The chalet is glowing like something out of a snow globe.
Twinkle lights spill down the eaves, and inside, warm light flickers from the great fireplace. We canhear music—old French jazz, and the muffled sound of laughter.
The instant we step into the entryway, it hits me: the smell of cinnamon and pine, cocoa and citrus peel.
Home.
“There they are!” Freja calls, hopping up from the couch near the fire. “We were going to start dinner without you.”
“Didn’t want to be the dramatic entrance,” I mumble, unzipping my coat. “Guess that didn’t work.”
I hug Freja, and she plants a big kiss on my cheek. I rest a hand on her belly, and her smile widens.
“We’ve been holding dessert hostage,” Aksel says, arms crossed. “You’re lucky Thomas argued in your favor, because Anika was all about consuming it.”
The kids had already had dinner. It was the rule when someone was late.
“Traitor,” I whisper to my niece, who beams up at me and tugs my hand.
Ransom’s parents are already here—David and Lillian Marchand, who live life to the fullest, always have, even if they are a tad geeky. Maybe that’s why I’ve always gotten along well with them.
“Everyone’s been practically vibrating with anticipation,” Lillian says, kissing my cheeks.
“Anticipation?” I frown.
She just smiles.
Dinner is perfect chaos—long tables with white linens and candles in silver holders.
Papa, as always, serves wine with the solemnity of a priest. Mama is thrilled that Chef Pascal could come back this year. A good chef is, after all, hard to find.
Aunt Tanya is talking to Uncle Bob about the benefits of some exercise that is good for the prostate.
Kill me now!
Jonathan keeps touching Freja’s belly. She’s pregnant. We found out three months ago. They’ve been trying for a while andviola, it just happened.
Anika and Thomas are asleep in a tangle near the fire.
It’s all very normal, but I know something is up. I have a feeling. A buzz.
It’s not the wine, or the Cognac-spiked dessert, or even the soft snow falling outside. It’s the way people keep looking at Ransom, and then at me. The way Mama keeps suppressing a smile. The way Freja avoids looking at me.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m the only person here not in on something?” I whisper to Latika.
She smirks, eyes dancing. “Because you are.”
“Well?”
She shrugs. “Need to know basis.”
I glower at her. “Helpful.”
Later, when dinner has wound down and the music has softened, Ransom’s chair scrapes back. The room quiets, almost as if on cue.
He turns to Papa. “Mind if I steal the stage for a minute?”
Papa lifts a brow. “This is my dining room, not a cabaret; we don’t have a stage. But…go ahead.”
