“Don’t say it,” he said, noticeably cringing.
“…add everything to one giant list.”
He briefly closed his eyes and shook his head with a groan.
Her attention caught on one labeledLong Walk on a Foggy Night.Needing to know what it meant, she pressed play. Heady soundscapes of atmospheric instrumental post rock filled the space between them.
The playlist was part of an entire subcategory of walk- and hike-related playlists, the sight of which stirred her brain into an overdrive of possibilities. What hikes had he done around Elk Ridge? Had he ever been to the abandoned silver mine?
Had he done the Chain Lakes loop on a hot day and known the pleasure of eating blueberries right off the trail before jumping into alpine melt to cool off? Her brain delivered a full list of trails she wanted to take him on before stopping to wonder—did he have any hidden gems of his own? What could he share with her?
The car continued to climb the mountain until her ears gave a sharp pop. “Are we going to the ski area?”
“No…” he said with a shake of his head, “but we will park there.”
“Won’t it be as packed as anything on Christmas Eve?”
“We get to use employee parking.” He feigned a cross look. “Now stop trying to ruin the surprise.”
At the parking lot, a man in a bright red-and-black parka decorated with various white crosses walked up to greet them—ski patrol. He gestured to where a pair of humming snowmobileswaited nearby. A second person waited in the same uniform, mounted atop the other snowmobile.
“Thanks, Rich,” said Gavin, giving the man a quick embrace.
“Not like it’s one of the busiest days of the year or nothing,” said Rich with a grunt. “Come on.”
“Are we snowmobiling to breakfast?” asked Rowan.
“You are being snowmobiled to your breakfast,” corrected Rich. “You don’t get to keep these. And if we get a rescue call in the middle of the ride, you’ve gotta come along. So…” He patted the seat behind him. “Hope you’re good with blood.”
The snowmobiles took off into a torrent of cold, skimming over the snow. Rowan clung to the passenger handles with a white-knuckled grip. The machine hummed between her legs as the oddly comforting aroma of burning diesel filled her nose. After a bumpy section, she threw her arms around Rich’s thick middle and clung to him with all she had. The big man’s body shook with laughter.
They reached their destination without making good on the threat of impromptu rescue efforts. It was a modest brown lodge with a green aluminum roof covered in solar panels, surrounded by a small village of rustic cabins. Smoke curled from the chimney stack, and skis and snowshoes were stuck in the snowbank outside.
“What is this place?” asked Rowan, climbing off the back of the snowmobile with her legs quivering. Ski patrol was off in a flash, promising to return later to take them back down.
“Alvehjem.” Gavin said the name affectionately. “Or Aelfhome, as they started calling it after realizing no one could pronounce it. Most of the cabins are completely rustic, but the main lodge has power.”
“And they serve breakfast?”
“For guests.”
Pausing, she gave him a look. “You didn’t book us a spot just to skip breakfast lines, did you? Because I should warn you now that pricey gestures are the opposite of my love language.”
“Oh, I figured that.” He chuckled. “No—my grandparents manage this place.”
The interior was all pale wood patterned with small black knots. A rainbow of Tomte gnomes sat on the hearth, enormous noses peeking from beneath stocking caps that covered their eyes.
On the mantel were small ceramic statues of thirteen mischievous figures—Icelandic Yule Lads. It was said they stole through children’s windows with mischief on the brain, but if the children had been good, they left small gifts instead and moved on. Wild Hunt figures. Just like Santa.
There was a long communal table positioned next to a galley kitchen opposite the entry—empty. The definition of “morning” for the sort of people who stayed in a rustic lodge on Christmas Eve had long since come and gone. But an older woman wearing a red-and-white knit sweater was still finishing up dishes in the kitchen. At the sound of footsteps, her head popped up, and when she caught sight of Gavin, she beamed.
“Gavin!” the old woman cried out in delight. Her hair was short and dark gray, her form slender, and there was a whisper of Sarah McCreery to the old woman’s face. Rowan was vaguely aware of Sarah’s parents, the Larssons. She had certainly seen them around town, but they had never actually met, and she hadn’t realized they lived up this way.
Had Dennis and Sarah known each other as kids on the mountain? Did that help explain their attraction of opposites?
“Grandma,” said Gavin, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I was just reading your last letter!” said the old woman, gazing at her grandson with clear adoration.
