“What’s the?—”
MJ held up both hands and shot off to the kitchen, leaving Cindy’s jaw open. Why would she do that?
Henry cleared his throat to get her attention.
She turned to find him at the antique credenza under the window, a leather portfolio open. He extracted a sheaf of crisp papers and a pen.
All around him, Christmas had the room lit to a soft glow—the lights still glimmering on the tree, and more outside the darkened window glass, the fire settled into friendly embers.
Everything felt a little…odd. The fact that he’d come now, his rushed style, his lack of even acknowledging MJ.
“Here’s the agreement exactly as we discussed,” he said, with no preamble or small talk. “I put in two hundred fifty thousand by year’s end, and you transfer the fifty into the investment account now. That’s returned to you with the first draw, before January first. From a tax standpoint, that timing is hugely beneficial. We just sign and initiate the transfer tonight, and everything’s in place. Easy.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she said, her voice raspy.
“I know, but we need five business days to avoid massive and so-unnecessary taxes. You’ve had enough of those this year, don’t you think?” His voice was warm butter, his smile sheer confidence.
“But…it feels rushed.”
“That’s how these things are, Cindy.” He angled his head in apology. “And it’s on me, I’m afraid. I was stuck in New York far longer than I expected. I literally landed in Salt Lake an hour ago and came straight away. These things always go down to the wire. But let’s get it signed and scanned.”
He held out his pen.
“But…don’t you want to…say hello to my sister?” Cindy heard herself ask, stalling. “She’s my partner. You’ll need her signature.”
“One will do, especially once we have the account loaded and ready. You’ll be able to start the renovations in early January, and be booking the hikers for spring and summer.” Henry tapped the line for her name. “You can sign anytime, of course, but this is the last window for the tax advantage. Sign here, we’ll move that money, and we’ll be done. You will have two hundred and fifty thousand more dollars before the end of the year.”
Wasn’t that what she’d started the holiday season wanting? No, she wanted the tax bill covered and Benny, of all unlikely people, accomplished that. But December’s awesome income could not sustain them forever. This could.
She took a step closer, reaching for the black and gold pen he held. Mont Blanc, she thought absently as she closed her fingers around the expensive tool. It felt heavy and slick and final between her fingers.
“Cindy,” MJ said from the doorway.
She froze, mostly at the icy tone packed into that one word. Turning, she looked at her sister, who clutched a book—one of the photo albums?—against her chest.
“Can I speak with you, please?”
“Of course, but let me introduce you to?—”
“Now.”
Cindy shuddered at the tone, still gripping the pricey pen. Without even looking at Henry, she walked toward her sister, pulled out of the room by the sheer force of her insistence and the warning in her eyes.
“In the kitchen,” MJ said, taking her there.
Cindy’s heart pounded with each step, her lips closed as if she wasn’t supposed to talk.
At the table, MJ dropped the photo album with a thud and flipped it open. Like every one of these stored in the hutch, the page had Polaroids pasted in with a name and a date underneath, creating a visual record of every guest who’d ever spent even a single night at the Snowberry Lodge.
Many of them included MJ’s notes, like “Loves Cabin Three,” and “Always wants extra blankets,” and “They got engaged!”
“Didn’t he look familiar to you?” MJ demanded.
Cindy drew back, remembering the sensation when she’d first met the man. “Yes, he did. I thought he reminded me of…” Her voice trailed off as she looked down at the open page and the picture MJ pointed to.
“Well, I never forget a face,” MJ said. “The moment I saw him I knew he’d stayed here before. I couldn’t place it with the suit and the haircut and the big-city polish but—look.” She jabbed a finger at a Polaroid from eight winters ago. A man leaned against the porch rail in an old ski jacket, chin tucked into his scarf, his smile a shade less practiced but unmistakable.
The handwritten note beneath read:
