He shook his head, until something else occurred to him. “I didn’t see Hannah on that trip, though,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve seen her since we were both twelve, thirteen years old. What was he doing up here without her?”
“Oh, she was here,” Iris said. “She went out for a hike that day, and he told her he wasn’t interested.”
“In going on a hike?” Luke said, his voice rising.
“Well, honey,” Iris said. “I know that’s what you do for a living, taking those boys and girls out into the wilderness. But not everybody does that. That’s why there’s a job for you.”
Luke was shaking his head as if he might never stop. “I don’t care,” he said. “Even if he wasn’t interested in the great outdoors—which is where all mankind lived for eons before we invented these dirty, overgrown villages we like to call cities—he should have been interested in going with her. For Pete’s sake. I once went with a girl to learn how to groom her dog. Not because I wanted to know how to groom a Pomeranian. Because I wanted to be with her.”
“How do they make their little manes stand out like that?” Iris asked. “It never seemed quite natural to me.”
“They help nature along,” Luke said. “With a little bit of doggy hair spray.”
Iris giggled, and Luke grinned. “See?” he said. “It might not have been what I thought I was interested in. But it made me a little more interesting, right?”
“I thought you were the most interesting thing in the world,” Iris told him. “Even before you could talk.”
Luke leaned his lanky frame over the counter to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks, Grandma,” he said. “I wish all the girls felt like that.”
“Well, that might start to seem more like a problem than a blessing, too,” Iris said.
Luke shrugged. “That’s a problem I’d like to try to solve,” he said, with a mischievous smile.
Iris smiled back, but concern crossed her face when she glanced past Luke at the blowing snow outside.
“You better get going,” she said, “if you’re going to make it to Burlington still tonight. They’re already shutting down some of the roads.”
“But not the secret back trails of my youth,” Luke said with a wink. “If I get out of here before sunset, I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble.”
“Did you pack your arctic parka?” Iris asked.
“I’ve got a trick or two up my sleeve,” Luke told her, then opened his arms. “But I’m not leaving without a hug from Grandma.”
Grinning, Iris stepped out from behind the desk to embrace her grandson.
“Thanks for coming all this way to see me,” she said.
“Thanks for everything, Grandma,” Luke said, giving her a squeeze.
Then he strode into the kitchen, where Jeanne sat, her head bowed over what looked to be a cookbook.
He picked up his bag from the corner by the door and swiped a piece of corn bread from the checked lining of a nearby basket.
“Great to see you, Jeanne,” he said. “Thanks for taking such good care of Grandma.”
Jeanne looked up, surprised. “Oh,” she said. “You’re going?”
“Have to get on the road before too much longer,” Luke said. “Or you’re going to have another guest snowed in here.”
Jeanne shook her head. “Only if you want to sleep in the barn,” she said with a slight smile.
“Have you ever slept in that barn?” Luke said. “It’s better than you’d think.”
“In December?” Jeanne asked, her look wry.
“Ah,” Luke said, swinging his bag over his shoulder. “Maybe wait till spring.”
Immediately, Jeanne’s eyes dropped back to the book on the counter before her, as if he’d just said something that embarrassed her—or hurt.
Luke paused for a minute, wondering what in the world could have been wrong with what he’d just said. But when he couldn’t think of anything, he put his hand on the doorknob.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, opening the door.
“Merry Christmas,” Jeanne mumbled in return, without looking up.
From inside the house, it had looked like a complete whiteout outdoors. But when he got outside, he was glad to find that the wind had died down for the moment, so that the snow fell silently in steady flakes. With the snow clouds so low, it felt like the whole world had turned into one big room, with the clouds as a fluffy ceiling.
From his training as an outdoorsman, Luke knew that, however charming it was, prolonged exposure to the elements, especially during a big snowfall, could quickly turn deadly.
For the moment, though, as he tramped through the snow to his truck, he felt as if he was walking through a Christmas card, complete with the real sparkle of the actual snow, which was more dazzling in the dying afternoon light than any drugstore glitter.
His truck was parked a little ways off the main circle drive that led to the entrance of the inn, so he wouldn’t be in the way of actual paying customers, which meant that he got a good view of the woods he’d spent so many years in as a kid as he pulled the door of the cab open and tossed his pack on the passenger seat inside.
But as he swung up into the driver’s seat and glanced down the hill into the woods, he saw a flash of bright blue among the snow-heavy pines.
Suddenly, he realized he hadn’t seen Hannah on his way out the door. He scanned the yard, looking for her in the shelter of the front porch, where he had been sure she must have stopped, since she hadn’t been wearing a coat when she darted out the door.
The porch was deserted. So was the rest of the yard.
But a recent image rose up in his memory: the jeans Hannah had been wearing when she darted out past the front desk.
Through the window of his truck, he looked down into the shadows that were starting to gather in the forest. The flash of blue was gone.
He hopped out of the cab.
“Hannah?” he called into the trees. “Hannah!”
She’d obviously wanted to be alone when she ran out, so maybe she just wasn’t answering now because she didn’t feel like having company.
But as Luke scanned the woods, trying to place just where he’d seen the flash of blue last, he found himself hoping that was all there was to it.
The woods were beautiful in any season, and easy enough for him to navigate, since he’d known them all his life. Hannah had given him a run for his money back in the day, when they’d played hide-and-seek and tag in the pines. But if she wasn’t familiar with them now, she could find herself in real trouble even quite close to the house—especially in this kind of weather.
Luke checked his watch.
On the other hand, she was probably fine. And if he didn’t leave now, he might not make it at all.
He scanned the pines, hoping to see another flash of blue, or hear her voice calling back, just to make sure she was okay.
“Hannah?” he called again.
When there was no answer, he slammed the door of his cab behind him and started off into the woods.
“WHAT DO YOU THINK?” Molly asked, opening the door to her room.
Immediately, both girls spilled into the big attic space. Bailey described a large, clumsy circle on the floor, distracted by just about everything she saw: the antique hobby horse in the corner, the basket of food by the door, the miniature Ferris wheel perched on one of the many end tables in the big room. Addison made a beeline for Molly’s bed, touching the velvet quilt with an expression of wonder. “Daddy,” she said. “This is so soft.”
“That’s Molly’s bed, honey,” Marcus said.
“Where’s my bed?” Bailey asked, turning around.
“That’s right through here,” Molly said, leading them into her workroom, with the daybeds and the desk.
She stood aside to let the girls and Marcus enter. Immediately, Bailey hopped up on one of the daybeds, stuffed with quilted velvet cushions that looked like they’d been lovingly hand-dyed.
“T
his one’s mine!” she said.
“You know,” Molly said, “there might actually be room for all of you, if the girls doubled up. Or you three could even take my room . . .”
“Under no circumstances,” Marcus said. He tousled Addison’s hair. “I think you’ll find these two are more than enough.”
“Well, I’m glad to have them,” Molly said, looking at her desk with a flicker of a question: How was she ever going to get her writing done with these two girls in her workroom? “If you’re sure you’re comfortable with them staying with me.”
“I’ll be right downstairs,” Marcus said. “And these two have recently proven that they can bolt down two flights of stairs in under twenty seconds if ice cream is on the menu.”
“Did someone say ‘ice cream’?” Addison asked with a mischievous grin.
“I think you’ll find the real question,” Marcus said with a smile, picking up Bailey, “is how comfortable you are staying with them.”
“Daddy,” Bailey whispered with all the gravitas of a grand dame of the international stage. “I have a question.”
“What’s that, honey?” Marcus asked.
As his eyes crinkled with pleasure at the sight of his daughter’s face, Molly recognized for the first time how strong he was, swooping up Bailey as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of feathers. And now that the worry of where to shelter his daughters for the night had left his face, she could also see how handsome it was: blue eyes and dark curls, lit by a genuine, warm smile.
“I need another brownie,” Bailey stage-whispered.
“I’m sure you’ll have another brownie,” Marcus said, a teasing note in his voice.
At this, Bailey’s expression turned suspicious. “When?” she asked meaningfully, as if this was a game she’d played, and lost, before.
“At some point in your long and pleasant life,” Marcus told her, his forehead against hers, “I’m sure you will have another brownie.”
Bailey swatted at his shoulder, delight at his joke mixing with frustration at not getting her way. “But I want a brownie now!” she said.
“What are these?” Addison asked.
While Bailey had been negotiating for brownies, Addison had wandered over to Molly’s desk, which was still spread with blank paper, surrounded by her notes and sketches.
“That’s my . . .” Molly stopped before she said “book.” It didn’t look like much of a book yet, even to her. And she didn’t relish the prospect of explaining to Addison why it didn’t look more like a book yet—or when exactly it would be finished.
Marcus glanced at her.
“You’re working on a project?” he asked.
“I’m a writer,” Molly said, trying to keep her voice low. “I’m working on a manuscript.”
Marcus’s eyes widened in interest, but over at the desk, Addison had been doing her own investigation. “Did you draw this?” she asked, holding up one of Molly’s sketches: a panda reading a book. She wore an expression of consternation, and her tone was slightly accusatory. Almost exactly like Molly imagined her editor to look when she called to check on the progress of Molly’s most recent manuscript.
Molly knelt down. Kids were full of surprises, and every one of them was different, so in all her years of working with them, she’d never been able to come up with a list of foolproof rules for dealing with them. But if she knew one thing, it was that it always helped to get on their level.
“I did,” she said. “What do you think of it?”
In Marcus’s arms, Bailey began to squirm. “Daddy!” she said. “I want to see!”
Addison waited for Bailey to scamper over, then showed her the sketch.
“What does this look like to you?” she asked Bailey.
Bailey looked from her sister to the picture, as if she wasn’t sure whether this was a trick question or not. Then she decided to take a high tone, to make sure everyone there understood how obvious the answer was.
“It’s Peter Panda,” she said.
Instantly, Addison’s eyes were on Molly, with all the intensity of a TV lawyer in the last moments of a courtroom drama after the big reveal.
Molly raised her eyebrows. Bailey was right. Peter Panda was one of her oldest characters, and one of her personal favorites. But he’d never had a starring role in any of her books, so she was surprised that Bailey had identified him so unerringly.
Addison waved the sketch in front of Molly as if it was a critical piece of damning evidence in Molly’s case.
“Molly Winslow draws Peter Panda,” she said, her eyes narrowed. “Did you copy this from her?”
“No, I did not,” Molly said seriously.
“But it looks just like Peter Panda,” Addison insisted.
“That’s right,” Molly said. “It is.”
Addison stared at her, stumped.
“Now, Addison,” Marcus broke in. “It’s just a drawing of a bear. You hardly need to accuse Miss . . .” He looked at Molly and grinned. “I’m sorry. You did tell me your name earlier, but I—”
“It’s Molly,” Molly said, and raised her eyebrows at Addison with a friendly smile.
For some reason, perhaps because she was still too young to have stopped believing in miracles, Bailey caught on faster than Addison.
“Molly Winslow!” she shouted. “You’re Molly Winslow!” She threw her arms around Molly’s neck and held on with such vigor that Molly had to struggle not to fall on the ground herself.
“Bailey,” Marcus said, “I’m sure she’s not . . .” He looked at Molly for help. “I mean, you’re not . . . are you?”
Molly smiled and nodded.
“No way!” Marcus said, suddenly almost as excited as his kids. “Are you kidding? You’re kidding, right?”
Molly managed struggle to her feet with Bailey still in her arms, as Addison dashed back to the desk to see what else she’d missed.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I can’t believe it. You’re one of our very favorites.”
“You’re my favorite,” Addison said, still perusing the sketches scattered around Molly’s blank page. “I’ve read everything you ever wrote.”
“A thousand times,” Marcus stage-whispered to Molly.
“This is your new book?” Addison said, turning around.
Molly hesitated. For some reason, discovering that she was standing in a room full of passionate fans just made her realize how far she had to go to actually call the next book a book.
“It’s a . . . start,” she said, offering a bright smile that she hoped might distract from the total lack of anything on the blank page in the center of the desk.
But Addison was not about to be put off by a simple smile.
“How does it start?” she asked.
Even Marcus turned to Molly now, obviously as eager as the two girls were to hear the first scoop on the new story.
“Ah,” Molly said. “I’m still working that out.”
“That’s probably one of the biggest decisions you have to make in a story, right?” Marcus said. “How it starts? I guess once you decide that, everything pretty much goes from there. It’s a big deal.”
Marcus was just trying to relate to what her life must be like as a writer. And actually, his guesses were surprisingly accurate. But they still made the weight of the unfinished book, which had been pressing down invisibly on Molly’s shoulders, and her heart, feel heavier and heavier.
“Yeah,” Molly said as Bailey began to squirm in her arms.
“What’s it about?” she asked.
“Um . . .” Molly said.
Bailey stared into her eyes, waiting for an answer, as Molly looked back, wishing that she could read the answer in Bailey’s wide brown eyes.
When Molly didn’t answer, Bailey’s brow furrowed. “Is Peter Panda in it?” she asked.
Then she began to squirm again.
Molly set her down, and she ran over to join her sister, who was still staring at the sketches on Molly’s desk.
“Are all these characters going to be in the book?” Addison asked.
With both girls’ backs turned to her, Molly couldn’t hold her game smile on her face any longer. She shook her head, wishing she had better answers for all of them.
But before she could compose herself, Marcus apparently noticed the change in her face.
“Okay, girls,” he said. “I think that’s enough questions for now.”
Addison turned around, an impish grin on her face. “Why?” she asked.
Her dad’s face broke out into a big smile. “Is that another question?” he asked.
Bailey began to bounce up and down on the balls of her toes. “Are we playing the question game?” she said.
Molly smiled. She’d loved the game herself as a kid, with its simple rules: everyone had to speak only in questions, and the first one who didn’t, lost.
“Can I play?” she asked.
Addison’s eyes widened. “Do you know the question game?” she asked.
“Doesn’t everyone?” Molly said.
“Daddy!” Bailey cried. “Molly Winslow knows the question game!”
“You lost!” Addison crowed. “That wasn’t a question!”
Bailey’s face crumpled in disappointment.
“Well, technically,” Marcus said, “neither was that, Addison.”
“But Bailey did it first,” Addison insisted. “The game was already over.”
“I think maybe it was a tie,” Marcus said, kneeling down to embrace them both.
But now it was Addison’s turn to squirm free. “I didn’t lose,” she said indignantly. “Bailey did.”
Molly’s heart went out to her. Justice was clearly on Addison’s side, and she remembered the frustration when she was a kid of listening to adults tell half-truths to smooth things over, as if kids were too dumb to notice, when in fact she had noticed almost everything. But Molly’s heart also went out to Bailey, who was so much younger than everyone, and had only lost the game in a burst of childish enthusiasm.
“Come on, Addison,” Marcus said gently, trying unsuccessfully to circle her waist in another hug. “It’s just a game. It doesn’t matter.”
The White Christmas Inn Page 6
