KENT
Iwas used to sleeping in on Christmas morning. Usually, I showed up for Christmas dinner long after all the craziness of Christmas morning was over. Or I would spend the day at a bar or on a yacht. Christmas had stopped being about family for me a long time ago.
But not today. Sylvie poked me awake before the sun was even up. At first, I tried to tell her she was crazy. Then I remembered being a kid on Christmas morning. We got up before the sun was up. There were going to be a lot of anxious kids and parents hoping to have breakfast before they attempted to get home.
By seven, we were dressed and making our way to the lodge. We immediately jumped into the controlled chaos of serving breakfast to a lodge full of unexpected guests.
The kitchen was a whirlwind of activity. Stacy was directing traffic between the stove, the coffee station, and the serving area. Brom was manning the griddle flipping pancakes and bacon.
That’s when Phineas Withers appeared in the kitchen doorway, still wearing his velvet green bow tie from the night before.
“You’re all making a mess of those eggs,” he announced, surveying the scene with critical eyes. “Step aside and let someone who knows what he’s doing show you how it’s done.”
I half expected Emmy to bristle at the criticism, but instead she grinned and handed him an apron. “Be my guest, Mr. Withers. We could use all the help we can get.”
What followed was nothing short of miraculous. Phineas took over the egg station with the confidence of a man who’d spent decades perfecting his technique, regaling us with stories about his late wife while he demonstrated the art of the perfect poached egg.
“My wife used to say that a proper poached egg was like a love letter,” he said, gently lowering eggs into simmering water. “It had to be tender, perfectly timed, and made with complete attention to detail.”
Within minutes, he’d moved on to hollandaise sauce, whisking egg yolks and butter like he had been a chef at some point in his life. With him, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been. I had only known the man a short time, but he was proving to be full of surprises.
“Turn up the music!” Phineas called over his shoulder. “Cooking should be joyful, not a funeral march!”
So much for being a Scrooge, I thought, watching this transformation with amazement. The cranky old man who’d been shouting at strangers on street corners had been replaced by someone who was clearly in his element. I wondered about the man before he lost his wife. I had a feeling he would have been the life of a party before grief and the bottle claimed him.
Over breakfast, the main dining room buzzed with conversation and laughter. Guests were raving about the food, comparing notes about their unexpected sleepover adventure, and making plans to return for future holidays.
I wasn’t technically involved with the business just yet, but the impromptu sleepover turned out to be one hell of a marketing tactic.
“Can we go home now?” Aspen asked for what had to be the fifth time. “We saw all the presents Santa left, but Mom and Dad are torturing us by making us wait until after we eat.”
“I think I’m in the mood for three coffees this morning,” Stacy said with exaggerated thoughtfulness, taking an impossibly slow sip from her mug. “Maybe four. It is Christmas, after all.”
The kids groaned in unison. I couldn’t help but laugh at their dramatic suffering.
“Come on,” I said, standing up from the table. “Let’s go outside and work off some of that energy. Build some snowmen or something. Give your mom time to caffeinate.”
“Can we have a snowball fight?” Alder asked, his eyes lighting up.
“Only if you promise not to aim for the face,” I said, already heading toward the coat closet.
What followed was twenty minutes of pure, ridiculous fun. We built targets out of snow, lobbed snowballs at each other with varying degrees of accuracy, and generally acted like kids who’d been let loose in the world’s best playground. I went easy on the little ones. Not like the first time. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin their Christmas morning with a snowball injury.
By the time we came back inside, red-cheeked and covered in snow, the breakfast rush had died down considerably. Guests were getting ready to head back into town now that the snow had stopped and the roads had been cleared enough to make travel less treacherous.
“Hey.” Sylvie waved me over. “Can you help these guys?”
I looked at the older couple and nodded. “Absolutely.”
I took the woman’s arm and guided her outside and down the steps. I walked them to their car and quickly scraped the snow from the windshield while they sat inside getting warm. I gave the man a thumbs-up, letting him know he was good to go.
I turned back to the lodge, looking forward to getting warmed up when I saw a flashy car coming down the driveway.
My stomach jumped into my throat. The vehicle was sleek, expensive, and completely out of place in the rustic mountain setting. It reminded me of myself when I first showed up in a car that didn’t belong. Something told me the person was here to see me.
“I’m getting déjà vu,” Sylvie said, suddenly standing beside me.
“No shit,” I murmured. “Who’s this big city asshole showing up in his fancy car?”
