I lift my hands from the keys and place them in my lap, knowing that I’ll have to delete some of what I’ve just written. I came to the lodge this morning to write, setting myself up at one of a collection of tables set around the central hearth in the lobby, because I need to make significant headway on this article if I’m going to submit it in time for it to go live on New Years. I sure as hell am not able to be productive when I’m in the house with Henri. She’s so fucking deep in my head and I can’t get past what happened yesterday in the library. But every time I get close, she shoves me away.
It’s the smart thing—the right thing. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Yeah, they do that sometimes. When I’m really into it, I work for five hours straight.”
“That can’t be good on the bladder.” He places a hand on the back of the chair across from me. “May I?”
“Go ahead.” I nod.
“I know your mother doesn’t want me talking about this, but you and I haven’t really had a chance to chat, just the two of us.” His fingers knit together, hands resting on the dark stained wood separating us.
“You’ve been busy and we’ll have time later. I know I’m not at the top of the priority list right now—there’s the fundraiser and all the other holiday madness.”
“Your sister is working so hard to put that together.” He heaves a sigh. “I’m just so worried she’s going to overexert herself, and I can’t stop thinking about if she gets injured. She’s got a decade left before retirement and a coaching career that will follow that. Keep an eye out for her will you?”
“I will,” I promise.
“It’s so good to know that I can count on you again. And you know, I don’t want you to stop your writing thing. You can do a newsletter about the lodge. A monthly thing and you can have complete control over it—no pesky editors to tell you what to do.”
“Sounds like a great idea, Dad.” I try to sound enthusiastic at the idea of a newsletter that would be created only to be deleted the moment it hits people’s email inboxes. But at least he’s trying?
His phone chimes with a text and he pulls it out to check. “Duty calls. Only ever a few moments of peace during this season. Go home, spend time with that New York girl of yours. Maybe you can pull a Christmas miracle and convince her to move here.” He puts his phone down and digs out his keychain—a vintage style we sell in the gift shop—and slips a key from the loop. “Speaking of which.”
He tosses it at me and I manage to catch it before it thuds against the table. Unfurling my hands, I find a gold key resting between my palms.
“Dad, this is the key to the cabin.” There are plenty of cabins on the property, though online we call them luxury chateaus, fitted with fun additions like personal saunas and game rooms. But this cabin, like the main house, is something just for family.
“Didn’t think you were going to live with your parents, did you? I thought it would be the perfect place. Spend a few days there and catalog any maintenance issues we need to take care of before all your stuff arrives,” he suggests before his phone chimes again, this time with a call that he picks up as he walks away.
I put in another ten minutes of attempting to work on the article, get maybe fifty more okay-ish words in, and decide to call it a day.
Outside the lodge, I’m about to text Henri to tell her I’m on the way back, but there she is, walking toward me. Well not me—she doesn’t see me—but in my general direction. She smiles at something Pen says, and I notice Mom is with them and they all have skis propped over their shoulders. I guess that’s what she got up to when I was working.
I take the moment to just watch, etching the image of her into my head.
Then she sees me. God she sees me and I’m surprised the snow doesn’t melt around her with how she brightens like the damn sun breaking free from a cloud.
“Liam!” Pen yells, her voice threatening to shatter my eardrums as she waves.
I jog up to meet them and kiss Henri, holding her cold cheeks in my hands.
“Good time on the slopes?” I ask.
But Henri isn’t the one who replies, Pen is. “Someone had to take her.”
“I was going to,” I protest.
“But you only go on the kiddie slopes and the toddlers pass you.” Pen scrunches her nose.
I turn to Henri. “I really was going to take you. I can again later if you want.”
“I believe you. That could be fun.”
“She really was a natural,” Mom says. “Productive morning?”
“I got a bit done. Hard to stay on track knowing she’s around.” My arm slips to hug Henri’s side. “Dad gave me the key to the cabin; he suggested we take a few days there.”
Mom puts a hand over her heart. “Oh, you have to. You had the best times there as kids.”
