Chapter 1
One
Carly
As the owner of one of the most lucrative graphic design firms in California, responsible for the movie posters and advertising materials for all the major motion picture studios, I’m known for being a no-nonsense woman who always plays it smart.
The smart girl. Yep, that’s me. Always has been.
And smart girls absolutely, never, ever get chased up trees by wild dogs after attempting to drop in, uninvited, to propose to a man they haven’t seen in more than two decades.
No sirree. That would never happen. Not in a million years.
Yet here I am, tucked into the crook of a branch, staring down at two snarling beasts who clearly have a burning desire to eat my face.
How did the woman survive in Cujo?
I rack my brain, trying to remember the old movie. If memory serves, she was armed with a baseball bat. And she only had to fight one dog.
As if my predicament isn’t bad enough, in the fifteen minutes I’ve been stuck in the tree, it’s started to snow. Big, fat snowflakes the size of goose feathers.
The tree I’m using for refuge has already dropped its leaves for the winter, so it offers zero protection from the elements. My jacket, an expensive designer brand that’s known for style, not warmth, is about as helpful as the naked tree.
At least I have a hat, scarf and gloves, right? Ha!
Adequate shoes? Nope.
Cell phone service? In the middle of nowhere? Fat chance.
“So much for being a smart girl,” I grumble, blowing into my hands before rubbing them together.
Swallowing my last bit of dignity, I open my mouth to scream for help. I’m pretty sure no one is home, or they’d have come to investigate the commotion the dogs are making by now, but my options are limited here.
“Help!” I shout, over and over, until my voice is raw. Only the dogs answer my call, baying mournfully at their cornered prey.
Why couldn’t William Jones live in a nice, suburban area, surrounded by nosy neighbors?
When I’d first pulled up to his little cabin in the woods, I’d thought, Oh, how lovely and quaint!
Within moments of stepping out of the car, the two dogs were on my heels, barking ferociously. Instead of running back to the safety of the car, I’d panicked, running the opposite direction. Fortunately, the tree-climbing skills of my youth returned in the nick of time.
Thank goodness for small miracles…
I should be checked into a luxury hotel in Miami right now, waiting to embark on a Caribbean cruise first thing in the morning.
Just me, a suitcase full of beachwear and paperbacks, and four weeks in paradise.
With no family to speak of, and my best friends, Millie and Lauren, out of town, it was the perfect plan for getting through the holidays unscathed.
But then my flight from LA to Miami had an emergency detour in Charlotte, North Carolina, after a fluke hailstorm caused minor damage to the plane.
What were the odds of ending up at the closest airport to Mercury Ridge? Was it truly just a coincidence?
As the plane landed, I swear I could feel the strip of paper in the pocket of my jeans grow hot. I’d been carrying it for days, ever since cracking open a fortune cookie at a Christmas-themed coffeeshop and finding it nestled inside.
When I read the fortune for the first time, I could feel the eyes of a woman dressed as Mrs. Claus watching me. Like all fortunes stuffed into cookies, it’s vague enough to be read by anyone.
But it feels like it was written just for me. As if the person who typed the message truly knows me—my past, present, and future. Somehow, they seem to know my secret hopes and dreams—the ones I haven’t shared with anyone, not even my two closest friends.
I know that sounds crazy. And I’m not sure why I’ve held onto it, or why I read it several times a day.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull it out to read once more.
Your answer waits in the mountains. A deal’s a deal.
I know these words can’t really be related to the marriage pact I made with William Jones when we were seventeen years old. No one could possibly know about our deal to marry each other if we were still single at forty.
It’s funny how forty seemed so old at the time. Ancient, even. As if it was a lifetime away.
So, what on earth am I doing in a tree in his front yard?
Maybe I just wanted to believe a Hallmark ending was possible for me.
Glancing down at the dogs again, I can’t help but think I aimed much too high.
Who needs a happily ever after?
Right now, I’d settle for an ending that wasn’t pulled straight from a Stephen King novel.