𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍, 𝐈

13. | BREAKEVEN, I

●

JANUARY 1987.

The little hand was nearing six o'clock when Arne, still in his climbing gear, walked through the door with blood trickling down his face.

Diana had been his wife for nearly two years, so logically she should have been used to this, her husband, the bold, adventurous climber, disappearing on the slope of some mountain, returning with visceral evidence of his journey, but the hours she had waited, heavy with uncertain glances at the door and stir-crazy trips back and forth to Zermatt, the Matterhorn's little village, had left her at the mercy of hysterics. The moment the door opened and she saw the red stream coating his temple and the droplets speckling the brim of his PrimaLoft jacket, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

By the time she returned to the cozy living room of their quaint, Zermattian cabin with the first aid kit gripped in her hand, Arne was doubled over. Not in pain or exhaustion but with laughter, his damp and dirty rucksack toppled over by the force of her legs.

From the second the cotton balls of peroxide and Q-tips covered in antibiotic ointment touched his skin, she admonished him. She was unwrapping a gauze to cover his injury, a mild gash the length of a miniature pencil, as he reached for her hand and gave it a long kiss.

"Min lille fugl," he said, "worried for me."

His touch made her heart flutter, but she tore her hand away. "Of course I was. Any woman who wakes up at 7 in the morning to find her husband gone would react the same way."

"I told you I would be leaving before sun up. Did you not believe me?"

Her lips dropped into a pout. She hadn't.

He smiled, took her hand, and kissed it again. "No need for the cream. A shower will rinse the bacteria away." He pulled the collar of the thin, inner lining of his clothes. "Along with the sweat."

"Great. Then after your shower, maybe you could spend a little more time with your wife." She looked at him expectantly.

"We did have plans, didn't we?" he said matter-of-factly, a wide grin plastered across his face.

She gave a small huff, dismissing him with a bashful rise to her feet.

While Arne left to shower, Diana fought with the radio. Outside of boutique excursions, elegant dinners, and sightseeing, this was how she had spent the past two days of their stay at the Matterhorn. All day she had tried getting the damn thing to work, but the weather, nothing but endless, dark clouds, had made finding a signal impossible. It probably didn't help that they were at the foot of a Swiss mountain in the dead of winter, but they were also surrounded by world-class restaurants, hotels, and shops. Motorized vehicles may not be allowed in Zermatt, but a decent radio tower surely couldn't be out of the question.

She bounded from corner to corner, stopping only when the radio unfettered itself from the static. With the help of a nearby stool, the signal stayed put. The radio would be sitting in the middle of the room, but it would have to do for now.

The station played a mix of popular hits from America and Europe. As soft rock poured from the radio, she stood over a simmering pot of mulled wine, dallying her hips to the music. She ran through Ms. Næss' careful instructions. Not too hot. Constant stirring, star anise, and cinnamon sticks for aromatics and presentation.

Another song reached its final crescendo. Cups of steaming wine, as fragrant as Arne's mother said they would be, sat on the counter, waiting to be consumed. Arne pattered away in the other room; she could hear the zipper of his suitcase, the usual humming he employed when he was getting dressed.