Chapter 8 MJ
MJ stood in front of the open wardrobe looking at two outfit options she’d hung for consideration. The navy dress was the safe choice, of course. Crisp and simple and…businessy. The all-black silk sheath was…date night.
“Nope.” She plucked them both from their hooks, rehung them, and pushed hangers to find her nicest black slacks. With those, she chose a cream satin blouse with a tidy black velvet collar, which said…holiday dinner with a friend.
She added delicate earrings that caught the light when she turned her head. Her hair—the only thing she was truly prideful about—decided to obey today, falling neatly to her shoulders, with her few silver threads barely noticeable.
If she was proud of her auburn tresses, it was because George used to run his fingers through her hair when they cuddled at night, and call her his “copper penny.”
She swallowed, tamping down the thought of her late husband, who would probably tsk mightily at the idea of a dinner date with a guest. Well, he’d tsk a lot more mightily if he knew her sister said the other option was to do a Google search on a guest, which was beyond the pale.
“Not a date,” she murmured, and slipped into low heels that could probably handle snowy pavement and certainly didn’t look like they belonged in a kitchen. “Reconnaissance.”
She smoothed the shiny blouse, drew a steadying breath, and left her suite with the simple goal—she’d ask questions without prying. That was all. She’d silence her sister’s fears that something was amiss.
Cindy wanted to know why an unusually wealthy plumber had taken up a month-long residence at their lodge, shown interest in MJ, and gifted them with a stunningly expensive snowmobile for no apparent reason.
MJ understood her sister’s misgivings—and Cindy didn’t even know he had a different name engraved on his very expensive watch. Her sister did know they were having dinner tonight, and agreed that it was a great way to get those answers.
Matt was waiting just outside the kitchen in the oversized dining area where five tables were set and ready for tomorrow’s breakfast.
He sat near a window, looking out at the snow tufted on the branches of the spruce outside. He wore a cable-knit sweater and dark trousers that weren’t anything she’d ever seen on any plumber. Ever.
He stood when he saw her, his smile quick and unguarded.
“Mary Jane.”
She smiled at the use of a full double name that no man since the pastor who’d married her had used. “That’s me.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Matt,” she said, not sure how to return the compliment. “Quite a storm out there today, wasn’t it?”
“That was something. Your niece—Nicole?—is she all right now? You said she was stuck overnight?”
“She is. Poor kid doesn’t go on the mountain to ski for twenty years and the first time, she’s in a whiteout. She told my sister she’s safe in a ski patrol lodge until they can get down in the morning.”
“Good to know. The city roads are fine now, though. I checked the state plow maps and the weather cams before I booked. My rental is steady as a house.”
His rental was a pricey Escalade, she knew, and it could handle whatever the Utah winter threw at it.
He crossed to her coat, lifting it from the back of the chair where she’d draped it, helping slip it on. The move was courteous and kind, and…date-like.
Outside, he offered an arm down a few steps to where his SUV, already running and warmed, waited. He opened the door for her, and she settled in, breathing through a mix of excitement and nerves.
“So,” she said as he pulled out, “I’m curious. How did you ever find Snowberry Lodge? You came before ‘Grumpy Santa’ made us famous. Not that I’m prying,” she added quickly. “Just hoping to get more long-term guests like you.”
“A simple internet search,” he told her. “I was looking for something off the beaten path where I could spend a few weeks or so. Not a resort with a thousand identical rooms. I like family-run and the place appealed to me.”
“Why Park City? Why Utah? Are you a Sundance Film fan? That’s really what put us on the map.”
“Nah, not a film fan.” He gestured toward the winter-white world around them. “It’s Christmas here. In Florida, it’s sunshine and palm trees.”
“Do you…always leave home at the holidays?” She tried to sound conversational and not like she was conducting an inquisition, but he slid an amused look that said she might have failed.
“I used to spend the holidays at my uncle’s house in upstate New York and it gave me a hankering for snow at Christmas,” he said. “This place certainly fit the bill. And after a few days here, I knew it was where I wanted to spend the month.”
As they reached the outskirts of Park City, he asked more about Nicole’s reason for not skiing as an easy change of subject.
She found herself telling him about the accident, and he asked lots of concerned questions, including if she got therapy.
“No, she didn’t seem to want it at the time, and then she just claimed not to need…” She drew back as the car slowed at a valet. “Riverhorse?” Her voice rose. “This is very…nice.”
He turned to her. “So are you, MJ.”
Before she could answer, a young man opened her door and welcomed her, easing her out of the SUV and under an overhang.
MJ’s belly did a small, disloyal swoop. The last time she’d been at Park City’s top restaurant, she’d been celebrating a wedding anniversary with George. Maybe their twenty-fifth? Twenty-sixth? She didn’t remember, but it was a long time ago.
He’d admired the food, balked at the prices, and teased her all night for being too delighted by butter that was presented on a chilled plate. She’d been serving hers that way ever since.
Inside, the restaurant spread out in polished wood and white linen with art on the walls that celebrated the mountains, the West, and winter.
“We have a table by the window for you, Mr. Walker,” the host said, and then they were shown to a cozy corner. There, candlelight glossed the rim of her water glass and the window framed Main Street, which was dressed for holiday perfection.
He barely glanced at the massive wine menu, leaning in to whisper, “Can’t it just say red? I don’t need something long and French.”
She laughed. “I’ll have the same.”
They chatted about the ambiance, the menu selections, the view, anything but…each other. How could she ease into her interrogation, MJ wondered when the wine came.
The answer came in the sound of George’s voice in her head…
Be honest, MJ. There is no other way.
George was so right. Honest was the only way.
“I have to know something,” she started after an easy toast and their first sip.
“Anything,” Matt said, brushing his moustache with two fingers.
“Why did you give us that snowmobile?”
He drew back as if he were expecting a different question.
“Well,” he said after a minute of thought. “Because it made me feel good?” His voice rose as if it were a question he didn’t expect her to understand.
“But it was expensive.”
He waved off the comment, the move accidentally flashing the edge of the watch that cost enough to renovate one of their bathrooms…so, obviously, money didn’t matter to him.
“You’ve, uh…” She swallowed and barreled on. “You’ve done quite well for yourself.”
He gave a tight smile, his kind brown eyes suddenly fading with something that looked…guilty? Why?
“Nothing more than the right time, right place.”
She doubted that. “As a plumber?” she pressed.
“I started with a van and a toolbox,” he told her. “And I was good at fixing things and better at hiring people who were more talented than I was. Turns out, if enough water heaters and sinks in a hundred-mile radius break, a man can make a decent living.”
Giving away snowmobiles and staying in expensive cabins for a month was more than “a decent living,” but it was very clear he didn’t want to talk about it.
Their server returned with a basket of bread that smelled faintly of rosemary and butter.
Then they had an amuse-bouche consisting of a small spoon of silky topping with a micro-green perched like a hat.
The first bite was a whisper of lemon and cream and a pop of unexpected salt that made MJ close her eyes.
“Good?” he asked.
“Indescribable. I wish I could cook like this.”
“You’re a great cook!” He practically choked the compliment.
She chortled at his sweet enthusiasm. “I’m a serviceable, untrained cook who can nourish people. This”—she beamed down at the precious dish—“is made by someone who studied in France with the goal of delighting tastebuds. Big difference.”
“Did you want to study in France?” he asked, leaning in as if her answer was all he cared about in the whole world.
For the rest of dinner, they kept up an easy conversation, without a hint of interrogation, but plenty of questions. She told him about growing up in Snowberry Lodge, and he talked about his passion for fishing in his hometown of Destin, in the part of Florida known as the Panhandle.
That took him to telling her some stories, a little about the climate and culture of a state she’d never been to. He made it sound pretty, and she wanted to see this beach town that boasted of white sand and palm trees blowing in the sea breezes.
“It might as well be Mars to a woman born and raised in the Utah mountains,” she said.
“And you don’t ski?” he asked for the second time, surprised by the fact.
“I did when I was young,” she said, trying not to drag the last bit of fish through the citrus beurre blanc that pretty much ruined all her sauces forever.
“But George wasn’t much of a skier. He liked to hike in the spring and, oh, I do enjoy that.
The mountains in the warmer months are just incredible. The flowers, the smell.”
“You talk about the spring a lot,” he noted. “Which is surprising because I think of Park City as such a winter destination.”