He stood when he saw her, his smile quick and unguarded.
“Mary Jane.”
She smiled at the use of a full double name that no man since the pastor who’d married her had used. “That’s me.”
“You look beautiful.”
“Thank you, Matt,” she said, not sure how to return the compliment. “Quite a storm out there today, wasn’t it?”
“That was something. Your niece—Nicole?—is she all right now? You said she was stuck overnight?”
“She is. Poor kid doesn’t go on the mountain to ski for twenty years and the first time, she’s in a whiteout. She told my sistershe’s safe in a ski patrol lodge until they can get down in the morning.”
“Good to know. The city roads are fine now, though. I checked the state plow maps and the weather cams before I booked. My rental is steady as a house.”
His rental was a pricey Escalade, she knew, and it could handle whatever the Utah winter threw at it.
He crossed to her coat, lifting it from the back of the chair where she’d draped it, helping slip it on. The move was courteous and kind, and…date-like.
Outside, he offered an arm down a few steps to where his SUV, already running and warmed, waited. He opened the door for her, and she settled in, breathing through a mix of excitement and nerves.
“So,” she said as he pulled out, “I’m curious. How did you ever find Snowberry Lodge? You came before ‘Grumpy Santa’ made us famous. Not that I’m prying,” she added quickly. “Just hoping to get more long-term guests like you.”
“A simple internet search,” he told her. “I was looking for something off the beaten path where I could spend a few weeks or so. Not a resort with a thousand identical rooms. I like family-run and the place appealed to me.”
“Why Park City? Why Utah? Are you a Sundance Film fan? That’s really what put us on the map.”
“Nah, not a film fan.” He gestured toward the winter-white world around them. “It’s Christmas here. In Florida, it’s sunshine and palm trees.”
“Do you…always leave home at the holidays?” She tried to sound conversational and not like she was conducting an inquisition, but he slid an amused look that said she might have failed.
“I used to spend the holidays at my uncle’s house in upstate New York and it gave me a hankering for snow at Christmas,” hesaid. “This place certainly fit the bill. And after a few days here, I knew it was where I wanted to spend the month.”
As they reached the outskirts of Park City, he asked more about Nicole’s reason for not skiing as an easy change of subject.
She found herself telling him about the accident, and he asked lots of concerned questions, including if she got therapy.
“No, she didn’t seem to want it at the time, and then she just claimed not to need…” She drew back as the car slowed at a valet. “Riverhorse?” Her voice rose. “This is very…nice.”
He turned to her. “So are you, MJ.”
Before she could answer, a young man opened her door and welcomed her, easing her out of the SUV and under an overhang.
MJ’s belly did a small, disloyal swoop. The last time she’d been at Park City’s top restaurant, she’d been celebrating a wedding anniversary with George. Maybe their twenty-fifth? Twenty-sixth? She didn’t remember, but it was a long time ago.
He’d admired the food, balked at the prices, and teased her all night for being too delighted by butter that was presented on a chilled plate. She’d been serving hers that way ever since.
Inside, the restaurant spread out in polished wood and white linen with art on the walls that celebrated the mountains, the West, and winter.
“We have a table by the window for you, Mr. Walker,” the host said, and then they were shown to a cozy corner. There, candlelight glossed the rim of her water glass and the window framed Main Street, which was dressed for holiday perfection.
He barely glanced at the massive wine menu, leaning in to whisper, “Can’t it just say red? I don’t need something long and French.”
She laughed. “I’ll have the same.”
They chatted about the ambiance, the menu selections, the view, anything but…each other. How could she ease into her interrogation, MJ wondered when the wine came.
The answer came in the sound of George’s voice in her head…
