He continued to stroke the mare, watching as Snowball pranced from stall to stall to greet each of her reluctant friends. Dolly found the rip in his glove and gave it a tug. He affectionately patted her on the nose as he pulled that glove away before she could do more damage to it. It was only a small rip; he might be able to sew it himself, a skill passed down from his mom.
The stables consisted only of a half dozen stalls, and Snowball found her way to the end of them quickly. Instead of crossing the aisle to greet the horses on the other side, she started to sniff the tarp-covered shape in the back.
Nolan’s levity disappeared like smoke.
“That’s enough, Snowball. Come on.”
He turned without looking to see whether she obeyed him. Even he didn’t want to look at that tarp-covered shape and the memories held beneath. Although he was glad that Gramps had kept on the horses when they’d stopped offering sleigh rides to their patrons, he didn’t know why he or Stan hadn’t sold the sleigh. They had destroyed every other Christmas memory.
At the door, he stared at the tarp for a minute, easily picturing the sleek, red-painted sleigh beneath. His mom had adored it, pushing herself well beyond what she should have endured in her condition just to find herself on the padded bench, swathed in blankets and watching the snow-covered fields pass by.
Snowball joined him at the door, and he shut it, cutting off the sight.
“It’s not as though we’ll ever use it again.” He took one last look at the tarp, picturing the sleigh with his mother and her last ride the day before she passed. The memory caused his eyes to burn, and he quickly pulled the doors shut and headed back to the lodge.
* * *
His father found him inside,cozy in a knit sweater and reviewing the bookings on his laptop in front of the fire in the main room.
“You look like someone just set your dog on fire.”
Nolan shook himself. On instinct, he looked down at his feet, where Snowball had curled herself within the halo of the grate. She opened her eyes but didn’t move from the comfortable spot.
“Just working,” Nolan muttered, as much to himself as to his dad. But he shut the computer.
Stan wasn’t the man Nolan remembered growing up. It wasn’t that his hairline had receded, or he’d put on weight around his middle—both true. It was the way he held himself, shoulders hunched as if trying to ward away conversation before it even started. But evenhewas more talkative than Gramps.
“I saw Julie Green today.”
Stan scowled. “Ida’s granddaughter?”
Nolan nodded.
“What’s she doing here?”
“She said she was here to throw one last Christmas Eve party before the property is sold.”
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Nolan to see his father’s expression darken. It always did at the mention of Christmas, at the reminder of his loss. It was why they didn’t have stockings along the fireplace or Christmas photos lining the top or a tree in the space in front of the wide window. After three years, Nolan had gotten used to the sparseness of the season, but the guests continued to ask after decorations, especially those who had visited during a Christmas before Mary had died.
Stan had said they were too much bother. All the trouble of putting up all those decorations only to take them down again in a couple weeks. But Nolan knew the real reason. It was the painful reminder of losing his wife that stopped them from putting up reminders of the Christmas season.
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“Because the inn has been empty for years or because of the holiday?” Nolan felt guilty as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He was usually sympathetic to his father’s grief, but he was starting to think his hatred of the holiday was unhealthy. What could he do to snap his dad out of it? Nolan couldn’t help but feel some fond memories of past Christmases with his mom would help, but Stan was resistant to any mention of it.
His father pinned him with a glare. “Both.” He turned and left the room.
Snowball raised her chin onto Nolan’s knee, and he petted her absently. There had to be some way to help his father out of his sadness, but Nolan had no idea what it was.
* * *
The white cathad claimed Gram’s favorite chair.
Julie didn’t mind, seeing as she had never had the gall to sit in that chair unless she was sitting in Gram’s lap. She took a spot on the couch instead. It sank beneath her weight, the springs groaning, but she tried not to take that personally. It was an old couch. She pulled out her phone and opened an app to take notes.
“All right. Nine days left before the party. Let’s see what I have to do.”
The cat, helpfully, did not answer. His eyes were closed, and his feet were tucked beneath his chest in a way that made him look like a fluffy loaf of bread.
