1. Mara #2
When the last log settles into place, Henry claps Chris on the shoulder. "Come by later, yeah? I think I'll still need more wood for the lodge."
"Will do," Chris says, tugging on his gloves. He nods once to me, polite, and then disappears into the morning snow.
The door swings shut, leaving behind the scent of cold air and pine.
Margaret watches me for a moment, then reaches for another tray of bread. "You all right, sweetheart?"
"Yeah," I say too quickly. "Just tired."
She studies me with that knowing softness that makes lying feel impossible. But she doesn't push. She never does.
By the time the first sliver of sunlight breaks over the ridge, the café is fully awake. The ovens hum, the smell of baking fills every corner, and the first tourists begin to trickle in—laughing, stamping snow off their boots, asking for cocoa and pie.
I pour coffee, wipe tables, and let the rhythm of it all carry me forward. The steady motions of work are a kind of prayer, each small task a promise that life can be simple again.
Every so often, when the bell above the door rings, I still tense. But instead of ghosts, it's only faces I know: May Ortiz picking up her bread order, Sheriff Reddick stopping by for his usual black coffee, Margaret humming along to the old radio.
By the time the clock hits nine, Sweet Creek Falls is alive with chatter and warmth.
And though a part of me is still waiting for the past to catch up, another part—the one that smells cinnamon and snow and safety—dares to think: maybe it won't.
Maybe I can stay.
The door at the top of the stairs opens with a creak, followed by the soft thud of bare feet.
Tess appears a second later, bundled in an oversized hoodie and plaid pajama pants, hair a wild mess of golden curls that could only come from sleeping through three alarms. She squints against the light and lets out a groggy sound halfway between a yawn and a sigh.
"Is she just waking up?" Margaret asks, voice full of mock outrage as she pulls a tray of croissants from the oven. "I thought you said you were heading up to the lodge before sunrise."
Tess stretches like a cat, then makes a beeline for the coffee pot.
"I was," she says, pouring herself a mug without bothering to answer the question properly.
"I overslept. Again. But I'm heading there now.
" She turns to me with a crooked grin, eyes still bleary.
"Come with me? I could use the company. And the moral support. "
Henry chuckles from the back, stacking the last few logs. "You two are gonna freeze your tails off in that snow."
"We'll survive," Tess says, gulping her coffee.
I glance at Margaret for permission, even though I don't technically need to. She waves me off before I can ask. "Go on. The place could use extra hands. And make sure your bestie over there doesn't slip on the ice again."
Tess gasps. "That happened once."
"And we still talk about it," Margaret replies sweetly.
I hide a smile and grab my coat from the hook by the stairs.
My scarf still smells faintly of pine and cinnamon, the scent of this place that's slowly replacing everything I left behind.
Tess drains her mug, sets it in the sink, and throws her arm around my shoulder as we step outside into the cold.
The air bites immediately, sharp and clean. Snow has stopped falling, but thick drifts cover the sidewalk, glinting blue under the early light. Sweet Creek Falls is quiet except for the crunch of our boots and the distant hum of plows clearing the main road.
The lodge isn't far—five minutes if you walk slow, less if you're trying to outrun the cold.
It sits just past the café on a rise overlooking the creek, a sprawling wooden structure built back in the sixties.
Its broad decks and stone chimneys give it the look of something out of an old ski poster—rustic and proud, yet softened by time.
The renovations Henry started last year brought it to the twenty-first century: new windows, a larger kitchen, heated floors, even solar panels hidden behind the ridge. But the charm is still there.
The sign out front reads "The Lodge at Sweet Creek" in looping gold letters, half-buried by snow. A few cars are parked near the entrance, mostly belonging to staff who live nearby.
Tess inhales deeply. "I still can't believe they actually bought this place," she says, her breath fogging in the cold. "Like, one day they're talking about retirement, and the next—boom—lodge owners."
I smile, pulling my scarf higher over my nose. "Your parents have never been good at sitting still."
"True," she admits. "Mom says it's their 'next big adventure.' I say it's their midlife crisis."
We both laugh as we climb the steps. The front doors are already unlocked, the scent of lemon cleaner and wood polish greeting us as we step inside.
The lobby is wide and open, with vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, and a massive stone fireplace that dominates the far wall.
Wreaths of pine hang from the railings, already hung for the holiday season.
The heat is on low, just enough to keep the chill from settling in the wood. A few half-unpacked boxes sit stacked by the front desk, and a clipboard full of checklists lies on the counter.
A familiar voice calls from down the hall. "Morning, girls!"
We turn to see Mrs. Lacey, the lodge's housekeeper and unofficial matriarch.
She's in her sixties, small and sturdy, with a braid of silver hair that reaches halfway down her back.
She's been keeping this lodge running since before we were born, and rumor has it she once chased off a black bear with nothing but a broom.
"Morning, Mrs. Lacey," Tess chirps.
She eyes us both over the rim of her glasses. "You two here to help, or to gossip?"
Tess puts a hand to her heart. "Why not both?"
Mrs. Lacey snorts, then hands us each a rag and a dusting cloth. "Start with the guest rooms upstairs. We've got skiers coming in tomorrow, and I don't need them sneezing from the dust bunnies."
"Yes, ma'am," I say automatically.