Aspen immediately dissolved into giggles. “Auntie said asshole!”
“Don’t tell your mom,” Sylvie said quickly, shooting a panicked look toward where Stacy was helping serve food at another table. “And eat your green beans.”
Aspen pouted dramatically but picked up her fork. Alder was grinning like he’d just witnessed the best entertainment of his young life and went back to devouring his meal with renewed enthusiasm.
Sylvie, however, wasn’t done with me. She planted one hand on her hip and fixed me with a stare that could have melted steel.
“What are you actually doing out here?” she demanded. “And who are the Bancrofts, anyway? Because clearly you think your name should mean something to me.”
Finally. Someone was asking the right questions.
I set down my fork and leaned back in my chair, savoring the opportunity to enlighten this small-town Christmas enthusiast about exactly who she was dealing with.
“The Bancrofts,” I said, letting the name roll off my tongue with appropriate gravity, “are one of the wealthiest families in America. We’ve been building business empires for generations,acquiring companies, developing properties, creating jobs for thousands of people across multiple industries.”
I could see I had her attention now, along with that of several other guests who had been eavesdropping on our conversation. It was impossible not to, sitting as close as we were.
“I descend from a legacy of visionaries and entrepreneurs who turned modest investments into massive fortunes through intelligence, determination, and strategic thinking,” I continued. I didn’t necessarily buy into that bullshit, but I had heard several cousins and brothers repeat the speech when making a pitch. “As for what I’m doing here, that’s personal family business.”
Sylvie studied my face for a long moment, like she was trying to decide whether to believe me or laugh in my face. And that water pitcher was still dangerously close to my head.
“Don’t forget check-out is at nine sharp,” she said finally, then turned and stalked off to serve other guests, her ponytail swishing behind her in a way that was both dismissive and oddly hypnotic.
I was left alone with Alder and Aspen, who had apparently decided that my earlier comment about their mother being boring was water under the bridge. They peppered me with questions about whether I lived in a mansion and had my own swimming pool.
After finishing my meal, I grew restless with the conversation and excused myself to explore more of the lodge. I noticed a room off the main hall that looked like it might be a library. I was curious to see what kind of books these people considered worth reading.
The library turned out to be exactly what I expected. It was cozy and cluttered, with mismatched furniture and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stuffed with an eclectic collection of novels, travel guides, and what appeared to be several decades’ worth of National Geographic magazines.
But what caught my attention wasn’t the books. It was the framed photographs and documents that covered nearly every available wall space, creating a visual timeline of the area’s history that stretched back centuries.
There were black-and-white photographs of the lodge in its early days, when it had been nothing more than a simple cabin surrounded by wilderness. Pictures of men in old-fashioned hunting gear standing beside massive deer and elk. Images of the town during its early years, when Main Street had been a dirt road and the population couldn’t have been more than a few dozen people.
But the most interesting items were the historical documents—blueprints of the original hunting cabin from the 1600s, land grants signed by long-dead governors, and most intriguingly, a hand-drawn portrait of a man identified as Hymal Northwood, founder of Northwood Township.
Sylvie’s ancestor. The man who had started it all. The way he sat for the painting suggested someone who understood what it meant to build something from nothing, to create a legacy that would outlast his own lifetime.
I knew a thing or two about that kind of pressure, about growing up with the weight of family expectations and the constant awareness that your actions would be measured against the achievements of those who came before you.
Moving to the library window, I peered outside at the sprawling property that stretched out below. The fresh snow made everything look serene and quiet. I liked the fast pace of the city, but I could maybe see the appeal of spending time in a place like this. Somewhere you could take a breath and think without a million distractions.
It sure didn’t seem like they’d sold many trees today, though. There were just as many out there under the string lights that had been there when I perused the many, many options. Fora property this size, with this much overhead, that couldn’t possibly be sustainable.
When I looked up at the night sky, I was struck by something I’d never really noticed before. Stars. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, scattered across the darkness. I was certain I had never seen so many stars in my entire life.
In New York, light pollution made it impossible to see anything but the brightest celestial objects. I typically always stayed in cities. I didn’t do country stuff. The entire Milky Way was visible, stretching across the sky in a glowing band that took my breath away.
Perhaps this place wasn’t a complete shit hole after all.
I was still standing at the window, mesmerized by the view, when I heard voices and laughter from outside. Looking down, I saw Alder and several other children heading out into the snow.
Something about their excitement was infectious. Before I could think too hard about what I was doing, I grabbed my coat and headed outside, too.
The cold air hit me like a slap, but it was invigorating rather than unpleasant. I looked up at the sky and took a second to simply appreciate the beauty.
The kids’ laughter drew my attention. I made my way toward where the kids were playing. They were having a snowball fight. That was something I knew how to do.
Alder was the closest target.
