Preview of The Color of Ice by Barbara Linn Probst
Preview of The Color of Ice by Barbara Linn Probst
NOTE from Barbara: There’s a special holiday tradition in Iceland (where THE COLOR OF ICE is set) called Jolabokaflod, which literally means “the holiday book flood.”
That’s because, in Iceland, everyone gives each other books for Christmas presents—and then they spend Christmas Eve reading in bed while eating chocolate, or sitting by the fire drinking hot chocolate. I mean, what could be more wonderful?
As you start your holiday shopping, no matter which holiday you celebrate in December, I hope you will consider joining me for Jolabokaflod! To get you in the mood, here is a preview of the first chapter of THE COLOR OF ICE, as Cathryn’s plane is about to land in Iceland, where her adventure takes place …
Preview of The Color of Ice by Barbara Linn Probst
Preview of The Color of Ice by Barbara Linn Probst
The view from the window of the Icelandair 757 wasn’t at all what Cathryn had expected. She had chosen Iceland for her first truly impulsive act in fifteen years—rather than, say, Maui or the Bahamas—precisely because of its starkness, yet the glittering azure of the water looked more tropical than Arctic.
Until a week ago, the notion of going to Iceland had never crossed her mind. She had a full calendar back in America, no Icelandic roots, not even a bucket list of remote destinations. When she told Rachel where she was going, her daughter’s first reaction had been a skeptical: “Really?” And then: “The northern lights— and Björk!”
Cathryn didn’t know who or what Björk was, and Rachel had rolled her eyes at her mother’s un-coolness, the latest example in an endless string of ways that Cathryn had failed to be the person Rachel thought she should be. “She’s just about the most incredible musician on the planet,” Rachel had said, finally.
Cathryn had tried to look suitably impressed. “On the planet. My goodness.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. And I’ll look her up while I’m there, I promise.” Rachel had given a pained sigh. “You don’t look her up, like
someone’s cousin. I’m just saying she’s from Iceland.”
It was yet another conversation that didn’t work, and Cathryn had changed the subject. That was a week ago. The days that followed had been filled with too many last-minute tasks to spend time courting her daughter’s elusive approval.
Turning to the window again, Cathryn tried to catch a glimpse of Reykjavik, Iceland’s capital, but the plane banked to the right and the view shifted. A trail of thin white clouds, delicate as shredded lace, obscured the sapphire shore she had been admiring only moments earlier. The brilliant coastline, gone already.
The clouds thickened as the plane began its descent. The cabin lights dimmed, and the flight attendants made their announcements, in lilting English, about arrival time and temperature on the ground and the carousel where their bags would be waiting. Cathryn had checked her suitcase through at JFK—something she almost never did—but it was impossible to fit everything she needed for ten days of unpredictable weather into her navy-blue carryon. Two of those days were for a freelance job, an interview and photo shoot with a glassblower who had some sort of project about icebergs. The other eight were for her. Eight days in an unfamiliar country, doing what- ever she wanted.
Whatever she wanted. As if she knew what that was.
She had told each of her children a different story. She’d told Judah that she had a demanding business assignment, and he shouldn’t try to reach her unless it was urgent. It was partly a lie, but he was twenty- two years old, for heaven’s sake. Surely he could manage for ten days without running to his mama to haul him out of a jam.
She’d told Rachel that she was taking a vacation, leaving out the part about the job. Another freelance assignment wouldn’t elicit the admiration of her hard-to-please firstborn, but a trip to a wild and unfamiliar country might. And it would be a vacation, as soon as she finished with the glassblower person.
The landing at Keflavik Airport was as smooth and efficient as the flight had been. Within thirty minutes, Cathryn’s passport had been stamped, her suitcase retrieved, and her dollars exchanged for krónur. Even the people at the Avis desk were pleasant and quick. Since she didn’t plan on venturing far from the Ring Road, the well-traveled highway that circled the country, she opted for a two- wheel drive Kia.
The Avis representative handed her the keys and a special iPad that came with her Icelandair tour package, a combination guide- book and GPS. “Here you go, then. Have a wonderful trip.”
“Thank you,” Cathryn said, although wonderful wasn’t an adjective she would have chosen. Safe, maybe. Or pleasant. She hadn’t expected wonderful in a long time.
She had taken the red-eye from Kennedy, landing in Iceland at sunrise. That gave her a day to recover from jet lag and get to the meeting place at the iceberg lagoon, a spot on the southeast coast with an unpronounceable Icelandic name. She’d looked it up and had seen at once, from its turquoise splendor, why the people at Shades of Blue wanted it for their logo.
Shades of Blue was a new client, an organization of artists’ representatives headed by a woman named Renata Singer who was pencil-thin, sleek, and stylish, with neon-blue hair. According to Renata, blue represented truth, wisdom, intuition, tranquility, and renewal. “So it’s perfect for us,” she told Cathryn when they met to discuss the job.
Renata had crossed her legs and swung a stiletto-clad foot back and forth. “Here’s what we were thinking. Something dynamic—you know, art in the process of creation, artist getting inspired, that sort of thing.”
Cathryn skimmed their list of blue nouns. Truth, intuition, tranquility. She pictured a cool expanse of water, sky, the sea. “Some- thing blue. A blue place, a real one, that inspires one of your artists.”
Renata’s leg stopped swinging. “That’s good. I like it.” She turned to the two men seated across from her.
“Do we have any blue projects?” one of them asked.
“Actually, we do.” It was the third partner, an older man with a silver goatee. “That blue lagoon place. I think it’s in Denmark or something. That glassblower fellow is going there.”
“You mean Mack,” Renata said. “But I don’t think it’s Denmark.”
The man with the goatee took out his phone. “Hey Siri, where is the Blue Lagoon?”
Siri’s too-friendly voice chirped, “I found one option. Blue Lagoon near Grindavík on the Reykjanes Peninsula.”
The man tapped on the link. “It’s in Iceland.” He showed Renata the phone.
“Iceland. Right,” she said. “But that’s not the place. He was talking about a different lagoon, something with icebergs.”
She returned her attention to Cathryn. “It’s an interesting idea but, as you can imagine, quite beyond our budget. We aren’t about to fly you off to the middle of whatever just so you can take some photos.”
Cathryn nodded. “Of course.” But something seized inside her. Less than two days ago, when she’d met Rachel for one their rare Manhattan lunches, Rachel had propped her chin on her hand and gazed at her mother mournfully. “Really, Mom,” Rachel had sighed. “You should jump off the high dive once in a while. Go someplace crazy and exotic. Bangkok, Marrakesh.”
Someplace crazy and exotic. Easy for Rachel to say. What seemed obvious when you were a blithe twenty-four-year-old was impossible for a middle-aged loner like her.
And yet.
Cathryn stared at Renata. Not the heat and crowds, the spices and swirling colors of Morocco. The opposite. A place made of rock and ice, forged by glaciers and volcanoes.
“You have an artist going there?”
“We do. He’s got some project. I can’t remember the details.” Renata gave Cathryn a pointed look. “As I said, we’re not sending a consultant halfway around the world for a publicity gig. No offense.”
Cathryn felt her spine elongate, as if her body were an arrow, aiming her where she needed to go. “I’ll pay my own way.”
“Excuse me?”
She fixed her eyes on Renata’s. “It won’t cost you anything, except the fee you were going to pay me anyway. I’ll go there on my own nickel.” She was speaking rapidly now, surer and surer of the rightness of her idea. “I’ll interview your glass person while he’s working or getting inspired or whatever he’s gone there to do. I’ll shoot him with that blue ice thing in the background. It’ll be stunning.”
Renata frowned. “Why would you want to fork over your own money?”
“It’s something I’ve been needing to do. A mini-vacation. And if I can do some work while I’m there—well, so much the better.”
Not just some work. Some extraordinary work, a portfolio centerpiece that could lift her career to a whole new level. The possibility hadn’t occurred to Cathryn when she began speaking, but she could almost see it now, a portrait of the mysterious blue icebergs that merged the commercial and artistic. Shades of Blue. Ice and sky.
She offered Renata her best smile. “Consider it a lucky convergence.”
Renata looked at her colleagues. “It’s okay with me. Unless either of you has an objection?”
“You’re not going to try to hit us up with your expenses, are you?”
“Not at all. As I said, just the fee we agreed on.” Cathryn’s heart was galloping wildly now. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve gone on a vacation.”
“If it were me,” Renata said, “going off alone, I’d do a Club Med cruise.”
The goateed man threw Cathryn a quick glance. “She can take it off her taxes. Works for everyone.”
“Fine.” Renata uncrossed her legs and stood. “Let’s give Cathryn a thumbs-up and let Mack know when she’ll meet up with him.”
Cathryn felt something lift in her chest, opening like a pair of wings. She knew almost nothing about Iceland—northern lights, horses, and now this blue ice—but she was going there.
She’d had an impulse and, for once, she’d acted on it. Just because.
To keep reading … please pick up a copy from your favorite bookseller:
Preview of The Color of Ice by Barbara Linn Probst
