THE LONGEST NIGHT
-A Starwood Novella-
YASMINE GALENORN
A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication
Published by Yasmine Galenorn
PO Box 2037, Kirkland WA 98083-2037
The Longest Night
A Starwood Novella
Copyright © 2018 by Yasmine Galenorn
First Electronic Printing: 2018 Nightqueen Enterprises LLC
First Print Edition: 2018 Nightqueen Enterprises
Cover Art & Design: Earthly Charms
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any format, be it print or electronic or audio, without permission. Please prevent piracy by purchasing only authorized versions of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, or places is entirely coincidental and not to be construed as representative or an endorsement of any living/ existing group, person, place, or business.
A Nightqueen Enterprises LLC Publication
Published in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Welcome to Starwood
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Biography
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my husband, Samwise, who has been my biggest supporter as I’ve shifted my career to the indie side. And thanks to my friends who have cheered me on—especially Jo and Carol, Mandy and Shawntelle, and my niece Jade. Thank you to my assistants Jenn and Andria for all their help. And thank you to my fellow authors in my UF group, who have helped me learn what I needed to learn in order to take my career into my own hands.
A most reverent nod to my spiritual guardians—Mielikki, Tapio, Ukko, Rauni, and the Lady Brighid. They guide my life, and my heart.
And of course, love and scritches to my fuzzy brigade—Caly, Brighid, Morgana, and little boy Apple. I would be lost without my cats.
Bright Blessings, and I hope you enjoy this holiday tale. For more information about all my work, please see my website at Galenorn.com and sign up for my newsletter.
Welcome to Starwood
I first wrote this for a limited-edition anthology—Silver Belles, which is no longer available. It’s a departure from my usual work—a contemporary pagan holiday romance set in a small town called Starwood. I hope it warms your heart and the holiday season for you. Blessed Yule!
Chapter 1
I COULDN’T BELIEVE how cold it was in the house. I folded my arms, shivering as I stood beside the wide bay window, staring out at the falling snow. It was magical and beautiful, but to be honest, I was scared. I’d lived in the city for so long, with the rain and the concrete and the unfriendly neighbors, that the small-town atmosphere felt almost claustrophobic. Whatever possessed me to move to the small mountain community of Starwood, Washington?
Located high on the west side of Snoqualmie Pass, the town was usually overlooked by tourists. It had sprung up as someone’s idea of an artists’ community. When I finalized my divorce, leaving John to his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend, I decided to cut all ties to Seattle, and Starwood seemed the perfect place to retreat to.
I could make a fresh start in a quiet little town. Starwood would give me the chance to figure out just who I was, now that I was no longer Mrs. Jonathon Travers. So I changed back to my maiden name—Johansson—sold the house, and after dividing the assets up with John, I struck out from the city. Now I wasn’t so sure this had been my brightest idea.
My phone rang, a welcome distraction from the internal war that was waging in my thoughts. I was good at arguing, especially with myself.
I stared at the corded phone, grinning as I picked up the receiver. A landline, after all these years. But cell service wasn’t always reliable up in the mountains. As I answered, it occurred to me that I might have backtracked in some ways. Whether that was a good thing remained to be seen.
“Hello?” I glanced at the caller ID. Betty. Of course, it would be her. I only knew a handful of people in town, and only a couple of them well enough for them to be calling me, unless it was a charity drive.
“I haven’t heard from you in a couple days. You working on a project?” Betty’s voice blared through the receiver.
I snorted. “I wish. That was the idea when I came here. But all I have is a blank canvas sitting on the easel, and a pile of paint drying on the palette. And watching paint dry is about as exciting as it sounds. What are you up to?”
“I thought we might head downtown for a cup of hot cocoa and some shopping. I know you haven’t been here long, and you probably think we don’t have much to offer, but Starwood has a wide variety of shops. Very boutique-chic, you might say.”
I considered the offer. I really didn’t feel like going out, but I knew Betty well enough to know that once she got an idea in her head, she wouldn’t let go. She was a good friend, if a bossy one, though we hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years before my divorce. But I also knew the invitation really wasn’t about shopping. Betty was checking up on me. And for that, I was grateful.
“You know, an afternoon of shopping might be just what the doctor ordered. Where do you want to meet?”
“Oh no, this is my idea, so I’ll pick you up. See you in twenty minutes. And bring your credit card—I think you’re going to be surprised by what you find.”
I stared at the receiver for a moment before replacing it in the cradle. Whether I had made a good or bad decision moving to Starwood no longer mattered, if I was honest with myself. The fact was, I was here, and there was no turning back.
I WAS SURPRISED to find the streets of Starwood bustling, given that it was snowing again, and the temperature was twenty-seven degrees. I had no clue why I thought the town would be quiet, but I had expected that moving to the middle of nowhere would net me a chance to breathe and reboot.
Starwood, however, was far from silent. A planned community, the town was filled with artists of one sort or another. Most of the buildings sported bright, colorful paint jobs and interesting architecture. Since the town was so new—barely twenty-five years old—there weren’t any ramshackle buildings or weathered paint or ghosts from the past, except those that lingered in the mountains from lost hikers or miners and loggers. Located off of Erste Strasse Road and accessed by Highway 906, Starwood was snuggled deep in the heart of Snoqualmie Pass, where fir trees ruled supreme. The town had an Alpine feel, and most of the houses were A-frames to facilitate snow removal. And snow it did. A good five feet of the white stuff was piled on either side of the road.
“I’m surprised that people manage to live up here year round. I don’t know why I expected it to be less…” I drifted off, not sure what I meant to say.
“I’m pretty sure I know what you expected. You came up here thinking you were moving to some quiet little hole-in-the-road where you could curl up and hide away from life. A retirement community for someone who isn’t retired yet.” Betty flashed me a snarky look. She was good at snarcasm, as we called it. “I’m not sure exactly what went on between you and John, but Marilee, you’re only forty-five. You’re hardly over the hill.”
I blushed. “Is it that obvious?” I sighed. “The truth is, John was good at making me feel expendable and outdated.”
“Well, we need to put that attitude on ice,” Betty said as she steered me through the door of the Starwood Pastry & Coffee Shop. The smell of freshly made doughnuts and f
ragrant peppermint brownies hit my nose immediately, and my stomach rumbled. I hadn’t bothered with breakfast. In fact, I’d been skipping a lot of meals lately and filling up on snacks. Cooking for one felt so isolating that I tried to avoid actually making a real meal.
We ordered fresh cinnamon rolls, and triple peppermint mochas that steamed beneath a swirl of whipped cream. I decided to play it safe and ordered a sausage breakfast sandwich too, given the sugar coma we were about to induce.
As we settled into a corner booth, I glanced out the window at the snow, which was gently floating down to cover the newly shoveled walks. Christmas lights were wound around every light post and faerie lights covered the trees on the main sidewalks. It was like being inside a holiday postcard. I halfway expected “Winter Wonderland” to come booming out of nowhere.
I scooped a spoonful of whipped cream into my mouth, sighing as a hint of cinnamon hit my taste buds, before I took a bite of the sandwich. I didn’t feel hungry until the taste hit my tongue, and then I realized just how hungry I was.
As I ate, Betty stirred her coffee. Finally, she tapped on her mug with her spoon. “So, you haven’t told me what happened yet. I know you needed time to process what went on in your life, but…what did happen? You were so in love, I always thought.”
I stirred the rest of the whipped cream into my mocha and set the spoon aside. It was time to talk about it, even though I’d done everything I could to pretend it had all been a bad dream. “John and I started out great. We wanted to open a bed and breakfast focused on events surrounding the Sabbats.”
I was one of the odd ones out in society—I was Pagan, following the old religion. There were a lot more of us than most people realized, but we went about our lives without much muss or fuss. Our spirituality focused on the cycles of the year, the connection to nature, and the gods of old.
“Right. You guys met at a pagan festival, correct?”
I nodded. “I was wandering through the vendor stalls, looking for a new skirt. And there he was…a gorgeous man, tidy beard and hair down to his waist. Oh, I still remember how the sight of him took my breath away. He was selling herbal teas and silk-screened T-shirts. We started to talk, and I found out that he was studying to get his Realtor’s license. I showed him a couple of my paintings and…well…that was it. It was like falling off a cliff, only I thought we’d soar together, rather than hit bottom.”
“So what happened? Last we talked, you seemed happy.” Betty had only met John a few times—mostly in passing. The truth was, he didn’t like her much and encouraged me to meet her away from the house.
I frowned, tearing a piece off my cinnamon roll. “We were, for a few years. We married when I was twenty-two and he was twenty-five. He went ahead and got his real estate license because we needed a good cash flow to buy an inn. And we figured that he would have the jump on upcoming properties that way.”
“Makes sense to me. What happened?”
“John was good at his job. Really good. And he liked it. He stopped talking about our plans for a B&B. He fell away from our faith and practice—said it made him seem like an oddball to other people. And after a while, he bought into a franchise of a successful real estate company.”
“You grew apart.”
I ducked my head. “Yeah. Maybe I could have handled all that, except…there were other women. He always had an eye for pretty women. This last one…I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”
“Why did you stay with him? How long had he been fooling around?” If Betty was surprised by my confession, she didn’t show it.
I considered her question before answering. “I guess…I thought he would get tired of the chase. Maybe I just hoped he would find the man he used to be. A fool’s dream, I know.”
“People change…even when you keep the same goals, you change.”
“I didn’t want to give up on us. I thought if I cared enough, it would be enough for the both of us.”
“But it wasn’t?” Her voice was soft, with no judgment or accusations. Grateful—I’d had my fill of people asking what I had done wrong—I nodded.
“Right. It wasn’t. But I had a good life, otherwise. For a while, John was very supportive of my art, but as the years went by, he wanted me to hide who I was. He started picking on my art, my looks, my beliefs.”
“He wanted a trophy wife.”
“Every year, there were more dinners and fancy parties with potential clients. Then he got accepted into an exclusive club where artists aren’t welcome. Oh, they’ll trot out a celebrity writer or artist when it’s time for a charity function, but otherwise, art’s seen as an aberration. John decided I should spend my days cultivating the favor of important wives.”
“I thought crap like that ended in the 1960s.” Betty shook her head. “Why did you put up with it?”
That was a good question. The truth was, I didn’t have a definitive answer.
Shrugging, I said, “Maybe because it was easier than arguing. John never hit me, but he was good at making me feel stupid. If I didn’t like what he did, I was stupid. And if I liked something he didn’t, I was stupid.” I took a bite of my tattered roll and smiled. “At least now I can eat what I like without him constantly harping on how much weight I’ve gained. I was one-twenty when we met. I’m one-fifty now.”
Over the past month I’d often wondered if I’d made the right decision, but as I heard the words come out of my mouth, I knew there was nothing else I could have done.
Betty nodded, her face cautiously neutral. “What made you finally leave?”
I let out a soft laugh. “The stupidest of things, actually. About four months ago, I found two tickets to an art gallery show in John’s pocket when I was sorting clothes for the cleaners. I was really excited. He knows how much I love that gallery, and I thought that he was going to surprise me with them. I hurried downtown to his office to thank him. He yanked them out of my hand and said, ‘These aren’t for you. They’re for an important client.’ I’m not sure what it was. Maybe it was the way he said it, or his emphasis on the word important. I blew up.”
“Stupid man. He really thought he had you under his thumb, didn’t he?”
“I suppose. I knew he was seeing one of the women in his office, and when she jumped to his defense, everything came crashing down. He’s forty-eight, Betty. And this girl is twenty-two and thick as a brick if she thinks that he’s going to continue the sugar daddy routine once they get married. I filed for divorce that afternoon. We sold the house and split the proceeds, and I took half the bank account. John was so surprised that I was so calm about it, that he actually got me a good deal on my house here. I could have taken him for everything he owned and he knew it.”
Betty smiled. “And you moved here because…”
I had to think for a moment. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I left the important parts of myself behind. I thought I wanted to get away from the world, but maybe I want to just have a place where I can sit and think and be.”
“What about men?”
“What about them? I’m forty-five. The men I know want twenty-two-year-olds with tiny waists and flat abs. They don’t want experienced women who have a few stretch marks and are nicely rounded on the edges. Do you know how long it’s been since I let myself eat a full meal? John always kept an eye on my weight.”
Betty snorted. “You’re insane if you think you’re fat.”
“I suppose. I know I’m not thin. But when did a size ten become fat? I ate a lot while John was gone, but never full meals. Just snacks.”
“Maybe you ate a lot when he was gone because when he was around you didn’t get to eat. Quit worrying and finish your cinnamon roll. I know that you might not believe me right now, but not all men are like that. Trust me.”
I wasn’t sure I could trust her on that.
Life in Seattle had been a nonstop carousel of parties and dinners and charity events. After a while, they all blended together. And a
ll the men had blurred together. Life with John had been an exercise in plastering on a fake smile. But I kept quiet. Betty meant well, and who knew? Maybe outside the life I had known, people were different. I thought I remembered a time when they were.
“Come on, finish your mocha and let’s go shopping. It’s time to let the past be the past. You want to know who you are? Maybe it’s time to find out.” Betty gave another throaty laugh, and we gathered our purses and headed out into the falling snow.
Chapter 2
I STUDIED MYSELF in the mirror, trying to suppress an automatic grimace. I’d found a hand-woven sweater on our shopping trip, made by a local artist. It was woven from dog fur, of all things, collected and spun by a local artist who owned Great Pyrenees. Rain—the artist—had dyed the yarn a brilliant blue, using local berries for the color.
I wasn’t sure why, but the sweater seemed to fit better than anything I’d bought in years. It had a cowl neck that dipped low on my chest, and over a pair of nice jeans it actually made me feel pretty. I cleaned up pretty good, I thought.
After securing my shoulder-length hair into a French braid, I dashed on a little eyeshadow and mascara and lip-gloss, then headed into the spare bedroom I had set up as a studio.
“It’s time.” Sometimes when I talked to myself out loud it actually got me moving.
The easel sat waiting, the canvas propped on it stark and blank. I circled it cautiously, like I might approach an adversary, but then I finally picked up my charcoal pencil. I liked to sketch out my paintings first, just simple lines to guide me.
But what to paint? It’d been so long since I had touched a paintbrush or a palette that I was almost afraid of what might happen when I did. And there was the core of it—a voice deep inside me kept whispering, What if you’ve lost it? What if you don’t have talent anymore? What if you never had any to begin with? What if this is all a delusion in your mind?
The Longest Night Page 1
