Free The Runaway Wife by Elizabeth Birkelund Page B

skepticism won you extra points. But in the presence of this elegant woman in such eternal mountain surroundings, edginess seemed hollow.
    Still, he had a flight to catch tomorrow, Wednesday. Walking in circles had cost him a full day. Even if he left with Calliope first thing in the morning, they would only get back to the Cabane by the midday. On Thursday they would arrive in Gstaad; he would leave Calliope on her own and contact the sisters to let them know that their mother was safe from the snows and her husband. He would then catch the afternoon train from Gstaad to Geneva and just maybe make it to the Geneva airport in time for a 6 p.m. flight back to New York. But that was pushing it. Luckily his first day of work was not until Monday. Since his ticket was nonrefundable, he’d have to pay for another full fare back to the States.
    â€œYour anger, your agitation, I can feel it.”
    â€œYou caught me planning—”
    â€œThe pass of perpetual snow.” She pointed to the small gap between twin white snowcapped mountains above them. “It’s one of the most difficult passes in this part of the world. At any point during the year, there might be seven to eight feet of snow up there, but in the winter the drifts can reach more than forty feet. French and German pilgrims still cross it on their way to Rome. Back in the day, the monks who lived here offered them food, medicine, and rest.
    â€œCome inside, you look like you could use a little of all three. How hungry you are,” she added, as if in an afterthought.
    He was famished.
    INSIDE THE CHALET, SHE WAS ALL MOVEMENT. SHE lit two candles in the dark wooden interior, stirred the contents of a pot hanging by a hook over a fire, stoked the fire, and disappeared somewhere into the darkness at the far end of the room. While she was gone, Jim gazed around in amazement at the chalet’s interior. Two copper pots and a pan hung above a wide wooden trough that served as a sink, and a red-and-white checked cloth, similar to the ones in the Cabane des Audannes, covered the small table that was set for two. Thick red napkins had been placed at the center of each pewter plate. Tin cups took the place of glasses. What was the spice in the pot that filled the room with a sweet, earthy aroma?
    â€œYou were expecting me for dinner?” he asked when she reappeared.
    â€œAgain you’re surprised!” As she laughed, the ribbon in her hair fell to the ground and her braid loosened. Jim was quicker to reach the ribbon, and she took it from him playfully. Instead of tying the ribbon around the bottom of her braid, she held it up to her neck and, elbows raised horizontally, tied the ends together.
    â€œValasian must have told you,” he said, but he doubted that the old man had a cell phone or that there was cell service here. Perhaps he’d taken a shortcut and beaten Jim to the chalet to warn her.
    Was that music coming from the room where she’d been? He recognized the tinkling bell, but it was accompanied by a low-pitched throbbing sound.
    How had she brought all these supplies—the pots, pans, plates, napkins, forks, and tablecloth—to this remote peak? She bent down, lifted a floorboard, dipped her hand into the opening, and removed a dusty black bottle. Holding it, she approached Jim and stared up into his eyes.
    â€œYou didn’t believe me when I said I heard you coming.”
    â€œNo,” he said.
    She closed her eyes as she handed him the bottle.
    â€œIs this wine?” he asked.
    She turned from him to tend the fire. Only after a long pause did she answer.
    â€œYou may not believe this, either. It’s from the Benedictines’ stash, possibly left behind a century ago. This is the first time I’ve filched, but I would call a dispatch in the form of a messenger from my daughters a special occasion.”
    Jim pulled out the Swiss Army knife that Ambrose had given him at the beginning of their