PROLOGUE
Tabitha, age 18
The chilly air nips my skin, bared by my tank top. An hour into my hike, I’ve already shed my jacket—I’m a strange combination of cold and sweaty. Weird, but it feels good.
There’s snow on the peaks towering ahead of me. It’s spring here, but snow still lingers in the long shadows of the thickly clustered pines.
This early in the morning, my breath puffs as I trek across a frozen field where a few yellow wildflowers poke their heads up over the matted grass. I’m the only tourist crazy enough to be hiking so early in the season. I haven’t seen anyone on the trail.
The mountains of northern Italy are technically the Alps, but the locals call them I Dolomiti. The hike I chose isn’t as challenging as the ones that would carry me up the tallest peak, but my thighs burn from the steady incline. It’s still better than swaying down a catwalk in five-inch heels and a weird poofy dress that left most of my back and butt uncovered. When I was a model, I’d do anything for fashion but no longer. This model has officially quit the circuit.
“I don't understand,” my mother wailed when I called to tell her. “You were doing so well. You were making such great contacts.” In mom-speak, that meant I was meeting men. Rich men who’d love to have a model on their arm. The sort of man my mom hoped would sweep me off my feet and give me a diamond ring and marriage proposal or at least a diamond watch and an extended stay in his private penthouse. Maybe even a car and a few trips to the Riviera or Seychelles.
The type of man my mother always chased after.
I didn’t tell her that it was my date with exactly that kind of man that broke me. I was at another boring after-party on the arm of a short stock broker named Paul. Perfectly nice guy, but just because I'm a model and his head barely clears my shoulder doesn't mean that he has the right to put his hand on my ass.
I’ve stomped across the meadow and up the trail that’s disappearing between the blue-gray pines before I realize I’m muttering under my breath. A bird trills on an evergreen branch above my head, and my rage disappears.
I take a moment to clear my lungs. The air is fresh and better than any expensive cologne. The water flowing from a mountain stream is pure snowmelt and probably tastes like heaven. Tiny purple flowers peek up from the cracks in the gray rocks, and the bird above my head warbles like his sex life depends on it.
I’m far from the fashion circuit in Milan. No more crowded events that overwhelm my senses. No more clashing auras or toxic energies leaving me with a headache, desperate to get away.
No more handsy businessmen who treat me like a cigar–a possession, an indulgence, a prop. No more sharing an apartment with six other half-starved young people whose daily food intake adds up to barely half a sandwich. The first thing I did after I told my agent I quit was eat a giant bowl of cheesy pasta.
Right now, my backpack is full of the best provisions: good cheese, a local red wine, and several packs of biscotti.
I may have disappointed my mother, but I feel better than I have in a year. Like a weight lifted off my chest.
It’s been almost three months since I quit and started wandering like a vagabond. I spent a little of my fashion week earnings on a pair of hiking boots and a backpack. The rest of my nest egg has gone to reserving the little mountain huts called rifugios and a nice rental near Lake Como where I stayed while waiting for the snow to melt.
The plan is to hike Alta Via 1 and beyond. Spend the summer in the mountains. And after that, who knows? I’m eighteen, and I can do anything. This spring is the start of my new life.
Fifteen minutes of climbing, and my thighs are shaking, but it’s all worth it when I round the corner and come across a magical mountain lake. The water is a brilliant teal, an ethereal color as bright and shocking as a Lilly Pullitzer jumper.
I can’t resist going to the edge and dipping my hand in, but instead of bracing cold, the water is warm as a freshly drawn bath. In the middle of the lake, steam’s rising off the surface.
Is this a hot spring? If so, my guidebook didn’t mention it.
I drop my jacket and my pack. Facing the clear pool, I feel extra grimy. I’m so tempted to strip everything off and jump in.
But I'm not alone.
There's a man in the pool. His dark head is even with a rocky outcropping, which is why I didn't see him before.