Instead, I ordered another drink and let the phone go dark.
Later, I wandered through downtown Northwood in a haze of whiskey and regret. Christmas lights were strung everywhere, wrapped around lampposts and in every shop window. Happyfamilies and couples strolled past me, their laughter and warmth creating a bubble I couldn’t penetrate.
The glittering shopfronts transported me back to childhood. It was one of the few good Christmases I could remember. I must have been eight or nine, young enough to still believe that maybe this year would be different.
Dad had rented a cabin in upstate New York, not far from where I was standing now, actually, and he brought all of us boys along for Christmas Eve through New Year’s Day. The whole point was that he’d spend the entire week with his sons, giving us the kind of father-son time we never got during the rest of the year.
But just like every other family event, it didn’t last.
He left after two nights. Some business emergency that couldn’t wait. That was always more important than us.
I’d felt let down at the time, but honestly, the rest of the week hadn’t been half bad. My brothers and I, ranging in age from four to eighteen, had been left with our nannies to fend for ourselves. Just like always, we made the most of it. Snowball fights, sledding, staying up late watching movies we weren’t supposed to watch. We all got to hang out with no one needing to go to practice or some other extracurricular activity. We didn’t get to hang out with him, but we got to spend time together. It helped us all reconnect.
That was how it always was with Dad. Grand promises followed by disappointing realities. But I’d forgiven him for all of it years ago. It was just the past, just the way things were in the Bancroft family. He was a single father doing his best. He was the head of a very successful company. The company alone was enough to take anyone’s time. Add in a herd of kids and there wasn’t enough hours in the past.
That was then. We all survived, and despite some setbacks, we were all in pretty good shape. I had moved on.
But Northwood wasn’t in the past. It was here and now. And so was Sylvie.
I found myself standing in front of the massive Christmas tree in town square. It was the same tree that had been lit with such ceremony just days ago when Sylvie’s mother had hosted the celebration. A block down the road, carolers were singing in front of a row of townhouses with their front doors open, families standing on their thresholds to listen.
This place felt like a whole other world from the one I came from.
I wondered what it would become under Bancroft ownership. Would all this charm fall away to modern infrastructure and efficient development? Would Dad bring in franchises to replace the mom-and-pop shops that lined Main Street? The Northwood Café would become a Starbucks. Mrs. Rosetti’s restaurant would be bulldozed for a chain. Olive Garden or something along those lines.
Would the oilfields create jobs that made things better around here, or would it just destroy the community that already existed? Would the disruption change everything about this place? New people experienced with drilling operations would move in, but locals would be forced to move away. The rig workers tended to be single guys. Some might bring their families, but drilling changed the footprint of a town.
The quaint image would be gone.
Because of me.
The impending destruction of Northwood, the devastation of the family who’d built this community, and Sylvie’s broken heart were all my fault. I couldn’t blame my father or the family business or Bancroft expectations. I made every choice that led to this moment.
“Fuck me,” I groaned.
I was exhausted and ready to pass out. I was pretty sure I drank my body weight in cheap whiskey. The burger Phineas forced on me was long gone. There was nothing but whiskey pumping through my veins and rotting in my stomach.
All I wanted was to go back to the lodge and make things right with Sylvie. Even if I couldn’t actually fix anything. The least I could do was apologize properly.
But getting there was a problem. I had a vague idea about where I parked the rental, but driving was still out of the question.
A family walked toward me. I stepped into their path, probably looking like exactly the kind of drunk stranger parents warned their children about.
“Excuse me,” I said, pulling out my wallet. “I need a ride out to the Northwood Lodge. I’ll give you three hundred dollars cash if you’ll drive me there.”
The father looked at his wife, then at me with understandable suspicion. “Are you alright, son?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I will be if you can get me there. Please. I need to fix something I broke.”
My desperation must have convinced them because five minutes later I was in the back seat of their minivan, sandwiched between two car seats, heading back toward the one place I probably wasn’t welcome anymore.
CHAPTER 45
SYLVIE
Isat alone in the main room of the lodge by the stone fireplace, letting the nostalgia wash over me in waves. The massive Christmas tree glittered beside the fireplace, its lights reflecting off the ornaments.
The fire crackled and popped, sending occasional sparks up the chimney. The lodge was silent except for those sounds. All of the guests had retired to their rooms for the evening.
