It’s a two-hour drive out of the city. Just like I’d expected, the flurries begin when I’m about an hour in. It’s not heavy, though the greyish tinge to the otherwise white sky suggests that it will turn sooner or later. Due to the elevation, the mountain is usually covered in snow from November to April. It’s another reason I love it, and instead of being annoyed when it starts to stick, I just laugh joyously, crank up the volume on theradio as the holiday songs fill my car, and pay close attention as I drive.
By the time I’m finally pulling into the driveway outside of the rustic yet modern structure, it’s coming down hard enough that it brings a hush with it. Or maybe that’s because I had to turn the radio off,Last Christmasplaying for the countless time as I wound my way up the mountain. No one came out to plow the narrow path before my arrival; the layer of salt that had been down helped, but it was a slushy mess as I went higher and higher.
It’s a relief when I park, grabbing one of the two duffel bags I packed. I’ll go back for the other one later. For now, I just want to get inside, shake the snow out of my hair, and sink down on the comfy couch in the living room while the fire roars.
Though the fireplace is unlit, the chalet is warm when I unlock the door and enter the front room. The lights are already on, like it’s been waiting for me to get here. Just like last year, there’s a Christmas tree in the corner; small and tasteful, it’s strung with white lights that almost twinkle. It fits the understated holiday decor, with just the right amount of cheer that I can’t forget that it’s Christmas.
Dropping my bag by the door, I exhale. Already it feels like a huge weight’s been lifted off my shoulders.
Safe. That’s why I enjoyed my week-long stay last year so much. The cozy chalet with its fancy bathroomon the second floor, plus the two bedrooms it came with—because, for some reason, none of the chalets available for rent had a single—had given me the one thing I really wanted for Christmas: a handful of days when I feltsafefor the first time since those five men turned sheltered, naïve Noelle Halliday into a guarded loner who gave up on dating and abandoned her friends because she saw ghosts every fucking where.
Even before anyone died, I saw them, and I only hope I don’t during this getaway.
This is important to me. Especially since, while I didn’t make a Christmas list this year, I’ve been focusing on my New Year’s resolutions.
I want to get back out there. Find a job that uses my communications degree. Start dating again. Get in touch with the friendsIghosted. Those assholes stole two years of my life. Now that they’re all dead, maybe it’s time I start living again.
I’d already come to that conclusion before I found out what happened to Charles Dutton. Now? I’m even more determined, though I have a handful of days left to this year before I’m ready to become Noelle 2.0, the new and improved version.
For the moment, I plan on drinking my champagne—I refuse to get drunk again, but a slight buzz won’t hurt—and curling up in front of the fire once I get it going, gorging myself on the cheese board that I ordered for my first night in the chalet, and basicallyjust enjoying the fact that I’m still here. I survived. It’s Christmas again, and nothing will go wrong.
And I get to believe that for about an hour before the unexpected knock at the front door of the chalet has me jolting in place, spilling half my glass of champagne onto the hardwood floor.
THREE
SERENDIPITY
NOELLE
Instead of going to the door, I grab a dish towel from the kitchen so that I can mop up the champagne. And maybe that’s because I was hoping that, if I took the time to get rid of it before it turned the hardwood floor sticky, whoever was outside would get the hint and go away… but, no. Considering they knock twice more while I’m cleaning up the mess, then again while I’m tossing the wet towel into the sink, I’m not so sure it’ll work.
I blame the lights. Though they were on when I arrived at the chalet, they must seem like a beacon in the snowy night. It’s dark, and it’s cold out on this part of the mountain, and the last time I snuck a peekoutside, there were at least three inches of fresh powder down. The lights would gleam out of the window to any passersby.
Only there shouldn’tbeany passersby. I’m alone, secluded, and I don’t understand why there should be anyone out in the storm, let alone knocking at my door.
But there it is again. Not someone pounding against the wood or even banging. It’s a firm knock, and I get the vibe that whoever out there expects me to answer. Even if it’s cold and snowy, they’ll stay parked right on the porch until I do.
Glaring at the closed door, my heart slams against my ribs.
What if someone got lost? What if they got stuck in the snow on their way to another chalet? What if it’s one of the employees from the ski resort that rents out the chalets coming to check on me? Sure, it could be a murderer, too, but what if it’s someone who needs help?
I don’t think I could forgive myself if I locked myself in my room upstairs and there really was someone in need out there. And maybe it’s my trauma-induced anxiety twisting me up, but all I can imagine is opening the door tomorrow after the snowstorm ends and finding a person-turned-popsicle because I plugged my fingers in my ears, sayingla, la, la.
Damn it. I have to open the door, and pausing onlyto grab my phone in case I need to call for help, that’s what I do.
The man standing on the porch is tall and dark-haired, with dark eyes, a handsome face, and snow covering his hair, his ski jacket, and his pants. My first impression is that he’s dressed too nicely for the weather, if somewhat warm enough, when I notice the gloves he’s wearing.
The gloves, and the printed-out piece of paper he’s holding onto.
He clears his throat, and my head jerks up, meeting the apologetic expression on his face.
“Hi,” he says, polite and easy. “Sorry to bother you, but I’m beginning to think there might’ve been a mix-up.”
I don’t understand. “A mix-up?” I echo. “About what?”
He lifts the paper slightly. “My name is Patrick and I… I actually rented this place for the holidays.” Then, tapping with his shoe, he draws my attention to the luggage case set by his foot. “They told me the door would be left open for me, but it was locked so I saw the lights and knocked.”
Yeah. It was locked because I wasn’t about to leave the front door open when there’s no one else around for miles.
