Chapter 4 Red
Red Starling tugged at the fur-trimmed collar of his ill-fitting Santa coat as he trudged up the snowy path from the lodge toward his house. Leftover pasta and a steaming hot cup of coffee waited for him.
A couple of sleigh rides and everything hurt.
Well, not his heart. That seemed to be ticking along just fine, but after the nightmare at the ice rink a week ago, he’d been more aware of it than ever before.
His daughters had begged him to give up his Santa gig, which was kind of ironic. A year ago, quitting was all he wanted. But this Christmas? Dressing up as Grumpy—but sometimes nice—Santa when kids were on Jack’s sleigh rides kept his mind off that ride in the ambulance.
It also kept him too busy for Drill Sergeant Bertie, his nemesis.
His son-in-law’s mother, Roberta Kessler, had shown up the day of Cindy and Jack’s wedding and zeroed in on Red like a heat-seeking missile in cross-training shoes. Exercise! Did that woman do anything else?
He’d been warned by Jack that the eighty-six-year-old was the “cardio queen” of her Vermont retirement community, leading chair yoga and calisthenics like she was Jack LaLanne in silver sneakers.
All that woman had heard was “heart scare” and she was off to the races—literally—dragging Red along with her.
He’d tried to tell her the docs diagnosed him with heartburn not anything serious.
Nope. She was utterly convinced the secret to Red living another twenty years was walking, bending, and, God help him, sit-ups.
So the sleigh rides were sweet relief, but Bertie did seem to have a knack for showing up everywhere.
The last group of riders had been great, though. A bunch of rosy-cheeked tourists from Texas with pockets full of peppermints to feed Copper and some dueling selfie sticks. Still, by the time the final “Merry Christmas, Santa!” echoed through the pines, Red was cooked.
He lumbered past the glittering icicle lights strung over the trees, thinking about that pasta, when Benny buzzed closer on his bright red snow scooter. “Hi, Grandpa!”
“Hey, Benny-bean.”
“Look who’s still here!”
Olivia, sitting on a disc that looked like a giant Frisbee, whizzed right behind him. “I’m not going to California, Red! My mom’s spending Christmas here! She’s checking in at the lodge right now! Woohoo!”
She twirled in the snow, making him smile as he resumed his trek. Those kids would be occupied long enough that the pasta could be followed by a few cookies and a nice long nap in his recline—
Oh, no. Oh, no! There she was. The Drill Sergeant.
Bertie marched in the distance, no doubt about to turn and see Red, which would mean no pasta, no coffee, no cookies, and no nap. Just…movement.
Red froze mid-step, dread washing over him. “Lord above, not now.”
Bertie was wearing a puffy vest the color of a pink highlighter and the expression of someone who planned to live to a hundred by sheer force of willpower and walking. Her arms pumped with military precision, her massive fuzzy hat making her look like a bear in fuchsia snow pants.
He knew what was coming. The lecture. The pep talk. The unsolicited advice about heart health and longevity. Then…the death march up to Bluebell Crossing and back.
He couldn’t do it. Not today.
Moving fast—or as fast as an old man in boots could—he ducked left and hid behind the porch of one of the cabins. He waited, hoping, praying—and heard her marching closer.
Desperate, he climbed onto the porch, grabbed the door handle, and twisted.
Unlocked! Not all of these cabins were rented yet, he knew, since they were rolling out what Cindy called a “soft re-opening”—whatever that was.
Didn’t matter. He was safe here.
Warm air greeted him, faintly scented with pine and something lemony from the fresh polish. The place looked brand new. He squinted around approvingly at the recently completed renovations.
Take that, Grand Hyatt. His girls knew what they were doing and his own father, the late, great Owen Starling, would be proud.
The cabin was cozy but modern now—still knotty pine and stone, but with new rugs and soft plaid throws.
A sleek gas fireplace flickered in the corner, and the kitchenette gleamed with a white quartz countertop and fresh appliances.
The furniture was new but inviting—leather armchairs, wool cushions, and touches of warm wood.
He wandered in a little farther, peeking into the two bedrooms. One was very small, with bunk beds and a hall bath. The other, a little more grand, with an ensuite that had just been added.
Safe for the moment, he stepped into the hall bathroom to see all the changes there. This had been the only bathroom before, with a shower curtain over the tub connected to a water heater that wouldn’t moan like ghost and scare guests anymore.
He was about to peek in the mirror to see how ridiculous he looked in the Santa getup when the sound of the front door opening froze him.
“Oh, come on,” he whispered. “She followed me?”
He closed the bathroom door and listened.
Then he heard women’s voices—definitely Gracie, his granddaughter. Was she showing this cabin to Bertie? But when the other woman spoke, it wasn’t the voice of his least favorite drill sergeant.
Who was that?
Did it matter? He was Santa, about to be caught breaking and entering.
He stayed quiet, alert, and prayed his stomach didn’t growl and give him away, because this was embarrassing.
The voices drifted in from the living room. Gracie’s tone was polite but tight, the way she sounded when she was trying very hard to stay civil.
“I think you’ll find everything you need. Let me show you the main bedroom and ensuite.”
“As long as I can get an Uber to get over to see Marshall, I’m good. Thank you.”
“Well, Olivia can stay here with you…”
Oh, it was Olivia’s mother, who’d apparently just checked in at the lodge.
“I’m not here just to see Olivia,” the woman said, her voice a little sharp as a suitcase rolled by the door, inches from Red.
He winced and waited. Gracie would be furious if she opened the door and found him standing there.
“I’ll let you get comfortable, Bianca,” Gracie replied, her voice moving toward the front of the cabin. “My mother, MJ, and my Aunt Cindy are available for whatever you need. Goodbye!”
He heard the front door close, the sound of his granddaughter hightailing it away from…Bianca, did she say? He could well imagine Gracie’s strawberry-blond hair flying as she made her escape, her whiskey-colored eyes flashing, her freckled cheeks flushed as always. She sure sounded…impatient.
Judging from the way he’d noticed Gracie dancing with Marshall at the wedding, that impatience was understandable if Bianca was the ex.
But what in tarnation was she doing staying here? Well, Olivia did just tell him she wasn’t going to California, so there must have been a change of plans. Not a good one for Gracie, he decided.
He crouched a little, the Santa belt digging into his stomach. How the heck long would he be trapped in here?
He waited, counting silently to ten. Then twenty.
He could still hear movement—soft thuds, the rustle of clothing, a suitcase unzipping again, the flush of the ensuite toilet, then water running.
Red groaned quietly, realizing he’d missed his chance to escape. He couldn’t just pop out of the hall bath now—she’d scream bloody murder to find Santa hiding in her cabin.
He eyed the small frosted-glass window behind the toilet. Dang! They’d taken out the old latch he’d installed a hundred years ago and replaced it with permanent glass. Now what?
“Well…I had to call you, Tara,” Bianca said, her voice drifting in from outside the door, likely on the phone. “There’s been a…tiny hiccup, but it doesn’t really change anything. We’re still…moving forward.”
Just don’t move forward into the hall bathroom. Please.
“Well, he wouldn’t let me stay at his house,” she said to…someone. “I can’t imagine why, since there’s plenty of room and I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he was so happy I was there. Oh, yes. Over the moon, I’d say.”
Really? Very slowly, very quietly, Red lowered himself to sit on top of the toilet seat—glad his daughters had spent the extra money for a substantial potty seat and not one of those flimsy things that buckled like a Tupperware lid.
Stuffing down his qualms about eavesdropping—it wasn’t like he had a choice—he sat quietly and listened to the fake-bright voice that some women used when gossiping.
“You are so right, girl, yes!” she cooed, sounding more like Olivia than a grown woman. “Of course, he will spend every chance he can with me. You know he didn’t want that divorce.” A long pause followed, and for a minute, Red forgot he was hiding out in a bathroom snooping on a guest.
Because this was…interesting.
“I know, I know,” she continued, making Red wish she’d put the call on her speaker phone so he could follow the whole thing.
“Of course he’s still single. He’ll never get over me.
He looks at me like he’s never been around a woman.
” She gave a high-pitched laugh. “I was always his weakness and I’m gonna be again, Tara.
You watch. Once I let him know he can have me again, he won’t stand a chance. ”
Red’s blood pressure rose.
“I told you, this is my best shot. My only shot! You’re my sister, Tara! Do you want me to go to jail?”
Jail? What would she go to jail for?
“Well, I don’t know what they do to people who can’t pay their bills. Do you have any earthly idea how high my credit cards are? And rent on that beachfront house? I spent every dime of alimony and it doesn’t even begin to touch the debt. That’s why I’m here.”
Red stood again, cocking his ear to the door, instinctively knowing he had to hear this, but every few words were muffled and impossible for his eighty-three-year-old ears to pick up.
“…No, he wouldn’t…” Dang, he didn’t get the rest. Then, “Oh, yeah. You never know with Marshall, but…” The rest was unintelligible, so Red leaned closer.