Donovan didn’t stop at the hardware store or anywhere else in town. Instead, he drove straight through, not wanting to speak to anyone who was left. Surely, being back in the familiar surroundings of his grandparents’ lodge would help acclimate him to being plunged into his past, plus help him get used to the far-north weather in the privacy of the lodge. He was freezing.
But three miles later, he was disappointed once again. Seeing the neglected condition of the lodge and the three surrounding cabins was like taking an ice pick to his heart. If his grandparents were still alive, they’d be devastated at how the pride of the borough had decayed into a shabby mess. His grandparents had always kept Home Sweet Home Lodge in pristine condition, making sure the exterior was welcoming for guests and for the women of his grandmother’s monthly Sisterhood of the Quilt gatherings. He chuckled derisively. “Now it’s not even fit for the Addams Family.”
Donovan fought the urge to turn the rental car around and drive back to Anchorage. Instead, he pulled the car around the circular driveway and parked near the door. As he got out, a 4×4 truck pulled in behind him. At first, Donovan assumed the driver was looking for a place to turn around, but then the vehicle stopped and an old man eased out of the truck. He didn’t immediately walk Donovan’s way but reached back into the vehicle, pulling something out and holding it in his arms. Two seconds later, Donovan recognized both the man and the “package.”
Mr. Brewster waved his free hand. “I saw you driving through town and decided to bring you a present.”
“Nice to see you, Mr. Brewster. But that doesn’t look like a present. That looks like a dog.” A puppy. A very small puppy, but definitely a Bernese Mountain Dog. Donovan used to earn extra cash helping Mr. Brewster with his prize Berners, especially when there was a new litter.
Mr. Brewster handed over the puppy. “I brought you this runt. I don’t have time for him, as he’s not worth anything to me as he is. He’s not thriving, and I remember how, back in the day, you had a soft spot for the sickly ones.” He patted the pup in Donovan’s arms. “Thought you could do your magic with this young’un.”
“I-I—” Donovan tried.
“You always wanted a Berner for yourself. Now you’ve come home at last, he can keep you company while you fix up the place.”
Donovan went speechless, unable to tell Mr. Brewster that he had it wrong on all accounts, except for how he’d wanted a Bernese when he was a kid. Dad had said no, not out of meanness, but because he had his hands full with the pups he had already, as he put it. Donovan understood better now that Dad really had a lot on his plate—working full time, raising him and Beau all alone. Donovan’s mom had walked out on them when Donovan was only six. Carrie Stone ran to places unknown was what he heard one of the women of Sweet Home say about his mom. He didn’t know where his mother was . . . and he didn’t care. She’d left him a couple of legacies that he fought against every day: alcoholism and the urge to run when things got tough.
When Mommie Dearest left, he and Beau started hanging out with Hope, their next-door neighbor. Hope scolded and mothered them, as if she’d known exactly what they needed. To be fair, he and Beau helped the then-prissy Hope toughen up, playing war in the woods behind their houses and later hunting, fishing, and foraging in the forest.
Mr. Brewster was walking away quickly, waving a hand over his shoulder. “See you soon. Call me if you need help with the hardware store.”
Donovan got the sneaking suspicion that the old man was trying to coerce him into staying. But it just wasn’t happening—runt or no. Donovan no longer called this place home.
He looked down at the dog. “What am I going to do with you?”
The helpless furball gazed back, wagging his tail a mile a minute and staring up at him with unadulterated love in his eyes.
Donovan hadn’t seen that kind of adoration since he was a teen. Instead of a dog, it was Hope who’d been looking at him then.
Man, he needed to stop thinking about her. Yes, every now and then in the last seventeen years, she’d crossed his mind. Maybe once or twice a day. But since his grandfather died and the will had been read, Donovan couldn’t keep thoughts of Hope from constantly popping up. The way her dark hair framed her pixie face, her taking-it-all-in brown eyes, and her indelible smile. Except after the accident.
The puppy slobbered on his hand. Donovan frowned at him, but the darn dog just gazed back lovingly.
“Let’s go inside.” Donovan walked up the scraped walkway, wondering who had shoveled the snow. Before digging the key out of his pocket, he set the dog on his feet. “Make your business here. Nan wouldn’t care for a pup peeing in her house.” But Nan had been gone a long time. Remembering brought on the guilt for what he’d done to his grandmother—leaving her when she needed him most.
The dog stood in the snow, appearing shocked to be exiled from Donovan’s warm arms. The pup looked up at him with pitiful eyes.
“Don’t give me that look. Be a man.” Donovan shook his head. “I mean, be a big dog, Beau.” It had just come out, his brother’s name, and it rocked Donovan. “I really am rattled, aren’t I?” He stared at the dog a little longer. “I’ll call you Boomer for now. And whoever your new owners turn out to be, they can rename you whatever they like.”
Little Boomer took a leak, then stumbled back to Donovan, looking ready to get lifted out of the snow and snuggled back in his arms. After he picked him up and before he could put the key in the lock, another vehicle pulled up. It was Rick Miller, Donovan’s platoon mate, friend, and business manager. Rick had seen Donovan at his worst and at his best. Donovan trusted him like no other.
Rick unfolded his large frame from the truck, ran a hand through his short black hair, and then gave a low whistle. “Dude, you should’ve said something. This is some view.” He turned around in a circle, taking in the woods, the mountains off in the distance, the river running behind the lodge, and the frosted meadow to the west.
The river he and Hope used to fish in, the woods they’d played in. A knot formed in Donovan’s chest, and he pushed away the warm memory of his nearly perfect childhood.
He cleared his throat when he realized Rick was studying him. Donovan pointed to the path leading to the back of the lodge. It had been shoveled, too. “There’s more. The river has some of the best fishing in the borough.”
“Show me,” Rick said enthusiastically.
“This way.” Donovan tucked the dog inside his coat, not wanting the pup to catch a chill. Which was ridiculous, as Berners were made for this weather. He glanced down at Boomer’s head poking out and saw that the pup had already fallen asleep.
Rick slipped his messenger bag under his arm and pointed to the dog. “Who’s your pal?”
“Boomer. An old friend of my grandfather’s brought him by.” But Donovan couldn’t keep him. These types of dogs loved hard work and cold weather. It would be cruel to take him to Florida to laze around the pool.
Rick rubbed Boomer’s head as he stepped around Donovan, heading to the back. “Come on. Show me this river before I freeze.” Rick had grown up in Louisiana with his grandparents. He’d spent two years in the oil fields before joining the Marines.
Donovan caught up with him just as Rick started to climb the stairs to the porch.
“Be careful,” Donovan warned. “Looks like there’s dry rot. It’s probably not safe after all these years.”
Rick jumped up and down on the step he’d landed on, testing it. “This one seems fine.” He kept climbing and Donovan followed him up the rickety steps.
When Rick reached the top, he stopped and stared at the view. “I know you want to sell, but this place could be a gold mine. I could see fishermen paying a bundle to stay here.” He glanced back at the structure. “After you fix up the exterior, of course.”
Donovan grunted. He had no intention of fixing up the place, beyond making it sellable.
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“Listen to me. I’m your business manager, remember? This place is cash in the bank.” Rick looked at him then. “You’ve been searching for a new venture. I believe you’ve found it.”
“Yeah, I don’t know.” But Donovan did know. He’d said good-bye to Sweet Home, and he’d meant it. He was the kind of guy who never looked back. Being back in Alaska caused ancient history to resurface, making him wish for a handful of Rolaids.
“I know that look. You’re going to ignore me and my excellent advice, even though you know I’m right.”
Donovan frowned. “Let’s get inside, so I can sign those papers.” He unlocked the French doors using one of the keys that the attorney had given him when the will was read. Donovan pushed open the doors and then walked into the past.
The massive dining table stretched horizontally in front of him, covered with a sheet. In fact, all the wooden furniture was covered with sheets, but he knew, by heart, every piece underneath—the dish hutch that rose to the ceiling, the side table with drawers for the tableware, the upright piano that was probably out of tune by now, and the long bar, where Nan had hosted her famous yearly Wines of Alaska tastings.
Donovan pulled out the waking puppy and set him on the floor.
Rick followed him inside. “Wow. I expected the place to be empty. But you could move right in.”
Donovan slid the sheet from the dining table and pulled out two chairs. “Have a seat while I see about getting the heat going.” But he hadn’t thought to have the utilities turned on, which seemed like an important oversight now, especially since October felt like full-on winter. It might not have done him any good anyway. After seventeen years, he certainly didn’t want to flip a switch before having the furnace checked out. But maybe he could start a fire in the large hearth, which could heat a good portion of the downstairs.
Beside the fireplace he found tinder, seasoned wood, and matches that looked like they’d been placed there just this morning.
Boomer toddled into the open living room and looked up at him.
“So, pup, do you think the wood was left here by the same person who shoveled the walkway for us?”
In answer, the dog yawned and collapsed at Donovan’s feet.
Donovan stacked tinder and logs on the grate, struck a match, and watched while it took off. When he was sure it was going, he secured the screen in front of the hearth before picking up the dog and heading back to where Rick had spread the documents on the table.
“I’ve liquidated assets, as you requested,” Rick said. “Instead of buying a place in Florida, though, my advice is for you to sink the money into this place.”
Sink was probably right. “You’re sounding like a broken record, Rick.” Donovan handed the dog off to him. Then, with pen in hand, he sat down in front of the papers.
“After you get those signed, I’ll take them in to town to mail them. I assume there isn’t a fax machine anywhere.”
“There may not even be a post office in Sweet Home anymore either. It used to be in the hardware store.” It was starting to dawn on Donovan how not having the hardware store might’ve affected the residents of Sweet Home. He tried to remember which nearby towns might have a post office. Even the closest might be an hour away.
Rick pulled out his phone. “I’ll do a search.”
Donovan anticipated the frown on his face. “No service?”
“Not a single bar,” Rick said.
“What did you expect? It’s the wilds of Alaska.”
The wind whipped outside, and the puppy whimpered. Rick handed the dog back. “Are you puppy-sitting, or do you own him?”
Donovan grunted again, not really having an answer for his friend. “Drive back to town to see if you have any cell service, or you can ask at the Hungry Bear where to mail those.”
“Okay. Will do. By the way, I didn’t see a hotel on the main strip, if you can call it that,” Rick said. “Is there a B-and-B in town?”
Donovan motioned to where they were standing. “As far as I know, this is the only B-and-B for miles.” He hoped there were beds upstairs for them to sleep in and quilts to crawl under, or they were going to be freezing tonight—something else he should’ve anticipated.
“Do you need anything while I’m in town?”
“No. I’m good.”
“I’ll be back,” Rick said, in his best Schwarzenegger voice, as he walked out the front door.
“Fine.” Donovan wanted to explore the rest of the house alone anyway. He glanced down at the sleeping runt, who was keeping him company whether Donovan wanted him to or not.
But the moment he heard Rick pull out of the driveway, Donovan thought of two things he needed. One: find out how to get the gas, electric, and water reconnected. Two: Boomer would need dog food.
“You’ll need a bed, too, because I won’t share mine.” He frowned down at the pup. “Let’s take a look at the lodge first. Then we’ll head into town.”
The dog squirmed, so Donovan set him to his feet. Faltering some, Boomer followed Donovan from the dining room, down the hall, and into Nan’s spacious sewing room, which had easily accommodated all the members of the Sisterhood of the Quilt and their sewing machines. But now the long tables sat empty, devoid of sewing machines, notions, and fabric. Everything else was in its place—a stack of patterns on a side table, a scattering of pincushions, and some dust-covered scissors. The floor was still littered with fabric scraps from one of Nan’s sewing sprees. The white walls had gleamed back then but were dingy now. The love and laughter from this room were just a faded memory, too.
He and Beau had always been welcome when the Sisterhood of the Quilt gathered, as the motherless Stone boys needed some mothering, according to the ladies—but it had felt a bit like smothering. The two brothers had been taught, under duress, how to use a sewing machine while both of them complained loudly. But they’d made superhero capes and had learned how to hem their own jeans. Nan would laugh, reminiscing about how she’d made Grandpa learn to sew before she agreed to marry him. Charles, you need to learn to take care of yourself. In case anything ever happens to me. At the memory, Donovan choked up. Something did happen to his grandmother—Beau’s death. Grandpa spent long years alone after Nan’s heart gave out. Heartbroken over Beau. At least now his grandparents were together again . . . in heaven.
And now, it was Donovan who was left alone. The pup at his feet growled. Okay, maybe not completely alone.
Next, they traveled to his grandmother’s office, which had once been a closet. Like the sewing room, this room had been left untouched. Donovan sat in the chair and looked around, trying to see the things Nan saw when she sat here. But something was amiss. All the newspaper clippings tacked to the wall—articles about quilt shows, first-prize quilts, and fabric sale sheets—were placed neatly, organized, one against another. But over the top of these articles was an old newspaper clipping that had been tacked at an angle, making Donovan wonder if it had been placed there in anger . . . by his grandfather, after Nan had died.
Donovan pulled it from its place and read the headline: MADD Expands into Sweet Home. The article was dated six months after Beau’s death. He skimmed the rest, seeing that Hope’s mom had founded a chapter of MADD in their area. Not only that, but Penny McKnight had forced the city council to declare the town dry.
For a moment, Donovan couldn’t believe Penny would start up MADD, because it felt like a slam against Hope. But he’d seen people do strange things when they were grieving. Just look at how he had walked away from his town, his family, and his friends without glancing back. Grandpa wasn’t the angry type, but Donovan could imagine his grandfather pinning this article here in his grief, saying, Too little, too late.
Donovan tacked the newspaper clipping back on the wall, aching for a drink to dull his senses. Man, he really needed cell service to call his sponsor. He wondered if he’d have to
make the long haul back to Anchorage just to catch a meeting.
First, though, he needed to head into town to get some dog food, the last thing he’d thought he’d be buying when he woke this morning. Begrudgingly he picked up the puppy and headed for the door. He was in no mood to be chatty, and once he got to town, he hoped like hell he didn’t run into anyone he knew.
Chapter 2
HOPE TIED HER boots, pulled her parka over her polo, and then headed for the Hungry Bear. When Piney had texted this morning, telling her not to come in until three, anyone else might’ve welcomed the extra time off. Not Hope. The utility bill was due Friday and there wasn’t enough in her account for the automatic withdrawal. After work tonight, she’d have to use the Hungry Bear’s Internet to remove the autopay, then call the electric company to tell them she could make a partial payment and pay the rest later, something she’d done before.
Hope didn’t begrudge Piney. October was the off-season. Actually, Sweet Home didn’t have an on-season anymore. Not since the quirky A Stone’s Throw Hardware & Haberdashery closed and people stopped coming to town to see it, and since Home Sweet Home Lodge stopped bringing in fishermen and outdoor enthusiasts, making things dire in Sweet Home during the winter. The Hungry Bear had to support three employees—Piney, Sparkle, and Hope. And with Sparkle’s medical bills piling up from her surgery, things were rough at Piney’s.
Hope had always gotten by before and she would this time, too. She let it go.
What Hope couldn’t get over was how badly the camping trip with Ella had gone the past two days. It had been pretty much a bust. Her daughter wouldn’t discuss her drinking problem or her grief over her grandfather dying. Yes, they’d enjoyed adding a string of used spools to the Memory Tree and sprucing up the branches where some of the ribbons had come off, or where past Christmas tree ornaments had fallen. And yes, Hope checked off some items from the list of things she wanted to teach Ella—starting a fire in less than optimal conditions, target practice with the .22 shotgun, and fishing for dinner in the river. But Hope had felt guilty for missing church. Father Mike didn’t like Hope and Ella playing hooky, even though he’d gotten used to their camping trips. But mostly, Hope had felt distracted because of what Piney had said about Donovan coming to town.
One Snowy Night Page 3