Chapter Thirty-Five
Melanie
Christmas Eve
From the front window, the river looked like a ribbon of pewter braided through snow. The banks had puffed up overnight like frosted meringue mounds, and every branch on every alder wore a sugar crust so perfect it could’ve been staged.
The little rental itself leaned into the theme; it was the kind of cottage that made you want to curtsy when you crossed the threshold.
White trim. Red door. Roofline like a child's drawing. If you told me a team of elves handled the original blueprints, I would’ve nodded and asked for their contractor’s card.
Inside, it was all cinnamon and soft lamp light and the quiet tick of the old wall clock over the mantle.
I’d gone slightly feral with the decorating—okay, entirely feral. The thrifted brass candlesticks from one of my shopping trips with Lydia glowed on the mantle between boughs of fir.
The stockings I’d found in a bin marked MISC HOLIDAY (99￠) hung on hooks shaped like little reindeer, one reading MERRY and the other HELLO in vintage chain stitch because apparently previous owners had had priorities.
A tiny ceramic village colonized the windowsill—bakery, post office, a skating pond with skaters perpetually mid-giggle. On the coffee table, a bowl of clementines and a plate of sugar cookies dusted with sanding sugar looked like they’d posed for a lifestyle magazine.
Christmas Eve.
My mother would be here any minute, which meant I’d arranged and rearranged every throw pillow in the house twice and was now aggressively fluffing the last one like it owed me money.
I checked the time again…ten minutes since the last time I checked it. The kettle purred on low on the stovetop, a pot of mulled wine simmered and perfumed the kitchen with cloves, oranges, and the kind of cheer you can serve in a mug.
The tree was a stout little fir we’d crammed into the corner and wore white lights and a tipsy star and a mishmash of ornaments that proved Lydia didn’t believe in minimalist anything. Every few seconds, the river’s hush found its way through the old windowpanes, like a breath I’d learned to match.
I smoothed a hand over my sweater again. It was ridiculous, how nervous I was to show my mother this place—the town, the life, the man. I lived in a city where noise hid your doubts. Here, the quiet asked you to be brave enough to answer yourself.
The doorbell chimed, a sound so bright and merry the cottage might have blushed. My heart did a ridiculous little stutter.
I opened the door and promptly forgot how to do sentences.
Drew stood on the step, green eyes connecting with mine as snow caught in his hair. He had a paper bag snug in his arm, and a grin so stupidly handsome I nearly shut the door just to squeal and then opened it again as if I’d started over.
“Hey, you,” I breathed, already smiling.
“Hey, yourself,” he said, and it came out a little husky like the weather had roughed him up and he was grateful.
“Delivery from the North Pole.” He hoisted the bag.
“I brought wine, rosemary rolls the size of your face from Mrs. Santos, and a suspiciously heavy tin that Riley swore at me not to open.”
“You had me at rolls the size of your face.” I stepped aside. “Come in before you freeze into a very attractive statue.”
He stomped snow from his boots, and the whole house seemed to lift its shoulders like oh good, that one. He smelled like cold air and cedar and some possible aftershave I refused to identify. He leaned down to kiss my cheek and the tiny universe under my skin opened all its windows.
“You look like a Christmas story,” he said, eyes skimming over the sweater, the socks patterned with candy canes, the flour dust in my hair from the final batch of cookies that might have caught fire a little. “Did you rob a set decorator?”
“I robbed Lydia’s attic,” I confessed. “Which is like robbing a seasonal department store that also sells Christmas chaos.”
He laughed, low and warm, and I wanted to catch it in both hands.
He set the bag on the counter, produced two bottles of wine and with his usual efficient competence, found the drawer where I’d put the corkscrew like we’d lived here together for ten years.
The kitchen—galley style, narrow, all butter-yellow paint and open shelves—made us stand close without trying.
Our elbows bumped. Our shoulders touched. My pulse did new, unhelpful things.
“You nervous?” I asked, leaning against the counter, trying to sound casual and failing. “About meeting my mom?”
He looked up with a glint. “Would it help if I said no?”
“It would help if you said you were paralyzed with fear.”
He chuckled and pulled the cork on the white like a magician. The man had skills.
“I’ve served grumpy strangers on Thanksgiving in a snowstorm,” he said. “I can handle one mom.”
“You have never met my mom,” I said.
“True,” he conceded, pouring a splash for me to taste. I swooned from the competency alone. He lifted a brow. “Approved?”
The wine was chilled to that exact spot where it tastes like good decisions. I nodded.
“Approved. She’s going to love you.”
He made a noncommittal sound and went back to the bag, lifting out the rolls, still warm, wrapped in a tea towel patterned with holly, and the tin that rattled in a disconcerting way.
“I asked Riley what’s in there,” he said, setting it gently on the counter like it might detonate. “She said, and I quote, the holidays.”
“Terrifying,” I said. “We’ll save it for dessert and a small, controlled explosion.”
He took in the room then, properly, like he hadn’t the moment he stepped in because kissing and teasing had done their usual hijacking. His gaze moved over the tree, the mantle, the ridiculous ceramic post office with teensy wreaths on its teensy doors.
“This place,” he said, soft. “Mel…you made it look like…you.”
“Yeah? A little messy? Confused?”
“Joyful.” He reached to fix a strand of garland that had slid askew over the window frame, touched it lightly, like people might notice if the world weren’t perfect and he could help. “It’s warm. And a little bossy. And you keep finding places to tuck beauty.”
“Bossy,” I said, pretending to be offended, and he grinned.
“Only in ways that keep people fed and safe.” He turned back to me, leaned his hip against the counter, and for a second the tiny kitchen felt like an orbit that made more sense than any city map. “Is she still on schedule?”
I checked my phone, which had acquired a tasteful film of powdered sugar at some point. “She texted from the turnoff. Which means any minute now we will be three.”
“Do we have a plan?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Smile. Pour wine. Be charming. If she asks about grandchildren, pretend the generator kicked off and we lost the call.”
“Got it,” he said solemnly. “Deflect with infrastructure.”
I laughed, because he looked amused, fond, and a little scared in a way that made me braver. He dug in the bottom of the bag and produced a bundle wrapped in brown paper and twine. My name was on a tag in his blocky printing.
“What’s this?” I asked, heart doing new gymnastics.
“Your official Reckless River starter kit,” he said. “Open.”
Inside, I found a pair of wool mittens, hand-knit, thick, cranberry red, and a small carved ornament, sanded smooth and stained the color of coffee with a little river stone showing the town’s outline painted onto it, and a tiny star where The Rusty Stag sat on Main.
I swallowed. “Drew.”
He shrugged, suddenly shy, like a six-foot-two man could disappear between a kettle and a cutting board. “I figured your tree needed a local. And your hands needed to stay attached to your wrists. Frostbite isn’t helpful for anyone.”
I slid the mittens on because it felt like a ritual and held my hands up. “I’m a pioneer woman.”
He smiled like he’d been waiting to see them on me. I crossed to the tree and found a spot, low and central, and hung the ornament there. The lights caught the gloss on the wood and the star winked like it knew more than it told.
The doorbell chimed again, louder this time, a fanfare. Reflex sent my hands to smooth my hair, my sweater, my life. Drew picked up the bottle and two glasses as if the man had been born doing triage for first impressions.
“Ready?” he murmured.
“No,” I said. “Yes. Absolutely not. Open the door.”
I did.
My mom stood there wrapped in a wool coat the color of pewter, a red scarf thrown over one shoulder like a cape, and snow in her hair.
She looked like she usually did: exactly like a woman who had raised me and would, if pressed, organize a coup with a good spreadsheet and two pots of tea. Her smile hit me full force, the kind that makes you twelve and brave and ridiculous all at once.
“Hi, Baby,” she said, eyes skimming me top to toe as if she could see the decisions I’d made since August hanging off me like jewelry. “Look at you. You look happy.” She sniffed the air. “And smell like cinnamon.”
I laughed, tears threatening but deciding not to be dramatic. “I burned a batch and then overcorrected with the next.”
“That’s my girl,” she said, stepping in so I could hug her the right way.
When we broke apart, she clocked Drew in that laser way moms do. He, to his eternal credit, didn’t flinch. He just held out the already-poured glass like a peace offering and a welcome and maybe a small lifeline.
“Hi, Ms. Sauser,” he said, voice smooth and a little playful, which meant he’d guessed correctly about the temperature of the room. “I’m Drew. Merry Christmas.”
“Call me Sally. Merry Christmas,” she said, with the kind of seriousness that says I’m glad we all lived to see this one, then took the glass in the way of a woman who had decided she liked him five seconds ago and would allow him to continue existing.
She sipped, eyes flicked around the room, took in the tree, the mantle, the man, and then turned to me with her verdict already in hand.
“I understand,” she said, simply, quietly, like we were alone in a loud world. “Why you left the city.”