The Chalet in Chamonix – Part 2: The Fire

On the third night the wind finally dropped, and a hush fell over the valley like a held breath.

They had spent the day lazily. Cards, a long bath, a ridiculous argument about whose turn it was to cook, a nap in the afternoon. In the evening, Léa found him kneeling at the fire again, laying logs with exaggerated care.

"Look," said Antoine. "Breathing."

"Show-off."

She curled up against his side and the duvet fell round them both. The flames shifted, and the shadows leaned on the beams.

"Can I ask you something?" said Léa.

"Yes."

"Do you think we can keep this? When the road opens, when the children are back?"

"I think," said Antoine, slowly, "we stop waiting for a snowstorm."

"That is very wise."

"I know. I have been practising it for three days."

She laughed, and turned in his arms. The chalet creaked comfortably. Outside, the stars were out above the white peaks.

"May I kiss my wife?" he asked.

"Yes," said Léa. "And if I say stop, you must light the fire every night for a year."

"That would be a pleasure."

He kissed her slowly, the way he had when they were twenty-five and the world was new, with his hand curved at the back of her neck. She kissed him back, warm and unhurried, tasting of tea and woodsmoke, and the fire cracked softly in the grate.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Léa. "Very green."

In the morning, the plough came up the road with its yellow light turning. They watched from the window with their coffee, and neither of them said how much they minded.

"Let's get stuck again," said Antoine.

"Next winter," said Léa. "But we don't need the snow."

More married couple romance: The Cruise · Couples Retreat · The Second Honeymoon