Chapter 19 Cindy
Cindy hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She’d only opened the cabin door because the puppy fidgeted like a live wire in her arms and needed to go outside. But then she heard Jack say he loved her the way he did the day they got married—he loved her.
The words landed like a lit match in her chest, catching on old kindling.
Now, in the hush that followed, the tiny puppy wiggled and wormed, a warm bundle of teddy-bear fluff that smelled faintly of the fireplace he’d been sleeping next to.
Her father had muttered something and disappeared into the darkness, leaving them alone. Jack blinked at her, snow caught in his lashes, looking suddenly twenty-five and hopeful.
She pressed the puppy into his coat so she’d have an excuse to break eye contact, then laughed when the little guy climbed up and tried to chew his ear.
“He likes you,” she managed.
“Poor thing has no taste.”
She smiled up at him. “I don’t agree.”
He looked at her for a moment, then sighed. “Come in for a minute?”
She nodded. “Gimme a second.” She glanced at the puppy, using him as an excuse, but really, she needed air more than the little guy needed to find his favorite patch of snow.
Setting him on the ground, she took a deep breath and centered herself.
Jack still loved her. What did that mean? Where did that leave them? Guess she was about to find out.
Scooping up the puppy, she went back into the cabin. In the warm glow from the fireplace, she could see the emotions playing over Jack’s handsome features—a little fear, a little hope, a lot of…yes, love.
His declaration still echoed in her head, louder than the tick of the baseboard heater and the snuffle sounds the puppy made when she put him into his cozy little crate.
On the bed, Jack’s suitcase gaped open, folded shirts packed neatly, next to a row of sweaters she’d seen him wear these past few weeks.
“Déjà vu,” she said softly, sinking to the edge of the bed. “Christmas, an open suitcase, and you flying out into the cold.”
He winced, then sat beside her, the mattress dipping in a familiar way for two people who’d shared a bed for twenty years.
“It isn’t the same, Cin.”
“No,” she said. “We’re not the same.”
They weren’t. Ten years had left tracks—a lighter silver at Jack’s temples that looked unfairly handsome, tiny lines fanning from her eyes that no cream could erase, and a steadiness in her that had been forged by holding life together with lists and grit and a smile.
They had learned how to live with the ache without letting divorce define them, she supposed. But being strong was not the same as being whole.
Jack sighed heavily. “I should have said those words ten years ago,” he murmured. “I should have said a lot of things.”
“Me, too,” she said. “We were both stubborn and stupid and…”
“Mostly stupid,” he finished. “At least I was. You wanted a husband who put family before work, and you were one hundred percent right.”
She just shook her head, really not wanting to use their last few minutes together to rehash a decision they’d made a decade ago.
Jack cleared his throat and turned to her. “I asked once and you…”
“Were rendered speechless,” she said. “If you took that as rejection, I’m sorry.”
His dark eyes flickered. “It wasn’t?”
She shook her head.
“Then I’ll ask again, Cin. Could there be a future?
” He closed his eyes, clearly not happy with what he’d just said.
“It sounds clumsy and cliché, which it is, but I don’t know how else to approach this.
It’s not a movie—we can’t kiss and let the camera pan to the moon and a second happy ever after.
We have lives to undo—but I would, Cindy.
” He leaned closer. “I would like to try again. At least to talk about it and explore options.”
She had promised herself a thousand times that if this moment came, she’d be resolute. Hard line. All or nothing. No more half-promises and hopeful maybe’s that could blow away with the first strong wind.
But here he was, the father of her daughter, the man she had once loved with easy certainty, offering the only thing an honest person could—not a guarantee, but a beginning.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I think…we could…explore options.”
Whatever that meant.
He went very still, and then his hand found hers on the bedspread. His fingers were cold from the walk, his palm callused from weeks of handling those reins. He’d given up nearly a month of his life to fix the problem in hers.
And she’d fallen right back in love with him.
“Why don’t we consider something after the holidays?” he said. “Maybe in spring. It’s quieter here. I’ll come back and we could…we could give it—give us—the space we deserve. We’d take it slow, but it would be real.”
Maybe in spring. Maybe. The word echoed, gentle and maddening. Her heart had wanted now. Not a boy’s daydream, but a man’s decision.
But he was leaving. Because he’d promised his mother, because he was a good son, because life wasn’t a fairytale, and planes didn’t wait for better timing.
“Spring,” she said, trying to sound brave. “We can start there.”
His thumb moved over the ridge of her knuckles. He didn’t lean in. She didn’t either. The not-kiss hovered between them like a snowflake that never landed, beautiful and cold.
His phone chimed—a little digital bell that, absurdly, made the puppy lift his head. Jack glanced down. “My ride’s here.”
“Of course it is.” She stood first, because if she didn’t, she might ask him not to go, and that wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
She found his scarf and looped it around his neck, her fingers brushing his throat, the intimacy of the motion punching through ten years of distance. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”
She waited while he zipped the suitcase, donned a jacket, and took a final look around the cabin. After all that, he leaned over the crate.
“G’bye, little roommate. Hope Benny gives you a good name.”
They stepped out into a hushed night, lit by the colored lights all over the evergreen trees. The Uber idled in front of the lodge, headlights casting a pale runway down the snow-packed drive.
In the kitchen window, she caught movement—probably MJ doing the dinner clean-up.
A few feet from the car, Jack stopped and put his suitcase down. He wrapped his arms around her and held on. She held her breath for…something. A promise, a date, a confirmation, a kiss.
“Safe flight,” she said into his coat.
“Merry Christmas, Cinnie.”
The old, most intimate nickname that he only used when they were alone, cut deeper than the goodbye.
He turned quickly when they parted, but she could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes.
He stepped to the car, opened the door, lifted a hand, and then climbed in.
A moment later, the taillights slid down toward the road and vanished past the pines. The sound of tires on hardpack faded until there was only the wind and her breath.
The first time he’d left at Christmas, she’d watched in shock, the moment making her heart feel like a glass dropped in slow motion, then shattered.
Tonight, she watched with eyes wide open and felt the sting in her throat that was merely a mix of grief and hope tangled together like knotted Christmas light strings.
As the car lights disappeared, she went back up to his cabin. Once Benny had gone home with Gracie and Red, she’d bring little No Name into the lodge for the night.
Inside, she let the warmth hold her, checking on the sleeping puppy.
Unable to resist, she sat on Jack’s bed again, feeling the sting of tears. Turning, she reached for one of his pillows and put her face in it, inhaling the familiar scent of pine and soap and her husband.
And she cried like the first time he left her, until all the tears were gone.
Much later, Cindy was surprised to find MJ still at the sink and cleaning up when she walked back into the mudroom.
“You sure are slow without me,” she said, kicking off her boots. “Where is everyone?”
MJ eyed her. “Gracie and Red went back up to their house to get Benny in bed, although good luck with that on Christmas Eve. Didn’t you see them?”
She shook her head. “I was with the puppy in Jack’s—in Cabin One. In fact, if everyone’s gone, I’ll go get him now.” She looked down at the boots she’d just shed.
“Wait.” MJ came closer, holding her dishtowel, searching Cindy’s face. “You’ve been crying.”
Cindy smiled. “You know I love a good Christmas goodbye.”
“Oh, hon. C’mere.” She put her arm around Cindy and walked her into the kitchen. “We’ll get the dog in a minute. You need some love.”
“I’m fine.”
MJ rolled her eyes. “There’s a little wine left. Want some?”
Cindy nodded and, a minute later, they were at the table with two glasses of red between them.
“So, how was it?” MJ finally asked.
Cindy shrugged. “He asked if we could maybe try again.”
Her sister drew back, sucking in a breath. “And you said…”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but nothing! You two belong together!”
Did they belong together? Then why did “maybe in spring” feel like such an empty promise? Cindy ran her palm along the table, feeling the familiar nicks in the pine. “It was…nice. It’s just—”
“Not quite enough,” MJ finished for her.
“Not tonight, anyway.” Cindy took a deep drink of wine, which was sharp and earthy in her mouth. “I wanted…I don’t know. A thing you can’t realistically ask for. Not at our age. Not with our history.”
“You wanted him to plant a flag.” MJ leaned back, studying her with nothing but wisdom in her crystal blue eyes. “I get it.”
Cindy exhaled and managed a small laugh. “He didn’t even kiss me.”
“Fool,” MJ said, but without heat. “Maybe that’s wise. Maybe it means he’s serious. Waiting for the right…” She tipped her head, listening. “Did you hear that? Did a car just pull up?”
Cindy heard the sharp thunk of a car door shutting out front, unable to stop her gasp of hope.