The double sinks, large fluffy towels, and candles lining the edges of the tub all radiate a sense of relaxation and luxury.
I'm speechless, standing here, just taking it all in.
“Bash, this place is lovely.”
“I'm glad you like it,” he says, smiling again. “Why don't you get settled in. I'm going to start a fire and rustleup something to eat. The fridge and pantry are stocked for the holiday, so I'll set us up with something to snack on.”
“That sounds great.”
After a light meal by the fire, we leave to get the Christmas tree. Bash takes us to a popular U-cut farm nearby that offers white, Black Hills, and blue spruce varieties. Nestled in a snow-covered valley, Frosty Ridge Tree Farm has been a holiday tradition for generations.
It doesn't take long to find the ideal one. Bash leads us to the back of the farm, near the edge of the property, where the larger trees grow. This area is still full of tall, majestic blue spruces that haven't been picked over yet. With the cabin's high ceilings and oversized windows, we need something big, and it's perfect. Its branches are full and strong enough to hold heavy ornaments. The color is just right, a soft bluish tone that evokes winter and Christmas.
In no time, Bash has the tree chopped down and piled onto the SUV so we can haul it back to the cabin. As we struggle to drag the bundled tree inside, Bash and I keep slipping and falling in the snow. When we finally manage to get the door shut behind us, we collapse onto the couch, laughing and trying to catch our breath as we take in the disaster around us.
Pine needles and snow leave a messy path from the door to the windows, where the tree still lies trussed up. The fire has died down, leaving only cherry-red ashes, and a lingering chill creeps in after keeping the door open so long.
“I'll sweep up while you get the tree stand,” I tell Bash once I can speak.
“Deal,” he replies, jumping to his feet. “I'll get the ornaments out while I'm at it.”
The next hour feels like a scene from a Hallmark movie. I sweep the floor and make us hot chocolate while Bash brings down boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic and rebuilds the fire. In front of the roaring flames, we decorate the tree and laugh. I haven't had this much fun in a long time, and for a while, I actually forget the trainwreck my life has turned into.
I watch Bash hang an ornament as he tells me stories of his childhood Christmases. He speaks warmly of his family and their traditions.
“Most everyone will be arriving first thing in the morning,” Bash says, “and after we get the turkey cooking, we'll open gifts. Speaking of which, I have something for you that I want to give you tonight.”
He leaves the room and returns with a tiny, gift-wrapped box. He hands it to me, and we sit on the couch. Insideis a thin gold necklace. The pendant is a pair of ice skates with a small diamond sparkling in the center.
“Bash, it's beautiful,” I coo. “Here, help me put it on.” I remove it from the box and hand it to him, pulling my hair to the side. His fingers softly brush my neck, and I have to stifle a shiver. I turn around, holding the pendant between my fingers, admiring it.
“Thank you, Bash.” I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him for a moment.
When I pull away, I head toward the stairs. “I've got something for you, too,” I shout over my shoulder.
He yells something back that I can't quite hear. I'm already at the door to my room, my heart pounding in my ears. I grab the small brown package off the nightstand and head back downstairs.
“It's not really much,” I confess shyly. “But it's special to me, and I know how much you like hockey…” I spill the words out in a rush, slightly embarrassed to be giving him something so personal.
He slips off the raffia, removing the holly sprig as he pulls the string free. The rough brown paper crinkles as he unwraps it slowly, almost like he's handling something precious. I inhale sharply, watching his face, hoping he feels the same way I do about what's inside.
As he opens the box and stares at the hockey puck nestled there, his face is unreadable. He squints at it, lifting it closer and turning it slowly in his hands. Then, he looks at me in wonder, the broadest grin on his face, that darn dimple popping.
“Is this autographed by Gord Smith?” he asks incredulously, holding the puck almost reverently.
I nod, smiling.
“He was a beast back in the day as the right wing for the Thunder Bay Titans. He led the league in 2001 with fifty-two goals and forty-nine assists,” he shouts eagerly.
I watch Bash as he stares at the puck. My smile lingers, softer now. I'm pleased that the puck I had Dad autograph means something to him.
“And he won the league MVP in 2004,” he adds. “How did you get this? He's been retired and basically in hiding for years.”
“Um… he's my dad.”
Bash jerks his head up. “What? Gord Smith is your dad.”
“Yep.”
