Chapter 21
Ivy
The heaviness of last night still lingers.
I pour Junie a mug of milk and slide it across the table. She loves to drink out of a mug, like we do at breakfast. She calls it her ‘coffee.’
“Want to help me make pancakes?”
She nods and hops down from the chair. By the time we’re cracking eggs, she’s talking again and telling me about what she wants Santa to bring her for Christmas. A Barbie house with a dog that looks like Lola and a Barbie that looks like her.
Christmas is in a week, and I’ve gotten almost everything ready for her. Wrapped, hidden and ready to see her face on Christmas morning and all of her treasures. I love making holidays special for her. And I love that Remy doesn’t mind me doing all of this. I love it so much.
When the first pancake hits the plate, I crouch to her level. “You okay after last night?”
Junie bites her lip. “She was mad at me.”
I brush her hair back gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes grown-ups say things when they’re upset, but that doesn’t mean they’re mad at you or that they don’t love you.”
Her eyes fill, and I hug her until she’s ready to let go.
After breakfast, we pull on boots and coats and head outside.
The air is bright with morning light, the snow sparkling where it hasn’t been disturbed yet.
That’s my favorite part—right after it snows.
When everything feels perfect and peaceful.
Junie runs ahead, giggling when the neighbor goats come trotting to the fence.
Their owners went south to visit family, and Remy’s keeping an eye on them for a few weeks over here in the pasture.
He sees us from over at the barn and heads over to us, kissing me and grabbing Junie and lifting her up.
“Mouse tried to climb the gate yesterday!” she calls.
Remy chuckles, crouching to scratch Mouse’s nose through the slats. “Better not today. We just fixed this latch.”
I lean against the fence, watching him. His shoulders are still tense under his jacket, but when he glances back at me, something eases in his face. He stands, brushing his hands on his jeans, and crosses to me.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod, sliding my gloved hand into his. “I’m more worried about you.”
His thumb strokes over the back of my glove. “I hate that she did that in front of everyone.”
“You protected Junie,” I say softly. “That’s what matters. And you don’t have to protect me from the hard stuff. I’m in it with you, Remy.”
His jaw works, like he’s swallowing something he can’t quite say out loud. Then he leans in and presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Good. Because I need you.”
Before I can answer, a truck crunches down the drive. Tate hops out, a box of donuts from the diner in one hand.
“Peace offering,” he says, holding it up. “Figured you could use reinforcements.”
Junie cheers and runs to meet him. A few minutes later, Willa’s car rolls in behind him, and she climbs out with a tray of coffee.
“Don’t look so surprised,” she teases. “Mom texted. Said we might need some backup out here.”
It is so busy, as I imagined it would be the closer we got to Christmas.
And having everyone around is definitely easing the tension of Sloane showing up yesterday unannounced.
She sucks for that. She could have called and spent special time with Junie.
Instead, she made it all about her, and she never even hugged or said hello to her kid. I don’t get it.
Before long, we’re all in the barn, passing out donuts and cups, the goats nosing around like they’re part of the conversation. Rowan texts that she and Finn are coming for ornament-making tonight, and the air feels lighter with every laugh.
By the time we get back inside, Junie is practically bouncing. We spread paper over the table and pull out glitter, paint, and plain wooden ornaments. The whole kitchen turns into a sparkling disaster, but Junie is beaming, and even Remy relaxes enough to sit and paint one.
“You’re actually pretty good at this,” I tease when I see his careful work on a little wooden star.
He smirks. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”
Later, after Junie is bathed and tucked into bed, I find Remy by the fire, staring at the ornament tree like he’s memorizing every messy, glittery piece.
“Hey,” I say softly, sitting beside him.
“Hey.” His arm slides around my waist, pulling me closer.
We sit in silence for a while, just listening to the crackle of the fire. Then he says, “Last night scared me.”
I turn to look at him. “Me too.”
“I kept thinking… what if she tries to come back and mess it all up? What if I lose what we’re building?” His voice is low, rough.
I cover his hand with mine. “Can I talk to Sloane? I have an idea. Maybe after the holidays. Give her a chance to cool down. Make her realize that I’m not her enemy. If she wants a relationship with Junie, we can all get on the same page.”
He exhales slowly, as if that was the last thing he expected me to ask. Then he kisses me, softly at first, then deeper when I slide my hands up his chest. “I don’t need you to, but if you want to, I won’t stop you. I know you love Junie and are looking out for her.”
“I love you, too,” I remind him.
“I love you so much.” When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “You make this house feel like a home.”
“And you make me feel like I belong.”
His mouth curves into the slowest, sweetest smile I’ve ever seen, and right then I know, whatever storms come, we’re weathering them together.
The gift shop hums with customers picking out trees and last-minute gifts.
The heater ticks. Wind brushes the windows.
I fold a stack of tree farm sweatshirts and listen for Junie’s little hum while she colors.
But I don’t hear it anymore. She was right here ten minutes ago, sitting in the sunny patch by the window with her sketch pad and a cup of cocoa I watered down so it wouldn’t be so hot.
Lola was snoring under the counter. Everything was normal.
“Bug?” I call, half distracted, still smoothing the sleeves so they line up. “You ready for lunch?”
Silence answers me. Not the I-am-hiding silence. A flat, empty kind. What the heck.
I straighten, and fear pricks up my spine, worry filling me.
“Junie?” I check the corner behind the card rack where she likes to hide, then the tiny reading nook we set up with beanbags and a basket of winter books.
Her sketchbook is there, crayon mid-stroke, like she stood up and forgot to put it down.
The cocoa sits untouched, a thin skin on top.
My heart skips and then pounds hard enough to make my fingers tremble. I circle the counter. “Junie, sweetie. Come out. You are scaring me.”
Nothing.
I yank open the office door. Empty. I check the little bathroom. Empty. The back hall. Empty. I lean over the counter and look under it, because sometimes she curls up with Lola like a puppy. No sign of Lola, either.
“Remy!” I shout, my voice higher than I want it to be.
He is out by the bailing machine with Tate, but he hears me. I know it because he drops the strap in his hands and is already moving. Tate looks up, alarm flashing across his face, and starts toward the shop.
“What is it?” Remy asks, breath fogging as he hits the door.
“I can’t find her,” I say, and the words scrape my throat on the way out. “She was here. She was coloring. I looked everywhere. She is not here.”
For one beat his face empties. The kind of empty that looks like a cliff edge. Then he is past me, checking the office, the bathroom, the back hall. I follow, listing places she could be, things she could be doing, cures to panic that don’t work on anything real.
He comes back to the counter, eyes too bright. “How could you lose her?”
“She was right here.” My voice is thin. I taste metal. I hate that I let myself lose sign of her for even a minute.
He stalks to the door and bellows her name across the lot. The sound rolls over the whole property and hits me in the chest like a shove. Tate is already in motion, jogging toward the tree rows. I grab my coat and run after Remy.
He turns and yells, “You were never supposed to work the tree farm. You are the nanny!”
I feel gutted with his words. Shredded. But I push it aside and just worry about Junie. I need to find her. I need to know that she’s okay.
Snow dusts the ground, thin and glittering, packed down in tracks from the rush this morning. There are too many prints. Too many directions. People have been everywhere looking at trees today. So many people have been in and out of here. My breath comes short and white.
“Junie!” I call, my voice breaking. “Bug, where are you?”
We do a quick sweep of the obvious. The cocoa stand, the wreath table, the truck bed where she sometimes climbs with permission.
Nothing. Remy hits the barn at a run and flicks on every light.
The goats lift their heads, curious. The tack room is empty.
The office is empty. The hay loft is empty.
He is breathing like he has been sprinting for miles.
“Pete,” I say, half pleading as I reach the back corner. He is in his chair with a blanket over his knees, eyes sharp with worry. “Have you seen her?”
“No,” he says, and his face is full of worry, which I hate. “I’ll call Donna and Lilith.”
Remy pushes past me again. “I can’t believe this!” He yells, his face full of worry.
“I’m so sorry, Remy,” I say, and the truth of it makes me shake.
He turns on me, and his eyes are wild. “Sorry doesn’t make her come back right now. She could be anywhere.”
The words crack through me. I feel them, clean and cruel, like stepping on glass. I open my mouth, and nothing comes out at first. My vision swims. My cheeks burn.
“I turned to fold the shirts,” I finally manage. “She was right there. I looked up and she was gone. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
He flinches like the word sorry is gasoline on a fire. “Folding shirts wasn’t your job, Ivy.”
I nod, because if I argue I will fall apart. And he’s not wrong. I did this. I lost her. This is my fault. I grab for anything steady. “We will find her.”
Word spreads fast. Finn’s truck fishtails into the lot, door flying open before the engine is off.
He takes one look at my face and does not waste a breath on questions.
He heads for the creek at a dead sprint.
Rowan and Willa pull in a minute later, still in coats, flashlights in hand even though it is daylight.
Tate loops around the fence line and calls out that he will check the road to the old dock.
Donna and Lilith arrive, bundled, grim, focused.
“Call the neighbors,” Donna says to no one in particular, already scanning the tree rows with a mother’s courage. “Tell them to check sheds and porches.”
I keep moving. I check behind every stack of pallets, under every table, between every row. I call until my voice frays.
Time becomes mud. It is only an hour, they tell me later, but in my body, it stretches long and thin until it feels like it will snap.
I run the same paths twice, three times, because what if I missed her hat under a branch, what if I did not call loud enough, what if she answered and I did not hear?
At the edge of the field, I stop and bend at the waist, palms on my knees, gagging on air. Panic rises hard and oily in my throat. I swallow it down. I keep moving.
“Junie,” I try again, softer now, pleading. “Bug, it is Ivy. You are not in trouble. Please answer me.”
Wind tugs at my hat. Somewhere a crow complains. The property groans and cracks like old wood in the cold. I hear a shout and rocket upright, heart in my mouth, but it is Rowan calling to Willa to check the old chicken coop. Not Junie. Not yet.
I run to the creek path, because I cannot stop thinking about it. Remy beat me there. I hear him before I see him. His boots pound. His voice breaks on her name. He is down the bank, scanning the frozen shallows like his eyes can force her to appear.
“Anything?” I croak.
He shakes his head, fierce and quickly, jaw tight enough to break. He climbs toward me, grabs the low branch of a pine, and misses. His palm hits the trunk. He stares at his own hand like he does not recognize it, then wipes it on his jeans, breath ragged.
“We will find her,” I say again, because I have to or I’ll crumble. I reach for him without thinking. He jerks away as if my touch burns.
“Keep searching,” he says, and his voice is not his. It is shredded. It is a stranger wearing his shape.
I run. I check the equipment shed with Tate.
I check the old apple tree grove with Donna and Lilith.
I check the road with Willa and Rowan. Finn cuts across the back acreage like a bloodhound, eyes scanning, calling in a steady cadence that keeps me moving.
Pete sits in the barn doorway with his blanket and his cane and his jaw set in a line I have never seen.
We are all threads in a net, thrown wide and wide again, praying to catch one little fish in a sea of winter.
The hour hits some invisible mark and shifts. The light is different. The air feels colder. Panic tilts to something colder and thinner, a wire stretched too tight. I am shaking so hard I can hear my teeth click.
Then tires on gravel. A car that does not belong. I turn, and my stomach drops.
Sloane steps out of her car.
Of course. Of course, she would come right now.
She steps out in a neat coat and boots with clean tread, hair perfect, eyes already narrowed, like she arrived armed.
She takes in the chaos. The running. The faces.
The silence when we spot her. She zeroes in on Remy, who is cutting back across the lot with snow on his lashes and a look that could cut stone.
“What’s going on?” she demands.
He keeps moving. “Not now, Sloane.”
“I asked what is going on,” she says, sharper. “Where is my daughter?”
He stops. The air changes. I have felt storms roll in faster than this, but not by much.
“We’re looking for her,” he says.
“You lost my kid?” she accuses him. “You were supposed to watch her. How is this going to look in court?”
I’ve never wanted to throttle someone more in my life.