Chapter 35
Ember
We’re late. Mama is going to go all supernova on our asses.
“Remind me,” I say, as we walk toward the warmly lit chalet, “why we took the long, scenic route when we could’ve just…not?”
Ransom smirks beside me. One hand holding mine, the other our suitcase. “Because I wanted to enjoy the view. There’s something about driving on the edge, the steep fall, don’t you think.”
“It’s very romantic,” I deadpan.
He grins. “What can I say? Near-death experiences bring people closer.”
The chalet is glowing like something out of a snow globe.
Twinkle lights spill down the eaves, and inside, warm light flickers from the great fireplace. We can hear music—old French jazz, and the muffled sound of laughter.
The instant we step into the entryway, it hits me: the smell of cinnamon and pine, cocoa and citrus peel.
Home.
“There they are!” Freja calls, hopping up from the couch near the fire. “We were going to start dinner without you.”
“Didn’t want to be the dramatic entrance,” I mumble, unzipping my coat. “Guess that didn’t work.”
I hug Freja, and she plants a big kiss on my cheek. I rest a hand on her belly, and her smile widens.
“We’ve been holding dessert hostage,” Aksel says, arms crossed. “You’re lucky Thomas argued in your favor, because Anika was all about consuming it.”
The kids had already had dinner. It was the rule when someone was late.
“Traitor,” I whisper to my niece, who beams up at me and tugs my hand.
Ransom’s parents are already here—David and Lillian Marchand, who live life to the fullest, always have, even if they are a tad geeky. Maybe that’s why I’ve always gotten along well with them.
“Everyone’s been practically vibrating with anticipation,” Lillian says, kissing my cheeks.
“Anticipation?” I frown.
She just smiles.
Dinner is perfect chaos—long tables with white linens and candles in silver holders.
Papa, as always, serves wine with the solemnity of a priest. Mama is thrilled that Chef Pascal could come back this year. A good chef is, after all, hard to find.
Aunt Tanya is talking to Uncle Bob about the benefits of some exercise that is good for the prostate.
Kill me now!
Jonathan keeps touching Freja’s belly. She’s pregnant. We found out three months ago. They’ve been trying for a while and viola, it just happened.
Anika and Thomas are asleep in a tangle near the fire.
It’s all very normal, but I know something is up. I have a feeling. A buzz.
It’s not the wine, or the Cognac-spiked dessert, or even the soft snow falling outside. It’s the way people keep looking at Ransom, and then at me. The way Mama keeps suppressing a smile. The way Freja avoids looking at me.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m the only person here not in on something?” I whisper to Latika.
She smirks, eyes dancing. “Because you are.”
“Well?”
She shrugs. “Need to know basis.”
I glower at her. “Helpful.”
Later, when dinner has wound down and the music has softened, Ransom’s chair scrapes back. The room quiets, almost as if on cue.
He turns to Papa. “Mind if I steal the stage for a minute?”
Papa lifts a brow. “This is my dining room, not a cabaret; we don’t have a stage. But…go ahead.”
Ransom tugs my hand. “Come outside with me?”
I frown but rise. He leads me by the hand onto the gazebo in the back, where lanterns are glowing and the stars are sharp overhead, framed by the pitch of the mountains and the hush of snowfall.
I glance back. Everyone’s crowded near the glass doors, watching.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, now very suspicious.
He faces me, and my breath catches.
He’s nervous.
Ransom Marchand—my confident, sometimes maddening, always magnetic Ransom—is nervous.
He drops to one knee.
I burst out laughing. I should’ve known.
“Em, focus,” he admonishes.
“Sorry.” I purse my lips. “Proceed.”
He shakes his head in mock exasperation. But this is us. “Em, here is my truth for you. Loving you has been the only thing I’ve ever gotten completely right.”
My heart stutters.
“I want to spend my life with you. I want all of it—burnt toast, snow in our boots, long nights with babies crying, morning coffee, old age, everything. I want it with you.”
The ring glows like starlight in the snow.
“Ember Rousseau…will you marry me?”
A quiet gasp escapes me.
“Yes,” I say, knees sinking to the snow with him. “Yes, yes, yes.”
The family comes out. There’s champagne. Dom Perignon. Vintage 2013.
The kids wake up, confused and delighted.
Someone throws a snowball.
Ransom kisses me under a blanket of stars, my hand clutched tight in his.
“So, when are you getting married and where?” Mama wants to know.
“Can we not do a big wedding like mine?” Freja groans. “That was hell.”
While everyone starts to discuss the kind of wedding Ransom and I are going to have, I look at him. “We should elope,” I whisper.
“You’re on,” he replies.