The financial reality was starting to sink in too. If I sank all my available wealth into Northwood Lodge, what would happen ten years from now when the money was used up and they hit another inevitable dip in tourism? What if this whole venture wasn’t sustainable long term? Without access to my trust fund, without the safety net of family wealth, what would I do if everything went sideways?
Hell, I would barely be a Bancroft anymore.
I could feel myself spiraling, my breathing getting shallower as anxiety crept up my throat. I didn’t want Sylvie to worry about me. I was putting on a brave face and pretending it was all good, but shit. It was a big deal. It wasn’t just the loss of my trust fund.
It was the disconnect from the family.
I wished it didn’t bother me so much, but it did. Even though Christmas had never felt particularly special with my family—just another obligation wrapped in expensive gifts and formal dinners—it felt kind of wrong not being with them this year.
I thought about Kathy and the extravagant meal she’d be arranging for tomorrow evening. Christmas dinner was her masterpiece. Seven courses, perfectly coordinated, served on expensive china. She was a good lady, and she did love to foster family connections. She loved getting everyone together. I knew she wanted all of us to be close. When more than a few of us showed up for one of her parties or family gatherings, it made her whole week.
I thought about my brothers and their families. I thought about the tradition of opening one gift on Christmas morning before the formal exchange that evening. All my nieces and nephews and their excitement over whatever elaborate gifts my dad and Kathy would get for them.
Guilt gnawed at my insides as I stared at the ceiling. Those people had raised me, had been the only family I’d ever known. Whatever their flaws, whatever poisonous attitudes about success and social status they held, they were still my blood.
Had I thrown that all away for a woman I’d known for less than a month?
But even as the thought formed, I knew it wasn’t fair to frame it that way. I hadn’t thrown anything away for Sylvie. I’d chosen a different path because being here, with her and her family, felt more like home than anything I’d ever experienced.
I heard a strange noise outside that made me freeze mid-spiral.
At first, I dismissed it as wind or maybe an animal moving through the snow. But there it was again, a sound that didn’t quite fit with the natural quiet of a winter night.
Carefully, so as not to wake Sylvie, I crept to the window and peered outside at the tree farm. The lodge’s interior lights were dimmed to their nighttime setting, but the Christmas lights I had strung through the trees were still twinkling, although the light was muted with the snow.
Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.
But I knew I’d heard something.
I was about to give up and return to bed when I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. Down by Santa’s cabin there was a figure on the small porch.
Santa Claus. Well, Wesley, obviously.
Except it didn’t look quite like Wesley. This figure was bigger, broader, with a more substantial gut and a whiter, fuller beard. I squinted, trying to get a better look, wondering if my exhaustion was making me see things that weren’t there.
The guy was arranging something on the porch that I couldn’t quite make out from this distance.
“Kent?” Sylvie’s voice was soft and sleepy behind me. “What are you doing?”
I turned toward her, and she was propped up on one elbow, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders and her eyes heavy with sleep.
“I thought I heard something outside,” I said quietly.
When I looked back toward the cabin, the figure was gone. Completely vanished, as if it had never been there at all.
“Weird,” I muttered.
“What’s weird?” Sylvie asked, patting the space beside her. “Come back to bed where it’s warm.”
“I thought I saw Wesley down at the cabin, but I don’t know.” I realized how strange it would sound to explain that I’d seen Santa Claus arranging mysterious items on a porch in the middle of the night. “Why would Wesley be down there anyway? Didn’t your family put him up for the night here in the lodge?”
“Maybe he forgot something. You know how he is about his Santa duties. Come on, I’m cold. I need your body heat.”
Whatever I’d seen or thought I’d seen could wait until morning. I returned to bed, settling back under the covers as Sylvie immediately curled against my side.
“Better?” she asked, her hand finding my chest in the darkness.
“Much better,” I said, though my mind was still turning over the strangeness of what I’d witnessed.
