Chapter 3
Flint
The storm warnings have been all over the news for days, so I head out earlier than planned, hitting the market before the real snow starts. The parking lot is already packed with locals stocking up before we all get snowed in.
Inside, I grab a cart and make my way through the crowded aisles, tossing in the essentials.
Bread, milk, eggs, coffee. I grab a couple of steaks, some chicken breasts, and a pack of ground beef.
My mother's beef stew recipe has been on my mind lately, so I grab everything I need for that.
Carrots, potatoes, celery, beef broth. The produce section is already looking picked over, but I snag what I need.
I swing by the liquor aisle and snag a couple of bottles of whiskey and a case of beer. If I'm going to be stuck up on the mountain for a few days, I might as well be comfortable.
The checkout line stretches halfway down the main aisle, and I wait patiently, watching other shoppers rush past with overflowing carts. When it's finally my turn, the cashier gives me a knowing smile.
"Storm prepping?" she asks.
"You know it," I say, loading my groceries onto the belt.
She rings me up quickly, and I pay before wheeling my cart through the automatic doors and into the cold.
Stepping out of the market, I find that the snow has started. I trudge over to my truck, emptying the cart of groceries before rolling it to the return stall, bumping straight into Sheila and Nancy.
"Prepping?" Nancy asks with a grin.
"Yeah. I needed more food and booze," I quip.
"Flint, are you decorated for the holidays yet?" Sheila asks.
"No. I don't really have stuff for that."
She grabs my wrist, yanking me towards their truck.
"Here. Take our old pre-lit Christmas tree. It still works, but we just bought a bigger one."
I help her yank it out of the truck bed, and she shoves it into my arms.
"And don't forget about our annual Christmas brunch at the diner," she reminds me with a finger wag.
"Yes, ma'am," I say teasingly before lugging the Christmas tree back to my truck.
Fifteen minutes later, I unpack my groceries in the kitchen and then remember the pre-lit tree sitting in my truck cab getting covered in snow.
Grumbling to myself, I plod out into the icy weather and grab it, lugging it back inside and resting it by the side of the door before returning to the kitchen.
The snow is coming down heavier now, and I start a fire in the hearth, filling my living room with a cheery warm glow. Heading back into the kitchen, I prep my mother's beef stew, and as it simmers on the stovetop, I look over at the tree. I guess I might as well set it up.
After a good fifteen minutes fighting with the tree and looking like a wildcat had just attacked me, I plug it in and can't help but smile to myself. The lights are nice.
I remember the box of ornaments my mother left behind after she passed away.
I dig them out of my bedroom closet and bring them into the living room.
Opening it up, I'm hit with a wave of emotion when I see the familiar baubles glinting up at me, the firelight dancing on their shiny surfaces.
With the scent of my mother's beef stew wafting in the air, it's too much.
I walk away from the tree and head straight to the bar.
I pour myself a healthy glass of whiskey and slump down in the recliner next to the fire. Spacing out, I watch the flames dance in the fireplace as I sip my drink, eventually forcing myself to stand and return to the kitchen to stir the stew.
A loud gust of wind rushes by the cabin, and I glance out the window, amazed at how heavy the snow has already gotten. I turn the oven on to preheat for the sourdough I bought at the market.
The radio is tuned to my regular folk station, playing folksy versions of Christmas music. Normally I'd change it, but with the sparkling tree and my mother's ornaments just a few feet away, I keep it on for nostalgia's sake.
The oven beeps. I slide the bread in on a baking sheet, set the timer, and give my stew another swirl with the wooden spoon.
Suddenly, a loud crash out front sends me rushing to the door. I swing it open to find a red car in my driveway with its front end smashed into a Ponderosa pine. Staring, I can't quite comprehend what I'm seeing.
The driver's side door swings open, and a puffy bride steps out, her auburn hair whipping in the wind. She takes a couple of unsure steps forward and then collapses into a small snowbank.
I rush out, forgetting that I had already kicked off my boots. The icy snow bites at my feet as I run toward her, scoop her up in my arms, and carry her back inside. I lie the woman down on my couch and step back to look at her.
The bride's chest rises and falls with each breath, and she looks like she's simply sleeping, her cheeks bright red from the cold. The fluffy dress spills over the entire couch, with her auburn hair falling messily across her shoulders.
Who the hell is this stunning bride, and why is she in my house?