The Expats

by Chris Pavone

By Monday morning three fresh feet had fallen and the clouds had fled in the night, dawn breaking pink-gray out the bedroom window that faced the center of the resort, the Village des Enfants and the cafés and shops. When Kate padded into the living room, she gasped at the view, which had remained completely cloaked in cloud and mist and swirling snow for their first thirty-six hours on this mountain, but now was crystal clear, picture-perfect Alps, Alp after Alp after Alp, all cloaked in white, spray-painted snow.

Makes me want to go skiing in the Alps again!

“You ever been afraid for your life, Kate?”

Finally, hope that this book will get good

KATE WAS ALONE, stopped in the middle of a bridge, looking up at the spectacular sky: the deep rich blue damask of dusk, the fast-moving puffy clouds, layers of whites and silvers and grays piled atop one another. The lights were on in the windows, on the fronts of bicycles, reflecting in the water.

Ironically, the author's desire and effort to make each paragraph a poetic masterpiece overshadows and distracts from the story he wants to tell.