Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sylvie
By the time I pulled into my childhood driveway, the snow had stopped falling—but my mood definitely hadn’t improved. Through the front windows, I could see the warm glow of string lights and what appeared to be roughly half the town of Pinewood Falls crammed into our living room.
Perfect. Nothing said relaxing holiday homecoming like a house full of people eager to ask why I was still single, why I worked so much, and whether I’d gained weight since last year.
I sat in my car for a moment, watching the silhouettes move inside.
Mom had clearly gone all out this year—there were enough decorations visible through the windows to stock a small Christmas store.
I could practically hear the questions waiting for me: How’s the big city treating you?
Meet any nice men? When are you going to settle down and give us the next Hartwell generation?
My phone buzzed with a text from my mother: Where are you? Mrs. Patterson brought her famous mulled wine!
Mrs. Patterson. I vaguely recalled her. She’d moved to Pinewood Falls sometime after I left for college, but Mom had mentioned her in passing during our monthly calls—something about how she’d become the unofficial drink coordinator for every local gathering. My kind of lady.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and trudged through the snow to the front door.
Before I could even reach for the handle, it swung open to reveal my mother—still looking exactly like she had when I was sixteen: messy blonde hair pulled back in a bun, a smudge of icing on her cheek from the hundreds of cookies I was sure she’d made, and a smile bright enough to power the Christmas lights.
“Sylvie! There you are!” She pulled me into a hug that smelled like hot cocoa and powdered sugar. “We were starting to worry. How was the drive?”
“Long,” I replied, stepping into the warmth of the house.
The living room was indeed packed with people I vaguely remembered from high school, plus a collection of what appeared to be their spouses and children.
Everyone was holding steaming mugs and wearing the kind of aggressively cheerful expressions that only existed at small-town gatherings.
Grandma Rose was holding court in the dining room, all the town’s older ladies hanging on her every word.
She was the opposite of my mother, her white hair pulled into a perfect chignon, not a strand out of place.
Despite her age, she was sharp everywhere, dressed in a Dior pantsuit more suited to the courtroom than a family holiday party.
“Hi, Grandma,” I said, trying to give her a hug. She didn’t even pause her deposition, barely acknowledging me. Classic. I wasn’t about to fight for her attention—not anymore.
“You look tired, sweetheart,” Mom noted, taking my coat. “And thin. Are you eating enough? The city isn’t working you too hard, is it?”
“I’m fine, Mom.” I plastered on my professional smile, the one I used for difficult clients and opposing counsel. “Just busy with work.”
“That’s right, you do something with…computers?” asked a woman I thought might be Sarah Fletcher from my high school chemistry class. She was holding a toddler who was systematically destroying a Christmas cookie.
“Not computers,” I replied. “I’m a lawyer.”
Sarah’s eyes lit up with the kind of interest that made me immediately regret being honest. “Oh, like on TV? Do you do murders and stuff?”
“Employment law, actually. Workplace disputes, contract negotiations, that sort of thing.”
The light in her eyes died almost instantly. “Oh. That sounds…practical.”
Before I could explain that yes, it was practical—and also paid for my Manhattan apartment and designer shoes—a voice interrupted from behind me.
“You must be Sylvie! I’ve heard so much about you.”
I turned to find a woman who looked to be in her seventies, with silver hair braided into an intricate crown and the kind of bright, twinkling eyes that belonged in fairy tales. She wore a red wool dress that looked hand-knitted and held a large ceramic mug steaming invitingly.
“Mrs. Patterson,” my mother said, appearing at my elbow. “This is my daughter—the one I was telling you about.”
“The one who works so hard in the big city,” Mrs. Patterson remarked, and there was something knowing in her voice that made me pause.
Her eyes seemed to take in everything about me in a single glance: the expensive but wrinkled blazer, the designer bag with the coffee stain on the strap, the shadows under my eyes that no amount of concealer could completely hide.
“Oh my, you look absolutely exhausted, dear,” she continued, her voice full of grandmotherly concern. Not that I would really know what that was like. “I’m afraid I’m too old to understand all these modern careers, but whatever it is you do in the city must be terribly demanding.
“I brought my special mulled wine,” she offered, holding out the mug. “You look like you could use something to help you unwind.”
The smell hit me immediately—cinnamon and cloves, with undertones of something rich and warming. It was exactly what I needed after the day I’d had.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, accepting the mug gratefully. “I have to admit, I was really looking forward to the Christmas market, but I got held up on the road.”
Mrs. Patterson’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Oh? Car trouble?”
“Not exactly. I stopped to help an injured animal.” I took a sip of the mulled wine and immediately felt some of the tension leave my shoulders. Whatever Mrs. Patterson’s secret ingredient was, it was working. “A deer, actually. Really unusual looking—completely white, and huge.”
“How interesting,” Mrs. Patterson murmured.
“Yeah, I had to bandage him up. Poor thing looked like he’d been in a fight.” I took another sip, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. “By the time I got here, everything was closed.”
Mrs. Patterson was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You have a kind heart,” she said at last. “Not everyone would stop to help a wild animal.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do.” I was starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.
This was definitely the strongest mulled wine I’d ever had.
More words than I intended were tumbling out of my mouth.
“Though I have to admit, there was something almost…human about the way he looked at me. Probably just my imagination.”
“Probably,” Mrs. Patterson agreed.
Mom appeared again, steering me toward the couch. “Come sit down, honey. Tell us about your job. Are you still working at that big firm?”
I let myself be guided to the couch, grateful for the cushions and continued warmth of Mrs. Patterson’s wine.
The questions came in waves after that—the usual interrogation about my career, my love life, my apparent inability to visit more than twice a year.
But the wine was doing its job, making everything feel softer around the edges, like I was watching someone else’s life through a pleasant haze.
Mrs. Patterson hovered nearby, occasionally refilling my mug from a large ceramic pitcher. Every time she did, she made sympathetic clucking sounds about how tired I looked.
“I should probably slow down,” I muttered, looking at my mug with some surprise. I couldn’t remember drinking that much, but it was nearly empty again.
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Patterson chided, filling it once more. “It’s Christmas. You deserve to unwind. Whatever this job of yours is, it’s clearly taking too much out of you.”
She was right. I did feel depleted. Burned out. Like I’d been running on fumes for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to actually have energy. The wine was helping, though. For the first time in months, I felt relaxed.
The evening continued in a pleasant blur of conversation and laughter. At some point, people started leaving, and I found myself helping Mom clean up glasses and plates while Mrs. Patterson packed up her empty pitcher.
“Thank you for the wine,” I told her as she pulled on her coat. “It was exactly what I needed.”
“I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” she replied, and there was something almost triumphant in her smile. “I have a feeling this is going to be a very interesting Christmas for you, dear.”
After she left, I helped Mom finish tidying up, though I had to concentrate harder than usual to make sure I was putting things in the right places.
The wine had definitely been stronger than I’d realized.
I was a lawyer, for god’s sake—I could handle my alcohol.
It was practically a requirement for passing the bar.
Eventually, Grandma Rose decided to grace us with her presence. I ignored her.
“Mrs. Patterson seems nice,” I said, hanging dish towels on their hooks.
“Oh, she’s wonderful,” Mom replied. “Always willing to help with town events. So kind-hearted.”
Grandma huffed at that. “She’s a busybody. Wants to be in everyone’s business.”
“Better than barely acknowledging those around you,” I shot back, giving her a pointed look.
She paid me no mind, and Mom shuffled from foot to foot, trying to diffuse the tension that now hung thick in the air.
“I have to admit, there’s something a little mysterious about her,” Mom went on. “She just appeared in town one day about five years ago, and no one really knows where she came from.”
“Mysterious how?” I asked, curiosity pricking through the fog of wine.
Mom shrugged. “Just…she always seems to know exactly what people need, you know? Like tonight—she took one look at you and knew you needed something to help you relax.”
I had to admit that was true. Mrs. Patterson had read my exhaustion like an open book and provided just the right remedy. Though now that I thought about it, I couldn’t shake the feeling there had been something more to her questions than simple small-town curiosity.
“See? A busybody,” Grandma declared, clearly satisfied with her verdict.
“I’m going to head up to bed,” I murmured, suddenly feeling the full weight of the day settling on my shoulders—and unwilling to spar with her in my tipsy state. “That drive was longer than I expected.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Your room’s all ready for you,” Mom said with a warm smile.
I climbed the stairs to my childhood bedroom, grateful that Mom had left it mostly unchanged.
The familiar surroundings were comforting, even if the vintage boy-band posters on the walls were a little embarrassing.
I changed into my pajamas and slid under the quilted comforter, feeling warm and drowsy.
As I drifted off to sleep, I found myself thinking about the white deer I’d helped earlier. There really had been something unusual about him—not just his size and coloring, but the way he’d looked at me. Like he’d been trying to communicate something important.
I was probably reading too much into it. After all, I was a city girl who spent most of her time in conference rooms and courtrooms. All of it, in fact. What did I know about wild animals?
But as I fell asleep, I could’ve sworn I heard the distant sound of hoofbeats on the roof.
Santa must be stopping by early, I thought, amused with myself as I drifted off.