Henry takes the staircase more slowly on the way down, savoring the aftermath of his interaction with Celia, and mostly undaunted by her father’s forbidding attitude. “Thank you.” The Italian nods curtly and closes the door. “No, sir,” Henry replies, “just the coffee. “Anything else, young man?” He speaks in a less pronounced accent than Celia’s, a good deal more British than Italian. Her father stands with his arms crossed in the doorway, a grim-faced sentinel. “I’ll take it, Papa.” Celia reaches for the tray and favors Henry with a radiant smile before disappearing into the suite. “Breakfast is served in the Great Hall, sir, whenever you’re ready. An award-winning cinema director rumored to have close ties to Mussolini himself, he’s a handsome, older man, aristocratic of bearing, of medium stature and somewhat delicately boned, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. “Good morning.” Her father has appeared in the doorway beside her. Moreover, and miraculously-if he’s not mistaken-in the brief time they’ve known each other, a strong connection appears to have sprung up between them, a current of mutual attraction that exerts its magnetic pull despite logic and the social and cultural barriers that conspire to keep them apart. He doesn’t consider himself star-struck-they’ve had half a dozen conversations by now, and a game of checkers in the great hall the night before-but it remains a struggle to believe that such a girl can truly exist in the three-dimensional world. An odd weightlessness comes over him, the distinct sensation of floating a few inches above the floor. He shrugs, helpless, because his reservoir of Italian vocabulary is already depleted. “ Buongiorno,” he says, doing his best to replicate the pronunciation he’s learned from Benny, the lodge’s Swiss-Italian chef.Ĭelia laughs delightedly. A loose strand of mahogany hair caresses one flawless olive cheek. Her eyes are charmingly swollen with sleep. The door swings open, and Celia appears in a dressing gown of sky-blue satin. At the Edelweiss Suite, he knocks and waits. On a normal day he might stop to admire these photographs-shadow and light, black crags and windblown snow, all the danger and beckoning allure of the great alpine summits: Mont Blanc, Wildspitze, Matterhorn, Weisshorn, Dents du Midi-but today he has reason to ignore them. An inch of fresh powder frosts the windowsills, and the light slants in to illuminate the framed mountainscapes that line the stairwell. Henry takes the stairs three at a time, balancing a tray with a pot of coffee and two of the lodge’s signature blue-enamel mugs. Immerse here in Weed’s “snow-burdened ponderosas that loom out of the blizzard and then fade back like spectral watchmen.” - CRAFT The Boston Globe describes Tim Weed as a “skilled creator of a sense of place… each story deposits one definitively into a geography, of mind and map.” December seems a fitting time to reflect on place, on geography, mind, and map. This story will take you back to the aesthetic and mindset of the Greatest Generation, while revealing the natural wonder and might of the Rockies in winter. Make yourself a stiff Hot Toddy and steal a few moments before a blazing fire to read “Diamondback Mountain,” first published in Tim Weed’s collection, A Field Guide to Murder & Fly Fishing. The setting is exquisitely rendered-the prewar Colorado of wooden skis and alpine lodges. Elements Contest 2018: Character | Dialogue Setting.
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