Chapter 12
Twelve
Luke
I wake up Saturday morning with unfamiliar ease in my jaw and a smile already curving my lips. It isn’t an “outmaneuvered my enemy in the boardroom” smile, either. It’s soft, wistful, an innocent thing that feels a little strange on my face.
Strange, but not bad…
I lie in the warm tangle of blankets, staring at the ceiling, examining this unfamiliar sensation, until I pinpoint its source.
It’s her, of course.
And hope…a genuine, unguarded kind of hope I haven’t felt since I woke up in this same bed when I was ten years old, with no clue that it was the last holiday season I’d enjoy for a long time.
I roll onto my side, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. There’s Holly’s last text from last night, sent while I was on the snowmobile headed home—Had the best time tonight. Can’t wait for the concert tomorrow. Sleep well, Grumpy. xo
The “xo” makes my chest tight in a good way.
The same way it tightened when she was in my arms on the dance floor.
I read it three more times, like some kind of lovesick teenager, then force myself to put my cell down and get out of bed. I have things to do—Christmas shopping I’ve been putting off, work emails to address—but more importantly, I need to ensure everything is in order for this evening.
Manchester is an hour’s drive each way, and I want to make dinner reservations at that Italian place Elliot recommended before the concert. I intend to give Holly another “best time” tonight, then kiss her senseless on her porch all over again.
Smiling like an idiot, I head downstairs, ready to share some of this uncharacteristic Saturday morning cheer with my siblings.
Unfortunately, the scene that greets me in the living room is the furthest thing from cheery…
Ashton is sprawled on the leather sofa, wrapped in what appears to be every fleece blanket in the basket by the fire, her normally perfect blonde hair plastered to her forehead. She emits a low, continuous moan that would be concerning if it weren’t so dramatically over-the-top.
Bran is on the other sofa, in a similar condition, though he’s gone for the stoic suffering approach, lying with his eyes closed and one arm flung over his face like a Victorian lady with the vapors.
Elliot stands between them, clutching a thermometer with the frazzled expression of someone who’s been forced to start putting out fires before he’s had coffee.
“Oh, good, there you are,” he says when he spots me, exhaling a relieved rush of breath. “And you’re not dying of the plague. Thank God. They both woke up like this fifteen minutes ago. I was afraid I was going to be the only nurse on duty.”
“I’m dying,” Ashton announces weakly. “Tell my roommate, Lucy, that I love her. And that she can have the dresses Chalet Nord gave me during fashion week.”
“You’re not dying,” Elliot says, checking the thermometer. “You have a fever of 101. That’s practically nothing.”
“It feels like 110,” she whimpers.
Bran groans from his sofa. “Can someone please turn down the sun? It’s too loud.”
I grunt as I move deeper into the room, coming to stand beside Elliot. “How bad is it, do you think?”
“Bad enough that they’re not going anywhere for at least a few days,” he says grimly.
“I already called Dr. Morrison. She said it’s probably the flu that’s been making the rounds in Reindeer Corners.
They just need the usual—rest, fluids, pain killers.
” He wrinkles his nose before adding in a softer voice, “But if their fever spikes or they start yarfing and can’t keep fluids down, the doctor said we should take them to the hospital.
Apparently, this strain is nothing to play around with. ”
My mind begins running calculations. Someone needs to be here to monitor them, make sure they’re hydrated, keep track of their temperatures, and ensure we’re fully supplied with the necessary ammunition to fight two nasty cases of the flu.
And there’s no way I’m asking the maids, the cook, or Arthur to come in today.
“I’ll text the staff and tell them to stay home,” I say, pulling out my cell. “No need for them to risk exposure.”
Elliot nods. “Sounds good. I can stay with the sicklies today and tonight.” He shoots a small smile my way. “I’m assuming you have plans?”
I do have plans.
But looking at my siblings—both of whom are genuinely miserable, even if Ashton is hamming it up a bit—I know what I have to do. I can’t leave Elliot here alone, and I can’t risk exposing Holly to the flu if I’ve already been infected.
“No, we’re in this together, brother,” I assure him, clapping him on the shoulder. “If you want to get them water and something for their fever, I’ll make coffee and place a grocery delivery order.”
“Coffee. God, yes.” Elliot’s shoulders sag.
“Thank you. So much. Be sure to order plenty of Sprite and Ginger Ale and that electrolyte drink they give to kids when they’re dehydrated.
Oh, and plain crackers and white bread. And extra tissues and disinfectant wipes.
I have a feeling we’re going to need them. ”
Over the next hour, we triage our patients with ginger ale, water, and trash cans strategically positioned for used tissues (and possible yarfing).
I locate the digital thermometer in the hall bath on the second floor, sparing us the strain of squinting at the mercury in the old one, and sketch out a medication schedule that won’t result in accidental overdoses.
By the time we’re done, the living room looks like a proper sick room, and it’s late enough to text Holly without risking waking her up on a lazy Saturday.
I find a quiet corner in the library, away from the groaning and the blaring of the telenovelas Ashton insisted on watching to work on her Spanish—even as she complained that thinking in another language was making her headache worse.
Pulling out my phone, I relay the latest, unfortunate developments—Bad news. Ashton and Bran came down with the flu. I’m going to have to cancel tonight. I’m so sorry. I was really looking forward to it.
Almost instantly, three dots appear at the bottom of the screen. Oh no! Poor Ashton and Bran. Are they okay?
They’ll survive. I think. Though Ashton has insisted on dictating her will into her voice memo app in between blowing her nose. Just in case.
Holly shoots over a crying face. The poor thing. I get it. Being sick is the WORST.
Agreed. Still, I’m sorry that I have to cancel. I hope you can forgive me.
The dots appear again, pulsing for quite a bit longer this time, before—Luke Ratcliffe, are you seriously asking for forgiveness for taking care of your sick family?
Don’t be crazy, Grumpy. You’re being a good big brother, and I’m proud of you.
Also, I confess…I’m a teensy tiny bit hungover.
I never have more than one drink, and those Old Fashioneds weren’t messing around.
It’s probably a good idea for me to stay home tonight and reflect on the consequences of my party girl actions.
I grin down at the phone. You’re the farthest thing from a party girl. You’re a gingerbread house champion who had every right to celebrate a little more than usual.
You know what? You’re right! I’m going to go look at my medal again right now while I have coffee and gloat some more. Her smug-looking emoji makes me chuckle. I don’t think I gloated enough last night, do you?
Not nearly enough. You should gloat for the entire weekend. Bare minimum.
She shoots over a heart emoji, and I like the way you think.
I shoot back an arched brow emoji, and I like the way you kiss.
I like the way you kiss, too. And I’m looking forward to kissing you some more at your earliest convenience. So, don’t get sick. Go wrap yourself in plastic wrap or something, okay?
I’m about to text back that I’m pretty sure that’s a good way to suffocate, but that I’ll figure something out, when Elliot calls from the other room, “Luke! We’re already out of tissues. Can you grab some toilet paper to tide them over until the grocery delivery arrives?”
I have to go, I text instead. Duty calls.
Go forth and nurse, Nurse Ratcliffe! Hope everyone feels better soon! xo
That “xo” again…
I stare at it for a little too long before pocketing my phone and heading back to the disaster zone that is now the mansion’s living room.
By the evening, the situation has deteriorated significantly.
Around five o’clock, Elliot, who has been looking progressively paler throughout the afternoon, finally admits defeat and retreats to his room with the beginnings of fever and chills.
Which leaves me the last Ratcliffe standing.
I survey the living room, which now looks more like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Used tissues overflow from both trash cans. Empty ginger ale cans litter the coffee table. Someone—I’m guessing Bran—has left a damp towel on the floor that I nearly slip on while tidying up.
Ashton is asleep, finally, her face flushed but peaceful. Bran is awake but silent, staring at some nature documentary with the glazed expression of someone whose brain has gone numb with suffering.
I wipe down the tables, take Bran’s temperature again just to be safe, dispense medication, and refill their water bottles with the mechanical efficiency of a man who’s definitely not cut out for this kind of nurturing but is too stubborn to fail at it.
When my phone buzzes in my pocket near seven, I lunge for it like a lifeline.
HOLLY: How are the patients, Nurse Ratcliffe?
LUKE: Multiplying with every passing minute. Elliot went down a few hours ago, and the living room looks like a war zone.
HOLLY: Oh no! So, you’re the last line of defense against the dark forces of the plague?
LUKE: I am. And I’m starting to think nurses should be paid more. Much more.
HOLLY: No doubt. Send me a picture of the war zone. I will empathize with you from afar.