Midnight in Park City (Christmas in the Canyons #4)

Chapter 1 Mj

Was that George? George McBride, her beloved husband?

Why did he look like a twenty-five-year-old man, striding across the field behind Snowberry Lodge in a soft flannel and worn jeans, moving with that understated but manly swagger earned from years of hard work and clean living?

Transported forty years into the past, MJ feasted her eyes on the man she’d married who was definitely not the same middle-aged George she’d tearfully buried six years ago.

Wait. Was he…singing?

No, no, he was whistling. Blowing out that melody she knew so well. She recognized the lilting notes of Louis Armstrong on a scratchy record player in their bedroom, and remembered dancing in their pajamas after the baby fell asleep.

Just the two of them, singing about…trees of green…red roses, too…and…what a wonderful world.

“It’s always going to be our song, MJ,” he called out to her, holding up a hand as the whistling got louder and louder. “Nobody else’s, sweetheart! Just you and me, forever.”

He whistled the crescendo of the song, the notes high-pitched. They no longer sounded like a human but a digital beeping. Or was that—

MJ’s eyes popped open, then she blinked, lost and confused, surrounded by a pitch-black room, her heart hammering, her palms damp, her soul aching for…George. Young George. Her George. Her one and only…

“It was a dream,” she groaned as the realization hit.

Then she sat up straighter, not trusting her own ears.

“Then why do I still hear the music?”

Shocked by the distant but distinct melody, she threw back her comforter and let her bare feet hit the warm rug over hardwood floors. Taking a breath, she reached for her robe at the bottom of the bed, then stood, frowning and disoriented.

That song!

Why was it playing? Where was it…

She flexed her fingers and wiggled her toes. Totally awake, so this wasn’t part of her dream.

A recurring dream, she acknowledged, about her late husband. He was always in the back behind Snowberry Lodge, coming from her mother’s old garden, a tool or two dangling from his hand, their favorite song on his lips as he whistled.

But this dream had audible music and…it hadn’t stopped!

She reached to the lamp on her nightstand, turning on the light to spill a golden glow around the bedroom.

As soon as she did, the music stopped.

Okay. It was a dream. Just a vivid, wonderful, unexpected dream.

Slightly shaken, MJ pulled her robe over her arms and belted it, longing for something to make her feel steady and secure.

“Oh, George.” She rubbed the fleece sleeves, giving in to a shiver that she hoped would shake off a dream she hadn’t had in, oh, almost a year.

In fact, she realized, she hadn’t dreamed about George…since she’d met Matt.

Sighing, she walked to her phone charging on the dresser and tapped it to see it was a few minutes past three. She normally rose with no alarm at five, so there wasn’t much point in trying to go back to sleep.

She eyed the bed, which looked warm and inviting and…empty.

Now that Matt Walker had arrived at Snowberry Lodge, keeping a written promise he’d made a year ago, did MJ need to think about her bed not being empty?

The only man she’d ever shared a bed with was…the handsome one in her dreams whistling What a Wonderful World.

Would that change now that Matt had returned to Park City?

“Slow down there, girlfriend,” she whispered to herself. “He only came back last night.”

But, oh, had he come back. Just hours ago, as she danced at her sister’s wedding—Cindy’s remarriage to her ex-husband had been a glorious event—MJ’s totally girlish fantasies had come true.

Girlish because she was sixty-three, but the moment was no less…fantastic.

On the dance floor with her father, MJ had turned to look into the eyes and fall into the arms of the man who’d disappeared almost a year ago, leaving behind a letter promising he’d be back in a year.

Oh, and he’d also left a million-dollar gift to Snowberry Lodge that had been used for a massive renovation of the family’s property on the outskirts of Park City.

The letter said he’d come back after he gave away most of the multimillion-dollar lottery winnings that had changed his life, since that kind of wealth had caused him more unhappiness than one would imagine.

That promise had given MJ many sleepless nights, a thousand imagined scenarios, and the highest of high hopes.

Despite being a lifelong optimist, MJ had many days of doubt. She’d never heard from him in that year—not a single word. But he’d asked for time, space, and a chance to manage the responsibility of all that money.

Then, last night, when he tapped her father’s shoulder and cut into their dance, every doubt disappeared and she’d let herself feel the first real giddy, breathless, unbelievable stirrings of love.

No wonder she’d dreamed about George…and heard their song.

Standing for a moment in the chilly room, she gave up on sleep. Instead, she’d have a nice morning tea by her fire and could be in the kitchen early to prepare a post-wedding breakfast for the guests who’d stayed last night.

Satisfied with that decision, she stepped into slippers and went into the living room, turning on a light and looking around at the peaceful and warm home she’d created.

She never tired of the owner’s suite apartment that sat atop Snowberry Lodge’s rambling main building. After George’s passing, she’d left the big house on the edge of the property where they’d lived together. Her father, Red, along with her daughter and grandson, lived there now.

She’d moved into the staff “quarters”—basically a glorified bedroom and bath—off the lodge’s main kitchen. That had helped with her grief when George died, and made running Snowberry’s kitchen easy and convenient.

When they received the windfall of Matt’s cash a year ago, she and Cindy had a vision to transform the unused third floor into a beautiful apartment.

Yes, it could be rented out for top dollar, but Cindy had insisted that MJ make it her home.

After all, it was MJ’s friendship with Matt that provided the money that essentially saved their family business.

MJ agreed and had designed the space exactly for her needs.

The bedroom was roomy but still cozy, with a luxurious ensuite and a dreamy soaker tub where she frequently ended her long days.

The living area was spacious and bathed in natural light, with a nicely equipped kitchenette, a breakfast nook, and a gorgeous stone fireplace she’d watched a talented mason build by hand.

From the soft, dusty blue curtains to the braided rugs to the soul-soothing view of the Wasatch mountain peaks, MJ had made this sanctuary the perfect home for a sixty-three-year-old widow.

But would all that change with Matt’s return? Her home, her marital status, her whole life?

With a sigh of both hope and uncertainty, she filled a kettle and started a fire, humming What a Wonderful World the whole time.

“Goodness, that sounded real,” she mused, thinking about the melody in her dreams. “It sounded just like…”

Her music box!

She froze in the act of pouring scalding water into a cup, realizing with a start that she had no idea where her treasured music box was. Still up in the house where she’d lived with George? No, she’d never leave that behind.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d laid eyes on that music box, though, which was sad. Surely she’d packed it when she left the house and moved in downstairs. She couldn’t remember seeing it when she moved to this apartment.

Good heavens, had she lost the music box George had given her when Gracie was born?

Dropping a tea bag into the hot water, she walked back to her bedroom and looked around, scanning the bookshelves, the dresser, a few drawers, even her jewelry case where it could fit in the bottom.

Nope. Maybe it was jammed into a box she’d yet to unpack and left on the top shelf in her closet.

She peered at the storage containers, not relishing the idea of getting a stepstool and dragging them down. Still, that had to be where the music box was. For some reason, it had started playing in the middle of the night.

Unlikely…but not impossible.

Taking her tea to the chair by the fire, she thought about the gold and enamel treasure that George had given her the day that Gracie was born. The Louis Armstrong classic it played had so much meaning for them—they’d danced to it at their wedding and George loved to sing it when they were alone.

When Gracie was a baby, MJ would open the box and sing the lyrics she knew by heart while rocking her sweet daughter to sleep. George used to say the song reminded him of MJ and her deeply positive outlook on life.

She couldn’t disagree—the lyrics certainly celebrated the simple, good things in life and seemed to capture how MJ liked to look at the world.

But how could it just start playing?

Maybe the dream was…a message.

She inhaled sharply at the thought. Maybe George had made that music box play from wherever it was as a soft whisper to…be careful. Or maybe he was saying she shouldn’t fall for a new man at all.

Maybe George, who’d had infinite wisdom when alive and was undoubtedly in heaven with a bird’s-eye view of her life, didn’t think a romance with Matt was a good idea.

Now that tilted her world a little bit.

Yes, she’d ached for Matt to keep his promise and come back to Park City, but now that he had…what would happen? She hadn’t really thought it through.

Finishing the tea, she stood to dress for the day, making a mental note to dig through the kitchen cabinets and her buffets in the guest dining area. Maybe she’d mistakenly tucked it in the wrong place.

But if she had…then what had she heard in her dream?

“Your imagination,” she told herself.

Unless…it was George. She might not like what he had to say but, dead or alive, there was no one she respected or trusted more than George McBride.

So if he was talking, she knew she had to listen.

“Good morning, Mary Jane.”