Margot glares at both of us flatly, unimpressed. “Do I look like a fool? Jonathan is there,andI hired someone. Local, from Chamonix, to make sure they don’t burn the house or themselves down. But someone needs to supervise.”
Just then, we hear a squeaky sound. “Welcome to the New Year’s Eve Ball, peasants!” Tanya announces in a Chipmunk voice, before dissolving into cackles and nearly floating off the bench.
“The fuck?” I chuckle.
Tanya is in a corner, filling balloons with helium. Once in a while, she’s taking a shot of the gas.
“Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” she says in her helium-laced voice, which is cracking her up.
“Tanya, fill the balloons, not yourself.” Margot rolls her eyes in exasperation. “Bob was supposed to do that,but he’s run away. If either of you sees him, send him here.”
“This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world.” Tanya is laughing her head off as she’s quoting Eastwood.
“Merde!” Margot swears.
“…and would blow your head clean off. You've got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?” More laughter.
Ember and I snicker as we go our separate ways to perform ourduties.
I have to talk to Chef Pascal about canapés, while Ember has some non-helium-related party decorations to take care of.
I walk into the kitchen to search for Chef Pascal. He’s not there. Jean, who’s sitting in the breakfast nook, informs me that Chef has gone to Chamonix to buy fresh oysters.
“You hiding?” I ask.
“Damn right,” he admits with pride.
Bob steps out of the pantry, where he had beenhiding.He looks around. “Is she gone?”
“Who?” I ask at the same time Jean says, “The coast is clear.”
“She’s making me do weird stuff,” Bob mutters mostly to himself.
I frown and ask again, “Who?”
“She wants me to blow up balloons with helium. Do I look like someone who blows up balloons?” UncleBob slides onto the bench next to Jean, shaking his head. “Your wife is a menace, Jean.”
“Tell me about it.” Jean fills his cup with coffee, and then does the same for Bob.
He then picks up a bottle of whiskey and pours a dash into each cup.
“It’s nine in the morning, Jean,” I admonish.
“It’s Happy Hour somewhere,” Bob retorts, and then drinks some of his spiked coffee. “Breakfast of Champions.”
I find Aksel outside with the kids and Latika. Since they have children, they have been spared duties.
Latika and the kids are building a snowman, their laughter carrying through the cold air as Thomas insists the snowman needs “abs like Papa’s.” Anika argues for a tiara and glitter. Latika, wisely, adds both.
Aksel, meanwhile, lounges nearby on a weathered wooden bench, bundled in a thick sweater, sipping coffee from a heavy mug that reads:Ski. Sip. Sleep. Repeat.
He’s reading the Sunday edition ofThe Guardian, already having plowed throughLe Figaro, and he hasThe New York Timesfolded neatly at the table by his bench, which is probably next in line.
When the Rousseaus are in residence, the newspapers still arrive like clockwork at the chalet—Le Figaroevery morning, theTimesandGuardianon Sundays.
I read my newspapers online; however, Aksel and Jean are traditionalists and read all three like it’s acompetitive sport, occasionally muttering, with exaggerated Gallic suffering, “Of course, Macron said that.”
“Mama finds you wandering around without doing any work, you’re going to be in a lot of pain,” Aksel warns me as I sit on a bench across from him.
