“Reese—”
“We should keep looking for the star.” His tone is neutral, lacking the warmth I thought had been kindling between us.
He doesn’t believe I’ll leave my career. He thinks I’ll go back to Los Angeles and forget about him, about this, about everything we’ve found here.
Maybe I deserve that doubt. I’ve spent years being exactly the kind of person who chooses fame over what matters.
But not anymore and I’m going to prove it.
Christmas dinner is a traditional feast—roasted turkey, glazed ham, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, and more than enough homemade rolls to feed all the carb-starved women in my pop star orbit. However, I sense a slight damper over everything because of the missing star. Still, I have a feeling it’s going to turn up.
Things have a way of working out. I have to believe that.
After the feast, Noella mentions that the lobby piano is available if anyone wants to play—it’s tradition, but she seems forlorn, missing the star.
I glance at Reese. “Will you play with me?”
He looks surprised. “I don’t really play.”
“You know chopsticks. Come on.” I nudge him with my shoulder.
We sit side by side on the piano bench, legs pressed together. I start with a simple melody I wrote years ago, very likely when he and my brother were in the other room, watching a hockey game and hollering at me to keep it down. My voice drips with longing as I hum along, warming up my fingers and my voice.
I switch to a Christmas tune and Reese perks up, singing a few words here and there. I show him where to position his fingers to play the deep parts.
We harmonize on “Joy to the World,” and then I add a little vibrato on “I’ll be Home for Christmas.” Though the truth is, I am home.
Through the music, I’m trying to tell him everything I can’t quite say with words. That I’m choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing a life where I can be present for the people I love.
When the last note fades, there’s applause from the other guests, but I’m only looking at Reese.
“That was beautiful,” he says softly. “So are you.”
I want to press my mouth to his, but one of the kids in the group of people standing nearby asks us to play “Jingle Bells.”
I happily oblige and take requests, losing track of time as my voice melds with everyone else’s in a picture-perfect Christmas evening scene.
Later, after braving the chill for Pookie’s walk, Reese and I are walking back to the room for the night. The grand Christmas tree glows, but is still missing its star. Then I notice something odd. From this angle, it almost looks like a bare stripe runs down the side. The ornaments are missing in a straight line from the top of the tree to the bottom.
Setting Pookie down, I point it out to Reese.
He studies it for a long moment. “I didn’t see that before, but you’re right.”
Noella is behind the desk and I ask her if, earlier, when she found the star had gone missing, she found any ornaments on the ground. “Hollis did.”
Reese motions as he says, “It’s almost like the star glided down the side of the tree, like a sled down a hill, clearing everything in its path.”
Noella shows us where her husband found the ornaments, indicating they were scattered around.
“This is helpful to know,” Reese mutters.
We follow the various locations of the ornaments, turning around a corner and past the gift shop. Pookie takes off running behind a massive stack of wrapped presents for the lodge’s charity drive.
“Pooks,” I call.
Noella’s eyes are wide as if nervous the pug is going to unwrap—or tinkle on—all the gifts.
“She’s off her usual routine,” I explain.
