it?
How gullible would I have to be to accept that? How blinded by love would I have to be to believe it?
Mama, who is sitting next to me, nudges me gently with her shoulder. “Talk to me, Ember.”
I hesitate. “It’s just….”
She waits for me to say more, and when I don’t, she finishes, “You don’t know if you can trust him.”
“Or myself.” I stare into my wine. “I’m terrified of getting hurt again.”
Mama takes a long sip of mulled wine, then sets her glass down and turns to face me fully.
“Darling, I cannot guarantee you that life will not be painless. That’s not how it works.” Her eyes fill with quiet affection. “You can’t make choices out of fear. You make them out of love. Out of hope. Out of who you want to be.”
I give her a soft, contemplative glance and a nod that says, “Continue, please.”
“If you choose to send that man packing, we’ll help you pack his bags.” She grins. “I’ll drive him to the airport myself.”
“Please don’t. Not the way you drive in the snow.”
Mama waves a hand. “Whatever!” Then she sighs. “If you love him—and I think you do—then we’ll back that, too. Even though I’m furious with him for hurting you. For treating you so carelessly. Still—I trust you to choose what’s right for you.”
My throat tightens.
“And if it turns out to be a mistake?” I whisper.
Mama shrugs. “Then we deal with it. Because that’s what family does. We stick.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Do you think I know what love means? Am I confusing infatuation, a feeling from years ago, with love? Is he?”
Mama cups my cheek. “Only one way to find out how deep the water is, and that’s by jumping in. Or…deciding that’s not what you want to do at all.”
I meet her gaze, mulling over her words.
“And seriously,” she adds with a playful glare, “please get LASIK. Hiding those eyes is practically a crime.”
I laugh, half-choked by emotion.
I turn to look at him. He’s grinning at Thomas, who’s telling him—loudly—how many marshmallows he’s eaten.
His eyes flick up to mine. He tilts his head and smiles softly. It’s an invitation. Loaded with emotion.
I don’t smile back.
I also don’t look away.