Chapter 37
The boxes had been in Julie’s storage cupboard since October, stacked behind a bag of rock salt and a spare set of curtain rods she’d never used. Cole carried two of them into the living room and set them on the floor without being asked. Then he went back for the third.
Julie pulled the flaps open on the first box.
She hadn’t looked at any of this since she’d packed it at the old apartment, her then-life reduced to categories—kitchen, linen, Christmas—each sealed with the same brown tape.
She’d assumed that unpacking here would feel like starting over. Something dutiful and a little bleak.
It didn’t feel that way now.
“There’s no system,” Cole observed from behind her.
She looked at the tangle of lights and wax paper and folded tissue. “There’s never been a system.”
Cole crouched beside the box and began lifting things out with the careful attention he gave everything that mattered. He turned a small ceramic reindeer over in his hands.
“One of Meg’s,” Julie told him. “She made it in fourth grade. The antlers have never been right.”
He examined the lopsided antlers and set it gently on the coffee table.
They worked for a while without much talking. Julie untangled strings of lights by the window while Cole sorted through tissue-wrapped ornaments, laying them out in a loose row.
Julie’s cottage wasn’t large. That was part of why she’d worried when she’d confirmed Meg and Daniel’s visit. One spare room and a grandchild who was always in motion took a lot more space than Julie did.
But everything was ready now. She’d made the spare bed with the heavier quilt early that morning, before Cole arrived, and pushed a portable cot into the corner, anchoring it against the wall so it couldn’t shift in the night.
Meg would sleep in the living room on her pull-out couch. She’d stacked a thick duvet in the corner of the room, with a fluffy pillow and fresh linen ready for her daughter.
That was all she’d managed before Cole knocked on her door.
He took her artificial tree out of its box and set it on the stand.
“The lights need to go on the tree first,” she said.
“I know how a tree works, Julie.”
“You’ve never decorated one with me.”
Cole’s eyebrows rose. “I’ve put up a few trees in my time.”
She handed him the untangled string. “Then you’ll know to start at the top.”
Cole stood and took the lights from her without comment, which was how she knew he’d been intending to start somewhere else entirely.
She’d bought the tree the previous week from the general store. It was a decent size for the space—nearly five feet, which was as tall as the ceiling would comfortably allow—and it was propped in its stand near the front window where it would be visible from the street.
Meg had reminded her about the tree, as if Julie would forget. They’d spent the best part of two days in the hospital with her after she’d gone to a Christmas tree farm with her dad when she was five.
Meg’s asthma had always been worse around real pine trees, so this was non-negotiable.
Cole began threading the lights from the top, working in slow circles. Julie opened another box and found the ornaments she’d been looking for. They were from her grandmother’s collection and meant the world to her.
There were six glass balls wrapped in cloth. They’d survived three moves and a decade in storage. She set them aside, waiting for the right time to add them to the tree.
“These decorations stay near the top,” she said. “Away from small hands.”
Cole glanced at the balls. “How old is your granddaughter?”
“Nellie is nearly three. She’s old enough to want everything and young enough to have no idea why she shouldn’t have it.”
“Sounds familiar,” Cole said.
Julie looked at him.
He kept his eyes on the lights. “I was a menace at that age. My mother said so repeatedly.”
Julie smiled. “I would never have guessed.”
By the time Cole had finished with the lights, and Julie had placed the more robust ornaments on the lower branches, the room had changed.
It wasn’t just the tree, though it helped.
It was the feeling of Christmas, the anticipation of seeing her children again and having unlimited cuddles with Nellie.
Cole stood back and looked at the tree. “We forgot the star.”
Julie looked around the room and pointed to a stack of small boxes. “It’s in the third box.”
Cole opened the lid. The star was old, pressed tin, slightly battered, and had belonged to her great-grandmother before it had belonged to Julie. Cole climbed carefully onto the footstool she kept for reaching the high cupboards, fitted the star over the topmost branch, and stepped down.
They both looked at it.
“That’s perfect,” Julie said.
Cole stood behind her. He didn’t say anything, just rested his hands on her shoulders and looked at the tree with her.
Julie turned to face him. He was close, close enough that she could see the small scar above his left eyebrow that she’d asked about and he’d deflected with a story she still wasn’t sure she believed.
She reached up and straightened his collar. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t crooked.
Cole watched her do it.
Then he lowered his head and kissed her, unhurried, one hand coming up to the side of her face. She’d kissed him enough times now to know the difference between the quick ‘I’m glad you’re here’ ones and the kisses that meant something deep and specific. This was the second kind.
When he pulled back, he didn’t move far.
“What was that for?” she asked gently.
Cole grinned. “Nothing in particular and everything in general.”
Julie held his gaze, then pressed her palm briefly to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath her hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Cole lifted his hand to cover hers. “So am I. There were times when I thought I wouldn’t be.”
Julie sighed. Cole’s recovery hadn’t been as easy as he’d imagined. He’d had setbacks when he did too much and he grumbled a little more frequently. But Julie was incredibly proud of the way he’d slowed down to give his body time to heal.
Cole’s arms tightened around her. “What time are your children arriving?”
“Meg’s flight gets in at four forty-five. Daniel’s is twenty minutes later, but on a different airline.” She’d been tracking both on her phone since morning, though she had no intention of admitting that. “I’m driving to Kalispell at three.”
“I’ll come with you.”
She started to say he didn’t need to. Then she stopped and reconsidered. “Okay,” she said instead.
Cole kissed the top of her head. “They’ll like it here.”
She wasn’t certain whether he meant the cottage, the town, or Montana. “Meg will be difficult to read,” Julie said. “She overthinks things. She’ll walk in, look at the cottage, and form an opinion in the first thirty seconds. After that she’ll spend two days pretending she hasn’t.”
“And Daniel?”
“Daniel will ask you about the resort.”
“I can handle that,” Cole told her.
“He’ll ask a lot of questions.”
“Still fine.”
Julie smiled. “If you get overwhelmed, go into the kitchen. I’ll shoo everyone away to give you time to recover.”
Cole laughed. “I’m sure they’re not that bad.”
Julie hoped not. Meg and Daniel hadn’t held back on wanting to know about Cole—she just hoped they gave him enough time to take a breath between questions.
She thought about what it would be like to see them come through the front door.
Meg would be first, because Meg always made sure she was.
Then Daniel with Maddie and Nellie, and all the noise and movement that came with them.
They’d fill the cottage with the kind of chaos she’d spent years keeping at a careful distance.
She didn’t want that now.
“Are you ready for all of this?” Cole asked.
Julie looked around the cottage.
The tree was lit. The beds were made. The star was sitting slightly off-center on the highest branch, and garlands of tinsel were draped across the room.
“I think so,” she said. “And if we’ve missed something, it doesn’t matter.”