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In the kitchen I also found the most special thing in the house — a recipe box. Each card had been handwritten by Grandma Joanne, recipes she cherished enough to transcribe and tuck into her little wooden box. There were sections for desserts, main courses, salads, but my favorite one was Christmas.
I wanted to make her menu so badly, I memorized the meal, thinking about her family enjoying it in this cozy little cabin at the table with six chairs. My heart ached for them, for their story. I wanted them to all be safe somewhere, together.
But I knew enough about life, about these forgotten treasures, to know that probably wasn’t the case.
So in their memory, I made their cabin the coziest place I’d ever set foot in. Stringing Christmas lights along the banister leading to the loft, tinsel garland over the door. I kept Christmas music on all day and I knit a scarf, wrapping it in paper and placing it under the tree. My offering, my gift, to these people who took me in without ever knowing it.
After two weeks of being here I’ve let down my guard because if anyone was planning on using this cabin for Christmas, they would have been here by now.
It’s Christmas Eve and I’m sitting here, on the couch with a crocheted afghan across my lap, the fire burning brightly, and a mug of cocoa at my side. Half-way through A Tale of Two Cities, I hear a car in the driveway.
I nearly spill my cocoa, I’m so startled. Telling myself to remain calm, I dog-ear the book, setting it and the mug aside, and run my fingers through my hair, pressing my lips together in fear.
I’m not ready for this Christmas fairy tale to end.
Is it the family, finally arriving for the holidays? Or is it Max or Joe? When they learn the money is gone, I don’t want to think about what they will do.
Regardless of who it is, I want to be brave, to be strong… but it’s hard. I look around the cabin, knowing very well it might be my last look.
I’m standing in front of the door when it pushes open. A man enters — a tall, broad-shouldered man with a stubbly jaw. He is carrying a cloth sack with a baguette sticking out of it, and he’s frowning, clearly confused.
But I’m not.
I know exactly who he is.
I’d know those brown eyes anywhere.
It’s Whitaker: Grandson.
And he’s come home for Christmas.Chapter FiveWhitakerI have no idea who she is or why she’s here.
For a moment, I think maybe I got something wrong. That I put the cabin on some vacation rental website during an episode of insomnia. Or did Bran send a housecleaner out here as a Christmas gift?
But no. I didn’t do that, and Bran doesn’t even know where the cabin is. And the moment this beautiful woman opens her mouth, she confirms she doesn’t belong here.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, tears in her bright green eyes. She has long brown hair, to her waist; it looks smooth and so damn soft, same as her skin. “I know it was wrong, Whitaker, and I’ll leave. I promise.”
“How do you know who I am?” I ask, walking toward her, looking around to try to figure out if she’s alone. “And who’s with you?”
“I’m by myself, I swear,” she says, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry.”
“And you know me how?” I ask, taking in the cabin. I haven’t seen it like this since Grandma died. Decorated to the gills, every last ornament on the tiniest, saddest-looking pine tree I ever did see. It’s crooked, and small, but if she’s the one who got it in here, I’d still say I’m impressed.
“I saw the photos, and the ornaments… your eyes. They are the same as when you were little.” Her eyes flick over to the framed family photo on the bookshelf. She must have been sitting on the couch when I knocked. Drinking cocoa. Reading Dickens. What an adorable sight. She’s even wearing one of my grandma’s old sweaters. Christmas red with pearls on the collar.
She notices. “I’m so sorry. I’ve intruded in the most horrific way. This isn’t mine, this is all yours and…” She covers her face as she begins to cry.
“It’s okay,” I say, stepping toward her, knowing she is certainly no threat to me. She is a sweetheart, and she’s in trouble. Why else would she have squatted at a stranger’s cabin in the middle of nowhere — at Christmas? “Do you want to tell me your name?”
Sniffling, she wipes her eyes and swallows, looking up at me. “I’m Cozy. Well, Cozette.”
“And I’m Whitaker Lancaster. And you’re right, this is my family’s cabin.”
“Are they joining you?” she asks softly, biting her bottom lip.
