His daughters had begged him to give up his Santa gig, which was kind of ironic. A year ago, quitting was all he wanted. But this Christmas? Dressing up as Grumpy—but sometimes nice—Santa when kids were on Jack’s sleigh rides kept his mind off that ride in the ambulance.
It also kept him too busy for Drill Sergeant Bertie, his nemesis.
His son-in-law’s mother, Roberta Kessler, had shown up the day of Cindy and Jack’s wedding and zeroed in on Red like a heat-seeking missile in cross-training shoes. Exercise! Did that woman do anything else?
He’d been warned by Jack that the eighty-six-year-old was the “cardio queen” of her Vermont retirement community,leading chair yoga and calisthenics like she was Jack LaLanne in silver sneakers.
All that woman had heard was “heart scare” and she was off to the races—literally—dragging Red along with her. He’d tried to tell her the docs diagnosed him with heartburn not anything serious. Nope. She was utterly convinced the secret to Red living another twenty years was walking, bending, and, God help him, sit-ups.
So the sleigh rides were sweet relief, but Bertie did seem to have a knack for showing up everywhere.
The last group of riders had been great, though. A bunch of rosy-cheeked tourists from Texas with pockets full of peppermints to feed Copper and some dueling selfie sticks. Still, by the time the final “Merry Christmas, Santa!” echoed through the pines, Red was cooked.
He lumbered past the glittering icicle lights strung over the trees, thinking about that pasta, when Benny buzzed closer on his bright red snow scooter. “Hi, Grandpa!”
“Hey, Benny-bean.”
“Look who’s still here!”
Olivia, sitting on a disc that looked like a giant Frisbee, whizzed right behind him. “I’m not going to California, Red! My mom’s spending Christmas here! She’s checking in at the lodge right now! Woohoo!”
She twirled in the snow, making him smile as he resumed his trek. Those kids would be occupied long enough that the pasta could be followed by a few cookies and a nice long nap in his recline?—
Oh, no. Oh,no! There she was.The Drill Sergeant.
Bertie marched in the distance, no doubt about to turn and see Red, which would mean no pasta, no coffee, no cookies, and no nap. Just…movement.
Red froze mid-step, dread washing over him. “Lord above, not now.”
Bertie was wearing a puffy vest the color of a pink highlighter and the expression of someone who planned to live to a hundred by sheer force of willpower and walking. Her arms pumped with military precision, her massive fuzzy hat making her look like a bear in fuchsia snow pants.
He knew what was coming. The lecture. The pep talk. The unsolicited advice about heart health andlongevity. Then…the death march up to Bluebell Crossing and back.
He couldn’t do it. Not today.
Moving fast—or as fast as an old man in boots could—he ducked left and hid behind the porch of one of the cabins. He waited, hoping, praying—and heard her marching closer.
Desperate, he climbed onto the porch, grabbed the door handle, and twisted.
Unlocked! Not all of these cabins were rented yet, he knew, since they were rolling out what Cindy called a “soft re-opening”—whatever that was.
Didn’t matter. He was safe here.
Warm air greeted him, faintly scented with pine and something lemony from the fresh polish. The place looked brand new. He squinted around approvingly at the recently completed renovations.
Take that, Grand Hyatt. His girls knew what they were doing and his own father, the late, great Owen Starling, would be proud.
The cabin was cozy but modern now—still knotty pine and stone, but with new rugs and soft plaid throws. A sleek gas fireplace flickered in the corner, and the kitchenette gleamed with a white quartz countertop and fresh appliances. The furniture was new but inviting—leather armchairs, wool cushions, and touches of warm wood.
He wandered in a little farther, peeking into the two bedrooms. One was very small, with bunk beds and a hall bath. The other, a little more grand, with an ensuite that had just been added.
Safe for the moment, he stepped into the hall bathroom to see all the changes there. This had been the only bathroom before, with a shower curtain over the tub connected to a water heater that wouldn’t moan like ghost and scare guests anymore.
He was about to peek in the mirror to see how ridiculous he looked in the Santa getup when the sound of the front door opening froze him.
“Oh, come on,” he whispered. “Shefollowedme?”
He closed the bathroom door and listened.
