Chapter 1

Kirstin clumsily twists her fork in the spaghetti bolognese with a ski-gloved hand.

Three thousand feet above sea level, she sits at a trestle table on the snow-shrouded deck of the Sennhütte ski hut. Nobody braves the bitter cold out there with her, but inside the lodge, there resonates raucous laughter and the tipsy singing of Christmas skiers aping their Tyrolean entertainer.

Kirstin scans the haughty mountains and begrudges them their strength and perfection—qualities she no longer possesses. Sharp swirling snowflakes nip the shards of Parmesan cheese which rest on her pasta like sawdust on an abattoir's bloody floor. Icy splinters prick her narrowed eyes and chill her cheeks. Misery chokes her, heavy as a rock chained to a drowning man's neck. She begins to cry and her distorted mouth groans, “Merry Christmas, Kirstin.”

Soon the revelers will stagger out in rum-drunk groups and fasten unsteady boots to slippery skis before sliding downhill with more luck than skill towards St Anton village in the twilight.

If she never moved again, if she froze into a block of ice, no one would care.

But a year ago today, on this same balcony, someone had cared…

* * * *

Same location; same spaghetti.

Kirstin was enjoying the noon sun on her face when a long shadow blocked it and a deep voice recommended, “Take off your gloves. Eating’s easier without them.”

“My hands are freezing, thank you.”

She smiled frostily at the rugged man sitting down, uninvited, opposite her who threw his own ski gloves onto the table, as if daring her to do the same.

When he removed his sunglasses, raw, sky-blue eyes challenged hers.

“No, they’re not. You're missing a finger, aren't you?”

“How would you know?” she replied roughly.

“I noticed you getting off the chairlift, and couldn’t help admiring you while you took off your gloves to adjust your boots. I thought, ‘What a beautiful woman.’”

“You mean, ‘What a shame!’”

“No. I wanted to get to know you.”

Despite herself, Kirstin felt flattered. This man was certainly direct—he'd immediately confronted her main issue and was still interested.

But long habit made her snap, “You just feel sorry for me.”

Ever since her accident, Kirstin had wallowed in self-pity. Before, she’d seen herself as perfect: curvaceous figure with piercing green eyes accentuated by cheekily cropped black hair. She had demanded and received the attention of any male she wished—but all that had disappeared with her middle right finger. Only while riding horses and skiing did she feel attractive once more, for both sports required gloves.

“Why so bitter? Tell me what happened.”

She hated reliving the disastrous events of that day. One moment she was normal, the next…mutilated. But the man didn’t seem morbidly curious; he sounded genuinely concerned and, haltingly, unable to look at him, she told him her tale.

After she finished, he paused, then said, “So—you lost a finger. What's the big deal?”

Kirstin flinched, hurt. She’d forced herself to narrate the toughest moment of her life and in return her listener was being flippant.

With a smile, he reached for her gloved hands and gently peeled off their layers of disguise until he held her long, bare fingers in his.

She squirmed.

“Don’t pull away.” He leant forward and locked her eyes in a blue embrace.

Thankful tears hovered on her lower lashes. His eyes never left hers as, soft and caressing, his lips lingered over the stub of her missing finger and kissed it.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured. “Surely you realize that?”

She laughed. This amazing man had actually kissed her ugly little stump!

“I don't know who you are, but you’re the perfect, lying gentleman!”

He laughed and his voice had a throaty, deep quality which caught her off guard. “I'm Gordon. And you are…?”

So began their romance. Kirstin felt whole again and unafraid to let the world see her disfigurement. She learned to like herself and those around her.

They skied by day, jostling against the post-Christmas crowds—Germans, Austrians, English, Dutch, Danish, Swedish—all heading downhill in a confusion of language and ski fashion.

By night the lovers shared fondue, devoured Wiener Schnitzel or feasted on tournedos of venison, offered by the culturally diverse restaurants of the little Alpine resort. They walked off their dinner with fingers entwined, and the luminous lights festooning the village’s huge Christmas tree shimmered on their happiness.

New Year’s Eve found them celebrating with throngs of holiday-makers in the main street. Hugging against the cold, they were lost in the splendor of brilliant, exploding fireworks.

Then, five minutes before midnight, Kirstin caught Gordon glancing at a beautiful woman who stood out in the crowd. None of her fingers was missing.

“I knew it couldn’t last!” she screamed. “I knew you’d lose interest in me sooner or later! I don’t blame you—go to her and leave me alone!”

Midnight tolled stridently from the church belfry above her furious accusation.

“If you’re so obsessed with your damn finger that you can’t understand I love you, then I can’t help you!” he shouted back and was gone.

He’d not mentioned loving her until that moment. What had she done?!

After a feverish night, she rang his hotel the next morning to apologize. He’d already left. The hotel wouldn’t give out his address and they had never exchanged phone numbers. They’d lived for the moment, ignoring their imminent departure from paradise.

* * * *

Returning to St Anton had been a mistake, but it was the only place she’d been happy since her accident and she longed to relive those blissful memories.

Instead, Christmas Day found her depressed and hunched over this plate of cold spaghetti sprinkled with cheese and snow. The harsh, towering mountains exaggerated her insignificance and tore at her heart with their indifference and beauty.

The flurries thickened, darkening the sky. Merry-makers oozed unsteadily out of the hut, exclaiming against the sudden icy wind after the heat of the hut. Kirstin turned her slumped back on their mirth as they snapped wayward, drunken boots into their ski bindings.

She heard footfalls crunch toward her in the deep snow—some alcohol-ridden idiot wanting to cheer her up. She desperately willed them away.

“Eating spaghetti in gloves again, I see,” a familiar, gruff voice remarked.

She started in disbelief and turned around.

Unable to speak, she could only mouth hoarsely, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” over and over again.

Gordon brushed off the snow beside her and sat down. He slowly withdrew her right glove, and brushed his lips across the stub which had brought them together twelve months earlier only to tear them apart.

“So am I, my darling,” he whispered. “I prayed you’d come back. Merry Christmas, Kirstin.”