Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Colby
Cabin Snowstorm
The first snowflake hits my windshield somewhere between Briar Cove and bad decisions.
The second arrives thirty seconds later.
The third arrives with reinforcements.
By the time I pull into the bakery parking lot, the sky looks like it's trying to bury the entire state.
Perfect.
I kill the engine and stare through the windshield.
The weather report promised a moderate storm.
The weather report is a liar.
Inside Sweet Seasons, the afternoon rush is winding down.
A few customers linger over coffee.
The smell of cinnamon hangs in the air.
Jillie is sitting at a corner table coloring what appears to be a dragon wearing hockey skates.
Honestly, I've stopped questioning her artistic choices.
Sadie looks up from the register when I walk in.
For a second her face softens.
The expression disappears almost immediately.
Still.
I catch it.
And lately I've been catching a lot of things I probably shouldn't.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Her smile tugs slightly.
"You look worried."
"I am worried."
That gets her attention.
Outside, snow swirls past the front window.
She turns.
Studies the weather.
Then looks back at me.
"It wasn't supposed to get bad until tonight."
"That's what they said."
The look we exchange says exactly what we're both thinking about people who said that.
Jillie abandons her dragon.
"Is it snowing?"
"It's trying very hard."
She rushes to the window.
Gasps dramatically.
"It's beautiful."
Children are unbelievable.
To Jillie, a major weather event is exciting.
To every adult in the room, it's a logistical problem.
The next hour proves me right.
Road conditions worsen.
Visibility drops.
Phones begin buzzing.
Weather alerts.
Travel advisories.
Road closures.
One by one, the remaining customers leave.
By five o'clock, only three people remain inside the bakery.
Sadie.
Jillie.
Me.
The snow continues falling.
Hard.
Jillie presses her nose against the glass.
"I think the world disappeared."
She's not entirely wrong.
The street beyond the bakery is almost invisible.
Sadie folds her arms.
"I don't like this."
Neither do I.
Which is why I've already made a decision.
I just know she isn't going to love it.
"Road to Briar Cove is closed."
She freezes.
"What?"
"State police posted it fifteen minutes ago."
The color drains slightly from her face.
That road closure changes everything.
Because her apartment is in Briar Cove.
My cabin isn't.
Jillie turns.
Completely unconcerned.
"Does that mean we're trapped?"
"No."
Unfortunately.
"Then what does it mean?"
I look at Sadie.
Sadie looks at me.
We both know exactly what it means.
"No."
She says it instantly.
I haven't even spoken yet.
"No?"
"No."
"Sadie—"
"No."
"You're saying no before hearing the suggestion."
"Because I know the suggestion."
Jillie looks delighted.
That should concern all of us.
"What suggestion?"
Nobody answers.
Which only makes her more interested.
I rub the back of my neck.
"My cabin is twenty minutes away."
Sadie closes her eyes.
There it is.
The suggestion.
"I knew it."
"It's safer."
"It's ridiculous."
"It's heated."
"It's close."
"It's your cabin."
"Yes."
"Exactly."
I stare at her. She stares back. Jillie looks between us like she's watching professional tennis.
Then she raises one hand.
"I vote cabin."
Neither of us asked. That doesn't stop her.
"It's safer."
Traitor.
"Warm."
Double traitor.
"And cabins are awesome."
Triple traitor.
I look at Sadie. Sadie looks at the snow. The snow continues proving me right.
Five minutes later, she sighs, and I know I've won. Not because she trusts me. Because she trusts the storm even less.
Which, honestly, is fair.
***
Twenty-five minutes later, we're pulling into my driveway.
Calling it a driveway feels generous.
At the moment it's mostly a snow-covered suggestion.
The cabin sits beneath a blanket of white, warm light glowing from the windows against the darkening sky.
Beside me, Jillie presses both hands against the truck window.
"Oh wow."
I try not to smile.
Fail.
The cabin gets that reaction from people.
Especially the first time.
"It's huge."
"It isn't huge."
"It has two floors."
"That's not huge."
"It has a porch."
"Still not huge."
"It has a porch swing."
I glance toward the house.
Fair point.
The porch swing is pretty great.
Jillie gasps.
"Mom. Did you know about the porch swing?"
Sadie laughs. "No, honey."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't know."
Jillie shakes her head as though we've both failed an important life test.
Children are exhausting.
We unload quickly.
The wind has picked up.
Snowflakes swirl around us.
Jillie immediately claims responsibility for carrying the smallest bag which she drags dramatically through six inches of snow while pretending to be an Arctic explorer.
By the time we reach the front door, she's narrating her survival journey.
"Day twelve in the wilderness."
"It's been thirty seconds," Sadie says.
"Food supplies are low."
"You have crackers in your pocket."
"Morale remains strong."
I unlock the door.
Warm air greets us immediately.
The cabin smells faintly of cedar and woodsmoke.
Home.
A strange thought hits me: I don't think I've ever brought anyone here before.
Not like this.
Not people who mattered.
The realization arrives quietly, then stays.
Jillie is already halfway through the living room.
"This place is AWESOME."
Her voice echoes through the cabin.
She disappears down a hallway.
A moment later:
"I FOUND STAIRS."
Another pause.
"I FOUND MORE CABIN."
I hear Sadie laugh behind me.
That laugh is becoming a problem, a serious problem.
Because I keep wanting to hear it again.
And again.
And again.
I take her coat.
Without thinking she hands it over. Without thinking.
Neither of us notices until I'm hanging it beside mine.
Then we both do.
Our eyes meet.
A little too long.
Just long enough.
Then Jillie appears again, saving us from ourselves.
"Can I see upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Can I pick my room?"
"There are only two guest rooms."
"So yes?"
I sigh.
"Yes."
She races away.
The sound of running footsteps follows.
Then:
"I CALL THIS ONE."
A door slams.
Another opens.
Then:
"NO WAIT. THIS ONE."
Sadie shakes her head.
"She's going to redecorate before bedtime."
"Probably."
The smile she gives me is soft.
Uncomplicated.
Dangerous.
The storm rattles softly against the windows.
For the first time all day, neither of us seems in a hurry.
No bakery.
No arena.
No town gossip.
No reporters.
Just snow.
And quiet.
And somehow that's the most dangerous thing yet.
An hour later, the kitchen smells like soup.
The snowstorm has intensified outside.
The world beyond the windows has disappeared completely.
Jillie considers this excellent news.
"Now nobody can leave."
I nearly choke on my drink.
Sadie points her spoon at her daughter.
"That sounded suspicious."
"I meant because we're having fun."
"Sure."
"I did."
"Uh-huh."
Jillie grins.
Absolutely unrepentant.
Dinner turns into laughter.
Then hot chocolate.
Then there’s a debate about whether marshmallows count as soup toppings.
Apparently, they do not. At least according to Sadie.
Jillie and I remain unconvinced.
We lose the argument anyway.
Mostly because Sadie controls the food.
Afterward, Jillie decides the cabin requires a blanket fort.
Not wants. Requires.
"The living room is too empty."
I look around.
The living room contains:
A couch.
Two armchairs.
A fireplace.
A coffee table.
Bookshelves.
A Christmas tree.
And approximately six hundred square feet of space.
"It's not empty."
"It needs a fort."
"Why?"
She stares at me.
"Because it's a cabin."
As arguments go, it's surprisingly effective, so fort construction begins immediately.
I spend the next thirty minutes being ordered around by a seven-year-old.
Pillows move.
Blankets move.
Furniture moves.
At one point I am instructed to hold up a comforter while Jillie evaluates structural integrity.
I don't know what that means.
Apparently neither does she.
Still.
The fort expands and eventually occupies half the living room.
Jillie stands back admiring her work.
"Perfect."
It looks ridiculous.
It is absolutely perfect.
Sadie laughs so hard she nearly spills her cocoa.
And once again I discover my favorite sound.
Her laughter.
Warm. Real. Unfiltered.
The kind that reaches her eyes.
The kind nobody photographs.
The kind nobody else gets to see.
That realization hits harder than it should.
Because lately there seem to be a lot of things I don't want to share.
Including moments.
Including memories.
Including them.
Especially them.
And that's a thought I am definitely not ready to examine.
***
The fort survives approximately twelve minutes before becoming headquarters for board games.
Jillie insists this is a natural evolution.
Neither Sadie nor I understand the logic.
That doesn't stop it from happening.
Soon we're all sitting cross-legged inside a fortress of blankets and pillows while a board game occupies the center of the floor.
The fireplace crackles nearby.
Snow taps softly against the windows.
The entire cabin feels insulated from the rest of the world.
Like we've somehow slipped outside normal life for a few hours.
Jillie cheats.
Badly.
Not subtle cheating.
Not accidental cheating.
Aggressive cheating.
The kind that would get her banned from professional competition.
"That's not how the game works."
She looks offended.
"According to who?"
"Literally everyone."
"That's just one opinion."
"It's the rule book."
She points dramatically.
"The rule book is limiting my creativity."
Sadie laughs.
I laugh.
Jillie takes our laughter as encouragement.
Which turns out to be a mistake.
Eventually she wins.
Suspiciously. Very suspiciously.
But neither of us has the heart to challenge the verdict, especially when she celebrates like she just won the Stanley Cup.
Later, while Jillie builds a pillow throne for herself inside the fort, Sadie wanders into the kitchen.
I follow, mostly because somebody has to carry the empty mugs. At least that's the excuse I use.
The kitchen is warm.
Quiet.
Comfortable.
The sort of comfortable that's becoming increasingly dangerous.