The Chalet in Chamonix – Part 1: Snowed In

The snow had been falling for two days when the road closed.

Léa stood at the chalet window with a mug of tea, watching the white drifts climb the pines. Behind her, Antoine was trying, and failing, to light the fire.

"You have to let it breathe," she said.

"I am letting it breathe."

"You are smothering it."

He sat back on his heels, defeated, forty-one years old with soot on his nose. "Fourteen years of marriage," he said, "and you still do not trust me with kindling."

"I trust you with the children. Not the fire."

He laughed, a real laugh, and the sound startled her. She could not remember the last time she had heard it. The children had gone to their cousin's in Annecy for the week, a rare, unwanted gift, and the quiet in the chalet felt enormous.

She knelt beside him and rearranged the logs. The flame caught, orange and fragrant.

"You see?" she said.

"I see that you are very good at things."

"And you?"

"I am good at the dishes." He considered. "And at paying attention. Sometimes."

They ate cheese and bread on the rug in front of the fire, wrapped in a duvet from the bed, and the wind howled harmlessly outside.

"Can I ask you something?" said Léa.

"Yes."

"Do you remember the first winter? When we had no money and a hot-water bottle?"

"Every night," said Antoine. "I miss the hot-water bottle."

"You miss the hot-water bottle?"

"I miss being that cold, and that close."

She looked at him, the firelight carving his face into gold and shadow. "Green?" she said, the old private word, almost shyly.

"Green," said Antoine, softly. "Very green. Come here, Léa."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Fire.