by K. A. Tucker
Beams of headlights flash across a window, signaling Jonah’s return from Anchorage. A nervous flutter stirs in my stomach. “They’re here!” It comes out in a squeal.
Simon’s soft chuckle soothes me. “Don’t worry. They’re going to love you. And if they don’t? We’ll be there the day after tomorrow to talk some sense into them.”
I smile. “Pack enough warm clothes! This big storm rolling in over Christmas is supposed to be bad.” I never paid much attention to the weather. Living in Alaska? I don’t roll out of bed without checking the weather online.
“Bigger than last year?”
I recall the nightmare of being stranded in Anchorage, ready to spend my Christmas holiday with strangers and a vast collection of stuffed wildlife. “As long as it comes after you arrive, I don’t care if we get ten feet.”
“Well, you know your mother. Clothing has never been an issue for us. She made me haul out a third suitcase. Of course, some of that space is reserved for her bridal magazine collection.”
I groan. While I’m anxious to see my mom again, I’m dreading the pressure to set a wedding date. For a woman who spent so much effort warning me against the perils of falling in love with a bush pilot who lives across the continent, she has certainly changed her tune.
“I know. Just try to remember that you’re her only daughter. All she wants is for you to have the day of your dreams, and for her to be able to help you plan it.”
“Yeah. In Toronto.” She’s been relentless, sending website links of possible reception venues and photographers almost daily.
“She has a lot of connections here, being in the floristry. Connections she doesn’t have in Alaska.”
“But having it in Alaska might make more sense for us.”
“Then that is what you tell her, and she’ll accept it.” He adds after a beat, “Eventually.”
I hear Jonah’s booming voice. “I should go. Love you.” I end the call with Simon and rush to jam another log in the dwindling fire.
“… small fortune to heat, but we’re actually using it a lot more in the winter than I thought we would.”
They must be talking about the hot tub—a focal point on the cozy screened-in porch and a place Jonah and I have grown accustomed to enjoying sans bathing suits, something we won’t be doing for the next two weeks.
Dusting my hands off on my jeans, I venture to the entrance, tamping down the nerves that come with meeting your future mother-in-law in person for the first time.
Jonah’s looming presence fills the foyer, chilled air curling around him. “Hey, babe.” He leans in to kiss me chastely, his icy-blue eyes twinkling with something—excitement? nervousness?—before shifting out of the way to reveal two people who look like they’ve traveled thousands of miles and eleven time zones to get here. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. “Mom, this is—”
“Calla.” My name is a heavy sigh on Astrid’s voice. Her shoulders sag, as if she’s been waiting for this moment forever and is relieved it’s finally here. She reaches out with cool hands to grasp mine, squeezing them tightly for a brief moment. “It’s so good to meet you.”
“It is,” I agree with a widening smile, the lilt in her accent a familiar sound after a dozen phone calls in preparation for this visit.
I’ve only seen a few pictures of Astrid, one being the framed photograph from Jonah’s house in Bangor that now resides on a bookshelf in the corner. In that one, taken when Jonah was a scrawny little boy in Anchorage, Astrid resembled a fashion model—tall and thin, with long, white-blonde hair. Another picture from Jonah’s high school graduation showed her as a slightly older version of the Norwegian stunner in the cherry-red bikini.
Now, at fifty-nine, the years are claiming their marks on this regal-looking woman. She still holds herself with statuesque grace, but with a healthy layer of meat and muscle on her bones. Crow’s-feet and frown lines that my mother aggressively keeps at bay with regular Botox injections crinkle Astrid’s skin with ease. I doubt a needle has ever touched that glowing skin. And her once-long hair has been cropped short but stylish, the platinum color surely the product of a salon.
“This is Björn.” She gestures at the white-haired man of the same height beside her. Standing side by side, the decade in age difference between them is glaring.
“I’m sure you’ve heard many wonderful things about me.” Björn’s cerulean eyes cut to his stepson, and even with the accent, there’s no mistaking the dig. But when his gaze shifts back to me, I see nothing but polite weariness. “It’s so nice to meet the woman who managed to tame Astrid’s son.” He offers me his hand and I take it, earning myself a firm handshake.
“I don’t know how well he’s been tamed, but …” I force my smile wider. “It’s so nice to meet you both. Come in and get warm. I have a lasagna in the oven.” I nod toward the table, set for four, a bottle of red already cracked and breathing.
“We’ve already eaten.” Björn’s head is shaking. “I just want my bed.”
Astrid shoots him with a brief but sharp look, with blue eyes that match Jonah’s. “Thank you, Calla. We ate in Seattle while we were waiting for the next plane. We wanted to stop in and say hello, but we’re both quite tired. Especially this old man.”
“Of course. No worries.”
“I’m gonna take them over to the cabin.” Jonah reaches for the keys to the old beat-up pickup—I still think of it as Phil’s. “You mind giving me a ride back?”
“At your service.” I collect the keys from his hand and a kiss from his lips, and trail Astrid and Björn out the door.
“They were supposed to be here this week to route the internet so you’d have Wi-Fi, but they rescheduled until early January. Texts still come, sporadically. They’re just … spotty.” At best. During bad weather, it’s basically a dead zone.
“We’ll survive.” Astrid inhales deeply, her eyes searching the cabin’s wooden interior with interest. “Smells like freshly cut wood.”
I laugh, my own gaze taking in the small space, finished with compact Scandinavian-style furnishings and a blend of punchy Navajo blankets and rugs to add color. I even tucked a small Christmas tree into the corner and strung tiny white lights around the windows to help with the holiday atmosphere. “Yeah, it’s about as fresh as it can get. Roy finished the trim last weekend.”
“And we were still moving shit in here up until yesterday. Calla worked her butt off to get it ready in time. You should have everything you need.” Jonah stomps the snow off his boots and then lugs two large suitcases, one in each hand. He hauls each onto the stands I ordered—that took two months to arrive—grunting under the weight. “Jesus, what’d you bring with you?”
“It’s Christmas. I wasn’t going to arrive empty-handed,” Astrid says matter-of-factly.
“You remember that we have stores here, right?”
She reaches up to rest her palm against her son’s cheek. “But not Norwegian stores, vennen.”
I don’t know what she called him, but it seems to strike a chord because Jonah’s stern expression softens. He ropes his arms around his mother’s shoulders, pulling her into his chest.
She responds instantly, curling her arms around his waist. “I forgot how big you are. Karl and Ivar are tiny by comparison.”
Those names I recognize as Björn’s sons, whom Jonah cares for about as much as he does Björn, though I’ve never received a solid reason why his annoyance extends that far. Sometimes I wonder if his dislike for his stepbrothers is rooted in jealousy. Jonah grew up an only child; he’s not used to sharing his mom. Worse, Karl and Ivar and their families live within a ten-minute drive of Astrid and Björn. They eat dinner together once a week and spend their holidays together.
“I missed you,” he murmurs.
“That’s because you haven’t seen me in—how long has it been again? Three years?”
He grins sheepishly. “Four.”
“Ah. Four years since you’ve seen your own mother. I’m surprise
d you even found me at the airport.” Her tone is soft, playful, her eyes twinkling as she chides her only son.
Yet, I can’t help but wonder if her words are laced with a hint of bitterness. Astrid may have two stepsons and five step-grandchildren to keep her occupied, but Jonah is her only biological child. Since leaving Las Vegas for Alaska when he was twenty-one, he has only seen his mother three times—once, to witness her marry a man he doesn’t care for. Three times in eleven years, and apparently the two trips to Oslo were riddled with bickering and shouting matches. The last time, he finished off his stay in a hotel.
The four-year gap since his last visit isn’t entirely his fault, though. Jonah was supposed to fly to Norway for Christmas last year, but he canceled after learning of my father’s terminal illness. Then again, my dad passed in September. Plenty of time to rebook, but Jonah chose to stay close for Agnes and Mabel’s sake, even before he made the surprise trip to Toronto to lure me back to the wild.
Still, four years since he’s held his mother.
Does she resent him for that? She did move all the way to Oslo. But before that, Jonah moved to Alaska.
It’s been one year since I last saw my mother, and almost every time we speak she likes to remind me that I chose to move thousands of miles away.
“I brought a bunch of wood in for the fire and there’s more on the side, but the Toyostove will keep you guys warm through the night,” Jonah explains, heading for the woodstove. He lit it before he left for the airport, but only hot embers glow now, the log long since burned.
“It’s toasty in here.” Astrid rubs her hands together, contradicting her words. “I forgot how cold it gets in Alaska. It was raining when we left Oslo.”
“It’s been colder than usual.” And the news is forecasting a bitter front trailing in behind the coming storm. “I’ve stocked the fridge with everything I thought you might need, but if there’s anything else, just let us know. There are plenty of blankets and towels and pillows. Everything.”
“I’m sure we’ll be fine, Calla. Don’t worry yourself.”
“And let me know what you think about the bed.” I plan on listing the cabin on the rental site in January for weekend renters looking for a winter escape. Astrid and Björn are our guinea pigs.
“For what she paid, that mattress better come with servants that tuck you in at night and sing you lullabies,” Jonah grumbles, earning my exasperated eye roll.
Astrid chuckles. “I don’t think we’ll need any lullabies tonight. I’m half-asleep already.”
The toilet flushes and after a brief rush of the tap water, Björn emerges from the bathroom. “It feels like a coffin in there. How long have we been banished out here? The whole two weeks?”
Astrid rhymes off something in Norwegian that sounds musical but coupled with her sharp glare is clearly an admonishment. She switches back to English to say, “It’s fine. It’s perfect for us. Ignore him. He’s old and grumpy and doesn’t like to leave home.”
Jonah stoops to tuck a log into the woodstove, muttering, “He should have stayed there, then.”
“So, not only do you make your mother fly halfway across the world if she wants to see you, but now you want her to do it alone?” Björn snipes back.
“If you’re going to complain for the next two weeks, then yeah. And she’s more than capable of traveling on her own. She doesn’t need you.”
Björn stabs the air with his index finger. “If you knew what—”
“Enough!” Astrid’s hands raise in the air, her brow pinched with strain. “Don’t start already. Please. It’s been a very long day.”
I loop my arms around Jonah’s biceps and gently guide him toward the door. “We’ll let you get settled.” Though, from the sounds of it, I’m not sure Björn will be comfortable here. That’s a bit of a pinprick to my bubble of enthusiasm over this cabin’s completion.
Astrid dips her head to me. “Calla, thank you so much for making all these efforts for our comfort. Everything is perfect. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Come over whenever you’re up. The door’ll be unlocked.” Jonah dangles the key to the pickup truck before hanging it on the wall hook. “It’s all gassed up. I’ll plug in the block heater on our way out. Don’t forget to unplug it.”
Astrid smiles. “Oh, I forgot about those days.”
I remember as we reach the door. “Oh! If you happen to see two big dogs that look like wolves running around, don’t panic. They’re harmless.”
Björn’s bushy gray eyebrows arch. “Are they wolves or are they dogs?”
“A bit of both, probably, but the official answer is malamute.” That’s Roy’s bullshit answer, to keep the gossip at bay and officers off his back.
Björn nods slowly. “I’ve always liked malamutes.”
“There’s actually something he does like,” Jonah mutters under his breath.
I herd him out with a hand on his back before he can spark another argument.
Chapter Three
“It is really small, but I didn’t have a lot to work with. Do you think renters will mind?”
“People aren’t gonna rent that place so they can hang out in the bathroom.” Jonah’s words are garbled thanks to the toothbrush in his mouth.
“You’re right.” I study the draft listing on the Airbnb site. I’ve been working on it for weeks. “Still … maybe I should mention it?” But what would I say? Warning: Coffin-sized bathroom? I sigh. “Do you really think they’ll be comfortable over there? Because they can stay here. I know your mom insisted, but it doesn’t sound as if Björn—”
“Fuck Björn!” The tap shuts off with a dull thud. A moment later, Jonah emerges, scowling. “It’s perfect, Calla. It’s got a toilet, a sink, and a shower. What the hell else does he need? Nothing. He just wants to find things to bitch about. That’s what he does. Complains about everything. I warned you he would, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
The mattress sinks beneath Jonah’s weight as he slides into his side of our bed. “Don’t let him get inside your head. You’ve worked your ass off to get that place ready in time for them. Look at this.” He scrolls through the pictures I took of the cabin yesterday with Simon’s trusty Canon. “It’s gonna be the nicest rental within a hundred miles of Trapper’s Crossing.”
“It is nice.”
Jonah sinks back into his pillow. “The least the dickhead could do is be respectful.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, you need to ease up, Jonah, or these two weeks are going to feel twice as long and nobody will enjoy themselves. Especially not your mother.”
“Yeah, I know. He just pushes my buttons so easily.”
“Still. You need to bite your tongue.”
“When have I ever been able to do that?”
“Never.” I love that about Jonah. Usually.
He smiles, but it falls off quickly. “He refused to let me pick them up in the plane, but then he complained the entire way here.”
“About what?”
“About everything. The two-hour drive, the music on the radio, the Jeep being too bumpy and cramped and not good in the snow. Which I agree with—”
I groan. “Don’t start this again.”
“I’m worried about you going off the road.”
I shake my head. One snowfall in October and Jonah decided he didn’t like the way my Jeep Wrangler—a birthday gift from him—handles the slippery terrain. “There’s nothing wrong with my Jeep. It’s literally designed for handling bad roads.”
“Fine. I’m worried about you handling the bad roads, okay?”
My mouth drops open. The truth comes out. “I’m a good driver!”
“You drive too fast.”
“I do not! And that is so rich, coming from you.”
“Oh yeah?” He smirks. “How many winters have you driven in?”
“That’s not the point.” Neither is the fact that I backed into a moose on my driving test, and if he brings that up right now,
I will scream.
“If I were flying a plane recklessly, you wouldn’t want me up there anymore.”
“Uh, you crashed two planes,” I remind him dryly. “Have I told you to stop flying?”
“That wasn’t my—”
“Ah!” I raise a pointed finger at him.
His lips twist as he searches for a suitable retort that he can’t make because one of those crashes was his fault. He wasn’t being smart.
I school my tone, because we’re about to end up in a shouting match. “It’s my Jeep. I love my Jeep. I’m not selling it, and I’m not driving ten miles an hour. If you don’t want to drive it, buy yourself a nice, new, reliable truck. We have the money.”
I get a flat look in return, but it doesn’t seem Jonah’s in the mood to argue. “Anyway, I told Björn he could have rented a car and driven himself instead of getting door-to-door valet service.”
“What’d he say to that?”
“That he already spent enough money on plane tickets, and he shouldn’t have to rent a car, too.”
“Flying from Oslo to Alaska isn’t cheap.” I know because I looked up the cost. I was going to offer to pay for their flights. Jonah talked me out of it, saying Björn would consider it an insult.
He waves my words away. “The stingy bastard has plenty of money. He just wants to complain because he’s a miserable prick.”
“He didn’t seem that bad.” Grouchy, sure. A bit abrupt, maybe. “Plus, he’s sixty-nine and he’s probably been awake for a day and a half. I’d be miserable, too.”
Jonah frowns at me. “When did you become so tolerant?”
I laugh. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious. You’ve been hangin’ around Muriel and Roy too much. They’ve conditioned you to put up with too much shit.”
“Oh! Speaking of Roy … I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.” I shut my laptop and set it on the nightstand, then slither in next to Jonah. He lifts his arm without prompting, allowing me a spot to rest my head against his broad chest.
