I give her a weak smile. “No offense, Barb, but the last thing I want to read is a romance.”
Her smile falters. “Yeah, I suppose I can see that.”
“You really liked this boy?” Mirna asks.
I nearly laugh at her calling Alex a boy. “Yeah,” I say with a sigh. Foolish heart.
Mirna turns back to chopping an onion. “He looked pretty devastated when you left. More devastated than a man ought to be over losing rights to a bed.”
I know she’s right. But in my mind, I twist it into something smaller. He was upset because of how badly Grant treated me. He felt responsible. That’s all.
And yet, there’s a tiny sliver of hope growing in my heart. I’m torn between coaxing it to life or stomping on it before it takes root.
“How about I just sit in here with you guys while you cook?”
“Whatever you want, dear,” Mirna says.
“So, how mad were your families when you took off to rescue me in Vermont?” I ask with a laugh.
They dive into stories about the fallout—angry kids, annoyed daughters-in-law, and guilt trips galore. And for a little while, their voices are enough to pull me out of my spiral. The ache in my chest softens, if only for a moment.
A half hour later, they announce dinner is ready. I set the table with Christmas dishes from the cabinet and glasses with painted Santa faces. We’ve just started eating when there’s a knock at the front door.
We all freeze, glancing at one another.
“Who on earth could that be?” Mirna asks.
“Maybe it’s the landlord,” Barb says. “Just like in?—”
Mirna shoots her a glare sharp enough to cut glass, and Barb clamps her lips shut.
“I’ll get it,” I say, pushing away from the table. A grin tugs at my mouth. “Maybe it’s the owner, only hopefully not here to do whatever depraved things Barb was about to suggest.”
Barb’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Speak for yourself.”
I cross the living room and pull open the door. Snow is falling again, a fresh layer already dusting the sidewalks and street. No one is on the porch, but a small group stands on the sidewalk, holding candles. As soon as they see me, they start to sing Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow.
Carolers.
A week ago, I would’ve been bouncing with delight. Tonight, their voices and the song only make me ache. Alex should be here, listening to them with me, or out there singing with them.
“Who’s at the door?” Barb calls out.
“Christmas carolers,” I answer, my voice flatter than I intend.
“Well, that’s a pity,” Barb grumbles, appearing behind me.
“Where did that snowman come from?” Mirna asks as she steps into the doorway next to me.
I follow her gaze. Sure enough, a small snowman—three feet tall, at most—stands at the edge of the yard. I’m certain it wasn’t there when we arrived. At first glance, it looks like any snowman: charcoal eyes, a carrot for the nose, a stocking cap, and a knit scarf.
But then my breath catches.
Because I know that hat. And that scarf.
They’re Alex’s.
My heart skips a beat.
