Chapter 16 Mj
Silent night, holy night.
Snowberry Lodge seemed to embody the classic carol that the choir had sung so beautifully at the Live Nativity. It played in MJ’s head still, just after midnight after everyone had gone off to rooms and cabins.
MJ had showered and gotten ready for bed, but she couldn’t bear the wait for three a.m. when she climbed under the comforter.
So, she bundled into her robe and fuzzy socks and headed downstairs to the lodge kitchen.
Telling herself that Christmas breakfast was always a rush, she decided to assemble her ingredients, line up her bowls and mixer and utensils, and maybe sip a cup of chamomile tea.
As she worked, the silence felt reverent in a way, like Christmas Eve had fallen into a hush, holding its breath for morning. Most nights, MJ adored that feeling.
Not tonight or any night for the last few weeks. The music had soured her on sleep and she no longer loved that melody or thought this was such a wonderful world.
How could something so small and impossible to explain destroy her sleep and her new relationship and her whole life?
She filled a kettle, staring out at the starry sky and moonlit mountain peaks, her thoughts a million miles away.
When the kettle whistled, she came back to Earth, filled her cup, and bounced a tea bag with small, precise moves that made her feel like this was an important activity.
But it wasn’t important and she was delaying the inevitable and sickening wake-up call that George sent every night.
Because what else could cause that mysterious music?
“Ridiculous,” she whispered, shaking her head as she dropped the soaking tea bag into the trash. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
But fear wasn’t logical. Grief wasn’t logical.
And Gracie was right. She had to tell Matt or this would drive a wedge between them that would send him packing by New Year’s Day.
She could already feel his frustration that he sensed something was wrong—and assumed she didn’t reciprocate his feelings.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
But when should she tell him? And how do you tell a man you care about that you might be getting messages from beyond the grave telling you to run?
MJ looked up at the sound of footsteps in the hall, only a little surprised when Matt walked into the kitchen. He looked…oh, goodness. Wonderful.
He wore sleep pants and a hoodie, hair damp from his own late-night shower, looking comfortably handsome.
She felt her heart bloom—that tiny, traitorous ache of longing she’d felt for a year in his absence and constantly in his presence. Didn’t George want her to feel that way again?
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked gently.
She tightened her robe. “You know me. Christmas breakfast waits for no one.”
He approached the counter, eyeing the small army of ingredients, a knowing smile lifting his lips.
“Two different kinds of cinnamon? Must be Christmas.”
She chuckled. “You notice everything.”
“I notice you,” he said simply.
Her breath caught in her chest. Oh, this man. Why did he have to say things like that with such gentle certainty? Why did it have to feel so…right?
“Want some tea?” she asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.
“I’d love some.”
She poured the still scalding water from the kettle into a cup and grabbed his favorite herbal tea from the tin display she put out for guests.
Setting a mug before him when he settled at the island, she leaned her hip against the quartz countertop and picked up her own mug, the warmth of the tea seeping into her palms.
The kitchen lights glowed softly off copper pots, the hush even more pronounced as the two of them stayed perfectly silent.
Matt watched her carefully, as if he could see the thoughts she was trying so hard to hide.
“What’s really going on in that beautiful head of yours, MJ?”
Beautiful. When was the last time…
Yesterday, she thought. He’d called her beautiful yesterday and every other day since he’d come back. His compliments were genuine, frequent, and they deserved honesty in return.
For a long second, she stared down at her mug. Steam drifted between them.
She was tired of the secret, the fear, the guilt, the silent middle of the night panic when the opening notes woke her up. It was time.
She exhaled shakily. “All right. There is something.”
He stayed still, patient, as he always was with her.
“I keep hearing music,” she said.
He notched one brow. “What kind of music?”
“A specific song,” she said, her throat tightening. “It was very meaningful to…George and me. We always sang it and he had it made into a music box when Gracie was born.”
He studied her, deep in thought. “Did the holidays bring this on?” he asked.
“If only it were that simple.”
He sipped his tea. “Go ahead,” he prompted after he swallowed and she hadn’t elaborated.
“It’s every night,” she continued, words tumbling out.
“At exactly three a.m. I wake up to the melody playing. At first, I thought it was the music box. I tore my apartment apart trying to figure it out. But it wasn’t that—Gracie has the music box in her bedroom.
So I…” She shook her head. “Matt, I don’t know how else to explain it. ”
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t do anything except lean a little closer, like he understood how delicate this was for her.
“And you think it’s George,” he guessed.
The fact that he went right there nearly melted her. It was so beautifully intuitive and, somehow, kind. At least it struck her that way.
“I do,” she confessed. “I think he’s trying to tell me…”
“Not to forget him,” he finished. “By being with me.”
She just stared at him, because what could she add? That was exactly what she thought.
“I’m scared, Matt,” she admitted, realizing it was the first time she’d said that out loud. She’d been annoyed, confused, concerned, frustrated, and worried.
But only now did she realize that the music scared her.
“I’m afraid that I’m hurting him or he knows something I don’t or that…this isn’t right. I don’t know,” she continued breathlessly. “I know that’s crazy, but…”
He shook his head. “Not crazy at all. When did it start?”
“The very night you came back.”
His brows lifted. “Never heard it before?”
“No. Not down here.” She thumbed in the direction of the Starling Room, the wedding space that a year ago had been her living quarters.
“When construction started, I lived in one of the cabins for a while, but heard nothing. I moved into the upstairs owner’s apartment a few months ago, and never heard a thing.
Then, the very night you got here, I was awakened at three a.m. by… music.”
“What song?”
“What a Wonderful World.”
His entire face softened. “No wonder you bolted from that house when we saw the poster.”
She laughed softly. “Is there any detail that ever gets by you?”
“Not where you’re concerned,” he said. “When are you going to figure that out, Mary Jane?”
She reached over the counter and put a hand on his. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
He let out a slow breath as he clasped her fingers, his gaze distant as he considered all the possibilities behind this ghostly mystery.
“You loved George,” he said, as if it were fact number one. “And you might think that falling in love with another man is somehow deeply disrespectful to him.”
Did she? She wasn’t sure. “How does that explain the music?”
“Could you be…don’t take this the wrong way, but are you—”
“Imagining it?” she supplied with a scoff. “I wish it were that simple, but no, I’m hearing it.”
“Okay,” he said quickly. “Then maybe there’s a logical explanation.”
“Other than George himself?”
He angled his head, truly considering that possibility, which she appreciated so much.
“From what you—and others—have told me, it doesn’t sound like George was jealous or small or less than loving in life,” he said. “So why would he be in death?”
“Oh, Matt. Yes. That’s true.”
Slowly, he slid off the seat and came around the island, reaching to embrace her with his strong and loving arms.
“Now I know why you’re exhausted,” he said, pressing his lips to her hair. “You haven’t been sleeping. Your grief is rising up at the same time I’m tempting you to fall in love again. It’s a lot for anyone, especially someone who carries everyone else’s burdens with joy.”
She felt her whole body relax into him, so grateful that he understood. She dropped her head back and smiled up at him. “I heard all that, but I kind of drifted off at the part where you said something about falling in love.”
Laughing, he kissed her lightly. “I’m a straight shooter, Mary Jane. You know why I’m here and where I hope this is going.”
She searched his face, losing herself in his tender brown gaze. “I’m afraid that as long as I’m hearing this music, we aren’t going to get there.”
He brushed his thumb lightly across her cheek. “Not if I have anything to say about it. We shall solve the problem together. Three a.m., you say?”
“On the nose, every night, with military precision.”
“Then let me stay on your sofa tonight. When the music plays, I’ll hear it, too, and help you find the source or figure out where it’s coming from.”
Her breath hitched. “You’d really do that? On Christmas Eve?”
“Nowhere I’d rather be than near you, helping you, and solving all your problems.”
She hugged him tighter, a little overwhelmed with emotion.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Yes. Please.”
It was nearly one when they finished their tea, shut off the kitchen lights, and headed up to the third floor to her nine-hundred-square-foot one-bedroom apartment.
Just inside, he stopped and sucked in a soft breath.
“What?” she asked. “Do you…feel something?”
“Yeah. Joy, peace, and contentment.” He looked around the living area, taking in the small tree by the window, the comfortable sectional with a few throw blankets, the overstuffed chair by the fireplace where she loved to sip tea. “I’ve never been up here before.”