6

      Dusk hovered, enveloping the small old-fashioned mountain train as it began its gentle climb into the Swiss Alps, leaving Montreux and Lake Geneva below, shrouded in a veil of December evening mist.

      Seated in the wide velvet seat of the carriage, tired after the exertions of the journey and the tension of the past few days, Elm leaned back, folded her hands and looked about her appreciatively, relaxed for the first time since boarding the plane in Atlanta. It was exactly as she remembered: the carved wooden bar serving hot chocolate and tea, the gleaming brass luggage rails and pristine starched white linen squares to lay your head against. She smiled, feeling her jet lag dissipate, strangely comforted by the discovery that time had preserved her memories.

      Leaving Savannah and the plantation had proved much easier than she’d expected. In fact, as momentous as the step away from that world had seemed, actually taking it had been surprisingly simple, and she was almost dizzy with relief. Not even the lingering concern that her father would be disappointed and angry about what she’d done was enough to dim her newfound sense of conviction.

      Harlan and the pain of his betrayal couldn’t touch her here, she realized, her smile growing, illuminating her soft brown eyes and curving her full mouth. She savored the sense of freedom, suddenly grateful that she was seated by herself on the MOB and heading to Gstaad, a place where she’d gone to boarding school and spent so many happy moments of her adolescence. A month ago she wouldn’t have believed it possible. But then, a month ago she’d still been drifting in a gray fog of denial. And now her vision had cleared.

      Elm glanced around the carriage and wondered if all she’d lived through the past few days showed. Her lips twitched. She doubted that the plump gray-haired lady in the seat diagonally opposite, reading a newspaper through thick, purposeful lenses, was remotely interested in her carriage-mate’s tribulations. The knowledge that no one here knew—that absolutely no one would send pitying glances, make catty or well-meaning remarks—was bliss. Not that those things should matter, she reminded herself. She’d followed society’s rules and dictates for too long, and all they’d ever brought her was pain and anguish. From now on, she vowed, she’d make her own rules.

      With a satisfied if still shaky sigh, she peered through the large train window, but the brightly lit carriage made it hard to see out. For a moment she stared at her own reflection with new awareness. She was filing for divorce, turning her well-ordered world upside down. But despite all the upheaval, the tension lines around her mouth had eased and her eyes held a glimmer of something—could it be hope?—that she hadn’t seen for some time. Maybe it was just an illusion, but the mere fact she’d found the courage to come here filled her with a sense of optimistic expectation, as if she’d been given a new lease on life. She was thirty-four years old, yet inside she felt fifteen, suddenly young and ready to face her future all over again.

      Pressing her forehead against the chilled windowpane, Elm bit her lip and gazed at the ice-covered stream hugging the railroad tracks. Above the stream, dark pine trees grew taller and taller as the train climbed, their thick branches sagging under the weight of sharp icicles and ten inches of fresh snow.

      Elm swallowed and finally let out the long breath she’d been holding. She had every reason to agonize, but so many more to rejoice. After all, she’d faced the truth, confronted the fact that she’d been living in a sleepy world of illusion, and finally forced herself to wake up and take the upper hand. Her one regret was that it had taken her this long. Of course, the immediate future was easy—a long-awaited and much-needed vacation. Going back would be far more complicated. Aunt Frances—the one person other than Meredith whom she’d revealed her plans to—had said as much.

      And Aunt Fran was right. There would surely be times ahead when she’d miss the stability, however stultifying, of her former life. Living on her own in her home city, where people would still think of her as Senator Hathaway’s daughter and Harlan MacBride’s wife, might prove very uncomfortable. There would be the inevitable snide comments and cold shoulders, perhaps even a tabloid assault full of distortions. But right now she didn’t care about any of it. She’d face that hurdle when she came to it.

      For frankly, she no longer cared what people thought. Savannah would just have to get with the new program or go get a life, she decided, breathing on the pane and drawing a smiley face on the glass with her fingertip. Then she remembered her father and her finger stilled, her ebullience fading. She loved him dearly, and the knowledge that he would never understand her reasons for divorcing Harlan, however valid, made her profoundly sad. She took a deep breath and sat back against the green velvet seat, acknowledging that this was the main reason, however cowardly, that she’d left Savannah without leaving word of where she was going. Aunt Frances had insisted, in her uniquely feisty fashion, that like it or not, Daddy was going to have to learn to put his daughter first for once. But Elm knew there was little use trying to explain. He would never listen. He’d merely offer irrefutable arguments about why her choices were all wrong.

      The carriage door opened, cutting short her negative thoughts and the inevitable guilty feelings they aroused. Instead, Elm concentrated on the rotund, pink-cheeked ticket controller dressed in a neatly pressed navy blue uniform, a bright red leather satchel slung over his shoulder.

      “Présentez les billets, s’il vous plaît.”

      Elm