by Jenny Hale
When she got to the doorway, Stitches the cat snaked around her ankles. The calico stray cat-turned-pet had gotten her name by sneaking out of the cold and nestling in the cushiony fabric of Gran’s sewing box last winter. She was thrifty, which was a good trait to have when she was shut in all season with Archie. Gran’s hound dog was famous for touring the inn of his own accord and only showing up when he felt like it, or when Stitches got comfortable.
“The trick is,” Gran was telling Heidi, the same way she used to tell Scarlett when she was that age, “you need to preheat your sheet pan before putting the pie in the oven, and then place it on the lowest rack. That prevents the bottom of the crust from getting gooey.” Heidi looked on intently as Gran held one of her famous apple pies, her bright red Christmas manicure visible from across the room. Scarlett noticed Gran had the house phone in front of her and the booking record open—she was having to take reservations during her family time because Esther wasn’t there to do it.
Scarlett hung her coat and handbag on one of the chairs. Her father was at the kitchen table already, his novel sitting beside him, nearly lost in the clutter of cooking utensils and bowls. She doubted he’d have a chance to read today, since they needed to help Gran with the cooking and decorating as well as unpacking.
Reading was how Blue spent most of his vacation time, and Scarlett adored that about him. In the evenings growing up, she’d bundle herself in a blanket on the sofa beside him, tuck her feet under her, and the two of them would read until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore.
He had his sleeves rolled to his elbows and he was kneading dough, the ball on his Santa hat dangling in front of him, making her smile. Her movement distracted him and he looked up. “Hey there,” he said. “Is Uncle Joe doing okay with the tree?”
“Yes.” Scarlett went over to Gran and kissed her cheek. “He’s almost finished with it. Hi, Gran.”
“Oh, my dear Scarlett, I’ve missed you! Give me a squeeze.” Gran wrapped her thin arms around Scarlett, the warmth from the oven making her grandmother’s clothes feel like they’d just been pulled from the dryer, her jasmine scent filling Scarlett’s lungs and taking her back to a time when her worries were few and her entire future was ahead of her.
“I’m going to go upstairs and unpack,” Blue said, standing up and clapping the flour off his hands after placing the well-kneaded dough into a bowl. “Call me if you need me.” He gave Gran a hug and headed upstairs.
Heidi used the moment to excuse herself as well and headed to her room, where she would undoubtedly try to call her boyfriend again. Stitches mewed at Blue from her perch on the windowsill as he passed by. That window held a view of the entire valley from the back of the house. Today it was a vast expanse of white, plunging down and then back up, desolate, quiet. Nothing like the cheery, welcoming atmosphere inside.
“All the baskets are done!” Aunt Alice said, entering the room. Scarlett had always looked up to her aunt. She was stylish and she had the heart of an angel. “Scarlett,” she said, crossing the room with her arms open wide. “Are you going to bake with me and your gran?”
“Of course,” Scarlett said, embracing Aunt Alice. “Tell me you’re going to make those chocolate peanut butter cookies you bake every Christmas.”
“The twins have been cracking peanuts for days,” she said, with a smile that lit up her face and showed off the sparkle in her eyes. She took Scarlett by the upper arms tenderly. “Oh, I’m so happy you’re here. I just love it when we can all get together. Was it tough to get away from work?” Her aunt’s face dropped in concern. “You’ve got that new job now. Your dad says it’s quite demanding on your time.”
Gran eyed her and seemed to hide a disappointed look by wiping down the counter. When she was a child, Scarlett had told Gran that she’d planned to live at White Oaks forever. Back then she’d meant it, but life had carried her away to something different. Gran was supportive of her career, but Scarlett always wondered if Gran had hoped she would make good on her childhood promise.
“It’s not too bad.” Scarlett didn’t mention the fact that she’d left a massive pile of work on her desk, and it would all be waiting for her after the holiday. She hoped she’d be in the right mindset to tackle it after telling Gran the news.
“That can’t be possible,” Gran said, pulling Scarlett’s focus back to her grandmother. Gran was now headfirst in the refrigerator, rummaging around. “How in the world…?” She set a few dishes on the counter and rearranged bottles, clearly searching for something. “I think I’m out of butter.” She finally stopped and regarded Scarlett in pure shock. “I’ve never been out of butter in my entire life. How did I manage to do it when I’m trying to prepare for the holiday season? I can’t finish my cookies now.”
Scarlett smirked, just the sight of Gran warming her.
“Do you need me to go back out?” Scarlett asked.
“Oh, I’d hate to make anyone go out in this mess. And you just got here,” Gran said, peering into the fridge once more, still obviously baffled as to how she could let such an important ingredient run out.
Gran used butter for almost everything. Not only did she cook with it, Scarlett had seen her grease her snow shovel with butter, convinced it kept the snow from sticking to the metal; she shined her leather shoes with it; she’d even managed to get gum out of Scarlett’s hair when she was a child, using butter.
“It’s no problem. I’ll take Dad’s truck.” Scarlett reached over and rubbed Stitches, making her purr. She really didn’t mind going, and it might also give her an opportunity to be alone to make that call to Charles Bryant. “Is there anything else we need?”
Gran tapped her chin in contemplation. “We could use more milk… But I think that’s it for me. Do you need anything, Alice?”
“I don’t think so…” Alice said, opening the door of the oven to check the pie, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting toward her.
Scarlett grabbed her handbag and fished around inside it for the keys to the truck. “Text me if you all think of anything else.”
“All right, dear. Be careful.”
Scarlett slid her coat on and headed outside, immediately twisting toward the inn to shield herself from a brutal gust of icy air. With few visitors from November to March, the inn’s wide-stretching porches were buried in snow all the way down to the valleys below. She was glad that her dad and Uncle Joe were there now to help clear them. The inn sat on the edge of a mountaintop, clinging to its foundation in the harsh weather, most roads incredibly slippery and icy, with the exception of the one route into Silver Falls that was plowed.
Scarlett got into the truck and shut the door, glad that a bit of heat from their original journey still lingered in the vehicle. She pulled the card from her pocket and peered down at the number. A tiny seed of optimism began to sprout as she took out her phone. But then she realized that there still wasn’t any service at the moment. She clicked off her phone. She’d try again once she got into town.
With a deep breath, she cranked the engine and then slowly turned toward the main road. This stretch was long and winding, but not terribly hilly, so she felt comfortable driving it. The first time she’d sat in the driver’s seat of Blue’s truck was when she was sixteen years old. With her driver’s license still warm from the printer, Blue had made her get into the truck to learn the way the gearshift worked, right there at the DMV. He’d told her that she’d have to learn the tricky clutch on dry ground before she took it up to White Oaks. He’d spent many days, patient as ever, helping her get used to working the clutch to change gears. She’d lost count of how many times the old truck had stalled in the process. After a few months of practice, she’d made the trek up the mountain. To this day, she couldn’t drive a single stick shift except for that truck.
Scarlett clicked on the old radio to Christmas tunes and bumped her way through the snow toward town, happy to have this time to herself. She’d felt a little better seeing Gran. The festive atmos
phere would help to keep the worries about losing the inn away for a short while. She wanted to keep them away for good; that business card was her only hope.
While driving the truck in regular weather was something she could do in her sleep, maneuvering it in the snow still didn’t come quite as easily for her as it had for her dad. She had to grip the steering wheel with both hands, and the only time she let go was to downshift, her foot reaching as far as it could to press in the clutch. But now, after many years of practice, she was much better.
The old porch lanterns on either side of the door of the general store were draped in fresh greenery with silver bows. A wreath made from spruce with white twinkle lights hung on the glass door, the reflection glimmering like stars in the night sky. In the center of the wreath was a small woven dream catcher. Ato Harris was behind the counter. Ato was short for Atohi, a Cherokee word for “woods.” His family had moved here three generations ago from Mississippi. With the exception of Christmas, the store hadn’t closed a single day since they’d first opened it.
Ato was ringing up a customer when Scarlett entered. His shiny straight black hair, usually secured at the base of his neck, was left loose tonight. He caught her eye as she walked to the back, his happiness upon seeing her evident in the creases at the edges of his deep brown eyes.
Scarlett pulled a gallon of milk and butter from the refrigerated section at the back and headed up to the counter. She delighted in seeing the table behind Ato. It was still covered in remnants of his craft-making, the wooden top stained darker from the clay he used to make his stone-shaped pots; a bucket of those stones—round and so smooth they felt like glass—beside a decorative basket that was half woven. He’d told her once that crafting was a way to force balance on himself in a world full of noise. She’d often found him weaving in the quiet moments between customers—no music, no other sounds, just the snapping of the rattan as he fed it through the other pieces and broke it off.
“Hello, Miss Scarlett,” he said in that husky, deep voice of his. “Glad to see you’re in town. I hope you’ve brought the whole family with you.”
“They’re all here,” she said, his friendliness making her feel nostalgic for the days of her childhood, when she came in barefoot from swimming all day, her hair wet from the falls, holding a handful of change to buy the penny candy that lined the front counter. He’d always given her an extra piece or two.
Ato rang up her items and put them in a bag. He dropped two hand-painted bookmarks made of thin wood into the bag as well. “I hope you get some time this busy season to breathe, read, enjoy your calm.” He held the bag out to her.
“Me too,” she said, taking the bag. She smiled at him, said goodbye, and then headed out the door.
When Scarlett got into the truck, she set the bag in the passenger seat and started the engine to get the heat running. She contemplated Ato’s comment about calm. There was no way Scarlett could be calm until she knew that she had a solid plan for the inn. She grabbed her phone and the business card for Charles Bryant. When she opened her phone screen, she had two bars of service—it was a sign. With a deep breath, she steadied herself and dialed the number.
Three
We’re sorry. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try your call again.
Scarlett gazed down at Charles Bryant’s card. She’d dialed it twice and both times she’d gotten the automated message that the number wasn’t working, so she definitely hadn’t dialed it incorrectly. That was disappointing. She scanned the name of his business:
Crestwood Development
Bringing you the finest in upscale comforts.
Scarlett immediately texted her dad. It was her go-to coping strategy whenever she struggled for what to do next. Perhaps it was because, growing up, it had been only the two of them. He was her rock, and he always made her feel better.
I just tried the number for Charles Bryant and it’s out of service, she typed.
Right away, a response came through: Please don’t spend your entire Christmas worrying about this. Try to enjoy the holiday. Things have a way of working out. I love you.
She texted back: Love you too.
But for once she didn’t believe him. Not this time. She opened the search engine on her phone and typed in “Crestwood Development.” Nothing. Wouldn’t they have a website? Then she typed in “Charles Bryant” and scrolled through the results, scanning the first three:
Crestwood Development CEO Charles Bryant makes waves…
New resort to be built by Crestwood Development, Charles Bryant says…
Charles Bryant to acquire three blocks for development at…
None of them hit the mark. They all just seemed like news articles rather than contact information. She’d have to find some other way to get in touch with Mr. Bryant, and with the way the Wi-Fi was working at the inn, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to search alternative methods to find him any time soon. Cappy said he was in town. Perhaps she’d run into him. Except she had no idea what he looked like. Disheartened, she tossed the card on the seat next to her and pulled out onto the main road, headed for White Oaks.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she pondered what the moment would be like after Christmas when they broke the news to Gran about selling. Who was going to bring it up first? Would they sit her down formally, maybe make her a cup of coffee before jumping into the discussion? Just the thought soured Scarlett’s stomach. Where would Gran go? Would she live with Scarlett’s father at his home?
Blue’s house was small—a little two-bedroom in East Nashville. Gran loved the yard at the inn that she and Pappy had made by clearing the brush and planting roses and other annuals, often spending hours in the gardens outside. She’d never be happy in the crammed city space. Gran spent her free time gardening, taking long walks, and baking. How would she survive in an urban area? But her father was the best candidate for taking Gran in because Scarlett’s little apartment was even smaller, and Uncle Joe and Aunt Alice were too busy. Uncle Joe worked crazy hours, and of course they had three kids. She could live with Aunt Beth, but Beth was always running, never still. Gran would be alone a lot, and when Beth was at home, she was hosting neighborhood card games and wine nights, staying up way past Gran’s bedtime. Scarlett contemplated the possibilities most of the way back to White Oaks, but she wasn’t any closer to an answer when she rounded the final turn.
As she hugged her side of the bend in the road, bumping over a small bridge that ran across a stream—its water a solid sheet of ice—something caught her eye through the gray haze of snow. She slowed her speed to get a look at the light in the distance. It was a dull yellow, and it appeared to be flickering because the trees she was passing kept obscuring it. It was way out on the edge of the mountain. She’d never noticed any light out there before, and, as she pulled into the drive at White Oaks, she speculated about what it could be. It wasn’t a boat out on the river because it was unmoving. The road didn’t go that far, so it couldn’t be someone’s headlights—there was only one light, anyway. A motorcycle? In the dead of winter, during a snowstorm? Definitely not. Maybe Gran would know. Scarlett cut the engine, grabbed the grocery bag, and headed inside.
Riley and Mason, Scarlett’s twin eight-year-old cousins, were at the table when Scarlett came into the kitchen. Riley was petite, with ringlets of golden curls that fell along her shoulders, while Mason was stout, tall, and had hair that matched the tiny freckles across his nose. They were both on their knees, nibbling on cookies from a Christmas platter in the center of the table. Stitches was on one side of them and Archie was on the other.
“I think Stitches is after their milk and Archie is hoping for a treat,” Gran said, amused, as Scarlett reached into the bag and handed her the butter. While Gran opened it to put some in her batter, Scarlett put the milk into the fridge.
“How are the cookies, kiddos?” she asked while Gran stirred the ingredients together, pressing the large ceramic bowl ag
ainst her aproned bosom to get leverage, her thin arm straining against the thickness of the dough.
“Me-ish-ish,” Mason said, his hand over his mouth, his lips barely able to move while holding in all the cookies.
“Please, no talking with full mouths,” Gran said, with a wink, over her bowl.
Scarlett grinned and translated. “Delicious?”
Riley nodded.
“May I?” Scarlett stretched over the table for a Christmas tree sugar cookie that was piped with green icing. Still chewing, Mason slid the plate her way to lessen her reach.
Scarlett took the cookie and walked over to Gran. “What are you making?” she asked, taking a bite and peeking over Gran’s shoulder at the batter. It looked to be some sort of gingerbread. The unique sweet yet salty mixture of Gran’s sugar cookie recipe was to die for, but her gingerbread was simply outstanding. Scarlett had always wanted the recipe but had never asked for it, for fear she’d make them so often that they’d lose their Christmas charm.
“I’m making the pieces for the mini gingerbread houses for the Christmas games,” Gran said, pointing her large wooden spoon at the metal molds on the counter. “How was the road into town?”
“Not bad,” Scarlett said. “Oh, that reminds me… There was a strange light on the side of the mountain. I’ve never seen it there before. It was down the hill from the bridge.”
Gran searched the air above Scarlett’s head for an answer. “Down the hill? Isn’t that Amos’s land?”
“It did look like a porch light, now that I think about it.”
“That’s most likely what it was. No one’s lived there since Amos died, so you probably aren’t used to seeing any light coming from the house in the dark.”
Scarlett felt the excitement wriggle up her spine. Could Charles Bryant have come back to his father’s home? The house wasn’t in the best shape…
Gran frowned. “I have no idea who it could be. I thought it was still empty.”