My brother sits up and holds out his hand to me. “Hey, I want to show you something.”
I smile at him and slip my hand into his. “Yes, please.”
Aksel takes me to the orangerie, tucked at the far end of the chalet, past the library, and down a hallway lined with antique skis and black-and-white photographs of Rousseau ancestors on mountaintops.
The space is technically a conservatory, but we refer to it as the “orangerie” because the first resident of the chalet, a 19th-century count from the Rousseau family, once kept citrus trees here year-round. Back then, cultivating oranges in the Alps was a symbol of wealth and refinement, a display of both science and extravagance. The orangerie was heated with coal beneath the stone floor, and legend has it that Napoleon himself visited once, though that may just be a bit of family lore no one wants to fact-check.
Now, it’s a glass-walled retreat with hanging ivy, potted olive and lemon trees, and a steaming indoor pool framed in polished stone. The scent of citrus lingers faintly in the air.
Outside, snow falls in slow, delicate spirals. From here, you can see the pine forest that guards the edge ofthe estate and, just beyond it, the jagged silhouette of the Mont Blanc massif.
We sit at the edge of the pool on wide chaise lounges draped in rust-colored wool blankets. The warmth from the heated floor seeps through the soles of my Ugg slippers.
“Better?” Aksel asks gently.
I nod, wrapping the blanket around myself like armor. “Thanks for the extraction.”
“Anytime”—he pauses thoughtfully and adds, “You know they don’t mean to be….”
“The fashion police?” I offer, mockingly wiping a fake tear from my cheek.
His eyes linger on me. “Sometimes I worry that you hide behind these pity jokes and dry humor.”
“Hide?”
“That maybe Mama and Aunt Tanya hurt your feelings.”
I give him a soft, contemplative glance. “Not really. I mean, it’s not great to be told to fix your face, but I know they’re trying to help in their own way. I just sic Freja on them and enjoy the show.”
Aksel listens intently. It’s his superpower. He does it quietly, fully, like there’s nothing more important in the world.
“You’re the most self-aware of all of us…and maybe the most diabolical. Freja does rip them a new one.” A smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
Freja is all fire and feeling—bold,passionate, unfiltered. Aksel, by contrast, is calm and composed. He measures his words carefully, always thinking before he speaks.
My sister doesn’t have to do that here. With family, she lets her heart lead. Maybe it’s because in her professional life—where she anchors one of the highest-rated primetime news shows on cable—every word has to be precise. Controlled. Calculated. So at home, she doesn’t hold back.
“Growing up in the Rousseau family, one has no choice but to be both,” I tease.
We’re a family that speaks our minds, especially with each other. No façades, no filters—just us. There’s comfort in that. With the people I love most, and who love me best, I never have to read between the lines.
“Our family kills with kindness,” he jokes.
“Mama kills with fashion.”
He chuckles, then falls quiet.
We both watch the snow fall in companionable silence.
We’ve been coming to Chamonix and this chalet, sitting here, watching the cold world from the warmth of the orangerie since we were kids.
The chalet is three stories of old-world elegance and sharp-edged modern luxury, nestled in a fold of the mountain like something out of a fairytale. There are twelve bedrooms, two kitchens, six fireplaces, and an underground wine cellar that could host a smallwedding.
There’s also a ski-in/ski-out tunnel lined with boot warmers, a home theater with velvet seats, and a music room, where Mama and Aunt Tanya go to town on the piano. Alas, neither my siblings nor I are musical in the least.
I’ve always felt fortunate to be able to stay here whenever I wish, though I only come in the winter during this two-week sojourn we take as a family. Freja and Aksel come here more often with their families and friends for skiing throughout the season.
I don’t have that kind of time.
