December 5
Ingrid looked at herself in the mirror. The green silk draped softly over her body. Vegard had helped her pick out the dress
the last time she was in Oslo, at an exclusive shop she never would have set foot in on her own. Vegard and the shop assistant
had practically clapped when she put the dress on, and she could see that it looked good on her; it accentuated her slim figure
and toned arms, while the simple draped neckline and luxurious fabric created an elegant effect. But she could never get used
to seeing herself in this kind of outfit. Pants and T-shirts, solid shoes, wool sweaters, anoraks—that type of clothing was
more her style. Clothes you could work and walk in, not the kind of thing you had to send to the dry cleaner and worry about
the sequins falling off.
The woman staring back at her was tall and angular, with curly, sandy blond hair that flowed down her shoulders. She had strong arms and long fingers with short nails. Her calves, which showed beneath the hem of her dress, were slender but toned. She raised herself up on tiptoe and her calves bulged even more. In high heels, both her muscles and her height became even more pronounced, so she tended to avoid heels. Besides, they were painful to walk in. Preben had always preferred that she wear flats; he wanted to be the tallest in the relationship. Vegard, on the other hand, claimed that stilettos gave you power and a real beauty boost. “Keep your heels, head, and standards high,” he said, quoting Coco Chanel. Ingrid had told him to try wearing five-inch heels if he thought they were so sexy.
Ingrid had never been much of a dress girl. Painful memories flashed through her head: senior prom her last year in high school,
when she’d been convinced to wear a strapless dress in shimmering red fabric. Freddy Dalen, who was hanging outside the school
with his gang, laughed when she arrived, saying she looked like an overgrown candy cane. The dress kept threatening to slip
down over her almost completely flat chest, and she’d ended up sneaking into the arts and crafts room to tape it with double-sided
tape, which caused a rash that lasted for days.
Then there was the cocktail party at the Norwegian embassy in New Delhi, where she arrived in an expensive, newly purchased
skirt. She’d forgotten how tight it was as she took the stairs to the roof terrace two at a time. She ended up with a rip
up the back that she had to hide by borrowing a shawl from the ambassador—a stylish woman in her sixties—that Ingrid tied
around her waist. Ouch . What good were clothes designed to inhibit your ability to move? Nice pants and simple, stylish tops were pretty much her
go-to when she was forced to go to parties.
But these were new times with new expectations. If Glitter Peak Lodge was going to stand out on social media, the hotel manager had to “put herself out there,” Vegard said. Gorgeous photos of food and interiors were a given, but pictures of Ingrid in simple but elegant dresses were apparently also a must. (“But they’ve only seen pictures of me in outdoor gear. No one is coming to Glitter Peak to see me in a dress,” she said. “People should come to Glitter Peak to live out their fantasy,” Vegard replied. “And that dream might involve anything from climbing to nature to food to peace and quiet to beauty and elegance. You have to show them that you don’t need to choose—you can have it all.” He pointed at the slogan he’d come up with for the hotel: Glitter Peak—Where All That Glitters Is Gold .)
Well... she’d decided to do what needed to be done. She really was going to put more effort into being well-dressed, hence the shopping trips with Vegard that had resulted in a handful of
dresses in her closet. Now she just needed to figure out what she was going to wear to dinner this weekend, when Vegard and
Pia P were coming to visit. And Thor.
It would of course be hopeless to ask her grandmother for advice. Nana Borghild’s standard answer was that bunad was best—for
Constitution Day, confirmations, big birthdays, and Christmas, the Norwegian national costume was her go-to garment for any
kind of celebration. She’d also told Ingrid that a bunad would be a stylish choice for festive occasions when she made her
debut as manager of the hotel. Ingrid had to try her best not to scoff. She didn’t want to hurt her grandmother’s feelings.
But the idea of waltzing around the hotel in a pile of brocade and silver was downright ridiculous. And it wouldn’t exactly
help anyone “live out their fantasy” either.
She opened the smaller closet, where her bunad was hanging inside two heavy garment bags: one for the embroidered wool skirt with an attached bodice and one for the shawl and cape. There was a separate jewelry box for the silver brooches— s?lje —and cuff links, and the belt and bunad purse with its large silver clasp.
Ingrid always felt like she was playing dress-up when she wore a bunad—as though she was in a national romantic fantasy she
had no desire to be a part of. Worse than that: it felt like she was dressing up like her own mother.
Ingrid had inherited Angelina’s bunad, which Borghild had embroidered for Angelina’s confirmation. Nana Borghild wanted nothing
more than for Ingrid to wear it, and Ingrid could understand why: the loss of her daughter, all the love that Nana Borghild
had put into the garment that Angelina had gotten to wear for far too few years. So Ingrid had agreed to wear the bunad for
her own confirmation, as well as a few other occasions since then. Angelina had also been tall, so the garment had fit Ingrid
without needing many adjustments. But it mostly stayed in the closet. It smelled like mothballs and sadness. She shut the
closet door.
She squirmed out of the green dress and laid it on the chair behind her. Then she looked in the mirror again, placing a hand
on her stomach. Other women had often told her that it was enviably flat, gesturing to their own rounder bodies. But a few
years ago—when did it happen, really?—she’d apparently reached an age when a flat stomach had become a source of pity, while
other women’s round bellies and bulging breasts had become something they carried around with pride. Ingrid had never cared
about this much—until suddenly she did.
She walked over to the large wardrobe and tentatively pulled out a formfitting blue dress that Vegard had also chosen. She
held it up in front of her and met her own gaze in the mirror.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself , she thought. You’ve had an incredible life. And it will be incredible again. Maybe. It could be pretty good, at least.
And the start of her new life was this first winter season as manager of Glitter Peak Lodge. The encouragement from Vegard
and David helped Ingrid believe—at least in some optimistic moments—that a miracle actually could happen and that the family hotel would be able to survive in the years to come and not be swallowed up by the competitors
who were constantly making offers to buy them out, especially during periods when the market was particularly difficult. And
it had been difficult for as long as Ingrid could remember. Maybe even always? When she’d left home, she hadn’t been mature
enough to get involved in the hotel business; she traveled out into the world, confident that her grandmother could handle
both the practical operations and hotel finances. Surely Nana Borghild had always done so? It was only now, when she stood
with her own feet planted firmly in all of the work, that she realized how difficult it must have been. How much her grandmother
had kept from her, even though they were so close.
Ingrid pulled the blue dress over her head and zipped it up the side. It fit nicely, but was it right for the occasion? Was
it too short for a dinner party? Too tight? It was more of a cocktail dress, perhaps. Vegard had tried to give her advice
and tips on what was appropriate when, but she still felt unsure. Ingrid was terrified at the thought of Pia Pihlstr?m being
here to judge both her and the hotel, but Vegard was right; it would be good advertising for Glitter Peak if Pia liked it
here.
Pia would get the nicest room. It was on the top floor, but walking up all those stairs was good exercise—maybe that was how they could sell it to her? Ingrid had stopped by today to check that everything was dust-free and that the bedding didn’t have a single wrinkle. The bathroom had a selection of products that Vegard had convinced Ingrid the hotel had to offer for sale—Glitter Peak birch soap and hand cream with heather extract. Wine, snacks, and flowers had been put in the room that morning as well.
The evening’s menu would be the same as on Christmas Eve: pinnekj?tt with Christmas sausages and mashed root vegetables. Opinions
on what to serve to drink were divided, so there would be plenty to choose from. The traditional alternatives—beer and aquavit—would
of course be available. Nana Borghild scoffed at the suggestion of wine with pinnekj?tt, but Ingrid wanted to balance the
heavy fare with a nice amarone. Maja favored the nonalcoholic malt beer they brewed at the hotel or alternatively a glass
of fresh black currant juice. Ingrid wondered what Pia P would prefer. Champagne, perhaps? Fortunately, there was plenty of
that in stock.
Ingrid hoped, hoped, hoped that everything would go smoothly now—that she would manage to represent the hotel in a positive way and attract new guests.
Deep down, she knew the dresses had little to do with it. That’s not what people came to see. Traditionally, it was mostly
hikers and climbers who came to Glitter Peak, and if they associated anything with Ingrid, it was her climbing career. They’d
probably want to talk to her about expeditions and climbing tips, perhaps with the hope of joining a trip she led herself.
So many hopes. So many things that could go wrong.
She looked at herself in the mirror and pulled the zipper down. She took off the dress and hung it back up on the hanger, leaving it and the pale green silk dress to hang outside the closet door. She would go for the green one tomorrow—since hope was green, after all.
***
It was early evening, dinner had been eaten, and Sunny and Ingrid were carrying boxes of Christmas decorations down from the
attic (where neither dry rot nor Cheetos were to be seen). They put them in the foyer. Ingrid opened one and pulled out a
soft white blanket. She draped it over the table Alfred had carried up from the basement.
“This’ll be the snow!”
She pushed the table against the wall and set up the vases of spruce twigs that had been collected for the occasion.
“And here’s the forest!”
Borghild, who was on her way down to get something in the library, stopped on the landing and clutched her chest. It was all
so familiar, the tableau taking shape in the foyer. She stood there, watching Ingrid and Sunny. They were rummaging through
boxes while Ingrid instructed Sunny on how she should set up the fairy-tale forest. They placed small elves and skiers on
the white blanket. Borghild knew every single figure. Hares and reindeer would also find their places. A whole forest of characters
in miniature would teem between the trees.
Setting up the winter forest was a cherished tradition, and Borghild remembered its humble beginnings well. It was the last
Christmas that Angelina and Marius were still alive. Back then, they didn’t usually keep the hotel open for Christmas, so
the staff had been given the day off and it was just Borghild, Angelina, Marius, and little Ingrid. To think that it was thirty
years ago...
Ingrid had been so excited, like most three-year-olds around Christmas. She sprinted up and down the stairs and in and out of the rooms all day, looking forward to opening presents. To slow her down, her father had brought out a box of elf figurines he’d bought in a gift shop in Oslo. Ingrid gave every elf a name (Mrs. Claus, Mommy, Daddy, Theodore, Bjarne, and Poopy) and placed them between some spruce twigs that had been brought in as decoration. This was the forest where they lived, she explained, describing their life there with great enthusiasm. Then she asked where the elves’ reindeer were. Marius had said they might come next Christmas.
But the next Christmas, Angelina and Marius were gone, and a heartbroken Borghild had bought reindeer for little Ingrid and
the elves. Over the years, they’d been joined by many more figurines—animals and people, sleighs and houses. Borghild had
made it a Christmas tradition to add one or more items to the collection each year. It had become her and Ingrid’s little
ritual, and as the collection grew, they’d found that the foyer was the best place to display them.
A couple of guests also stopped to admire the small display. Borghild watched as Ingrid chatted with them as she set up elves
and adjusted the sleds. It was nice to see the glow in her granddaughter’s cheeks when she occasionally managed to forget
her worries. Borghild even saw some of the same eagerness in Ingrid as she herself had felt in her childhood. It had already
been a long, dark winter, and there were many difficult days, but these glimmers of light gave her hope.
For the first time in many years, Borghild felt that she was actually looking forward to Christmas.