Page 95 of Ethan

The first thing Naomi noticed when she woke was the quiet.

No wind, no sound from outside, just the deep stillness that meant snow. She lay there for a moment in the warm dark, Ethan’s arm around her, and listened to nothing.

Then she remembered what day it was.

She slipped out from under his arm, padded to the window, and looked out. The ranch was buried in white, the barn roof thick with it, the fence posts wearing little caps of snow, the whole world gone soft, clean, and still.

She stood there smiling at it until she heard him moving behind her.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

She turned. He was sitting up in bed looking at her with his hair going every direction and his eyes soft.

“Merry Christmas.” She crossed to him and kissed him. “It snowed.”

“It did.” He reached for her hand. “Coffee first.”

In the kitchen he poured them both a cup and she stood at the window and looked out at the snow-covered ranch and thought about every Christmas she’d spent alone or close enough to it, just her and her grandmother in that old house in Kalispell, making the best of what they had.

She thought her grandmother would have loved it here.

“Hey.” Ethan’s hand came to her shoulder. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.” She leaned back against him. “Just thinking.”

“Come on.” He took her hand. “I have something to show you.”

He led her to the living room where the tree was lit, and the fire was going and a sheet-covered shape sat in the corner that hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed.

She looked at it, then at him.

“What is that?”

“Go look.”

She crossed to it slowly and lifted the sheet and the breath went out of her completely.

A dollhouse painted white with blue shutters, a covered front porch with a little wooden swing, flower boxes under every window. Inside each room was furnished with the kind of care that made her throat tighten. A parlor with a settee and a fireplace with a tiny painting above the mantle. A dining room with a chandelier she could have balanced on her fingertip. Wallpaper in every room, patterned and perfect, the kind of detail that could only come from someone who loved what they were making.

Her hand came up to her mouth.

“Ethan.” She turned to look at him, her eyes full. “How did you know?”

“Serena.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I told her I didn’t know what to get you for Christmas. She told me about the dollhouses at Vanna’s shop and how you’d nearly cried over them. Vanna handled the rest.”

She looked back at the dollhouse, running her finger along the edge of the little porch railing.

“I always wanted one,” she whispered. “My grandmother—” She stopped.

“I know.” He crossed to her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Now you have one.”

She wiped her eyes and laughed softly at herself. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry today.”

“How’s that working out?”

“Terribly.” She laughed again and turned to put her arms around him. “Thank you. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me.”

He held her for a moment, then pulled back and took her hand.