Free Improper Arrangements by Juliana Ross

London. But Argentière is a small place. I’d be a fool to go about corrupting the local women.”
    My next words flew out of my mouth before I could halt them. “So why me? I doubt you make a habit of corrupting the tourists.”
    “If I knew, I’d tell you. I don’t know...there was something about you, that’s all. They way you moved, looked around. Looked at me. There I was, half-dressed, filthy, sweating like a pig. And you held out your hand for me to shake as if there were nothing amiss.”
    “It would have been rude to do otherwise.”
    “All the same. You’re a rare woman, Alice.” He cleared his throat, as if embarrassed by the admission. “Enough chatter. Are you ready to continue? We’ve a lot of ground to cover before we reach Champex.”
    “And then...?”
    “We’ll talk again.”
    So we journeyed on, through bright-painted meadows and delicately shadowed woodlands of green-gold beech and downy oak. We hadn’t cleared the air, not precisely, but as we walked, Elijah’s mood seemed to improve, although perhaps I was only imagining things. He would never be a talkative man, but he became sufficiently cheery to ask after my bandaged heel once or twice, and made no complaint when I stopped to sketch a cluster of pale violet Petrocallis pyrenaica nestled in a tumble of scree.
    “I won’t be long,” I promised. “Only a pencil sketch, then some notes on color at the side.”
    “Take your time. That’s why we’re here, after all.”
    The blossoms were a distinctive pale violet color that faded to pink at their center, while their stamens were a bright gold without even a hint of green. Difficult but not impossible to capture.
    Elijah watched me as I worked. “How do you know which colors to draw from?”
    “You mean when I mix the shades?”
    “Yes. I look at your tin of paints and all I see are primary colors. But you take a bit here, a bit there, and you have the exact shade you need. Every time, without fail. How do you know?”
    “Practice. When I first started with watercolors I wasted a lot of paper, and paint, trying to create the colors I saw. Eventually I learned. Isn’t climbing the same?”
    “Practice makes perfect, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “It helps. But you’ll never do it well if you don’t love it.”
    “True,” I agreed. “Why do you love climbing?”
    “That’s a long story. Why do you love painting?”
    I had to think on that for a moment. “I suppose because it lets me capture something beautiful, hold on to the memory of it. And, well, I’m good at it. I doubt I would enjoy it as much if I weren’t.”
    “I expect so. What makes you a good painter? Do you know?”
    Now that was a question I’d never heard before. “I’m not sure...”
    “I think you’re good because you’re fearless.”
    “You have to be. With watercolors there’s no room for error. If I make a mistake I can’t erase what I’ve done.”
    “It takes courage to work like that.”
    “You exaggerate. It’s only a piece of paper and some paints. It’s not...well, it’s not a mountain. You’re the one who is fearless, climbing as you do.”
    “Some might say foolhardy. Now—are you finished? Can we pack up and move on?”
    “Of course. I won’t be a minute.”
    We walked quite steadily uphill thereafter, so it was a relief when, late in the afternoon, the path began to descend toward our destination for the evening. I loved Champex at first sight, not only because of its quaint buildings and location on a breathtakingly blue lake, but also because Elijah promised he would be able to obtain a room for us at the Pension Trient.
    Like our hotel from the night before, the pension was crowded with travelers, but the proprietor was delighted to see Elijah and gave over her last room to us.
    “What do you want to do now, Alice? Get settled or have supper?”
    All I wanted to do was take off my boots and collapse in a heap on the bed. “Might it be possible to take our meal