Page 93 of Big Dill

“Ptarmigan are an important source of food for the Indigenous people. They’re abundant around here and they’re not exactly fearful of humans. Easy to catch.”

“I’ll take your word on that,” I say.

Brody doesn’t let go of my hand as we drive, and I sink back into the seat, letting myself enjoy the quiet warmth of him beside me. The snow outside sparkles in the early sunlight, turning the world into a glittering wonderland. About thirty minutes later, he turns off the main road onto a snowy driveway, and I sit up a little straighter, taking in the quaint cottage tucked into the trees. The frost-laced windows give it a kind of charm.

“This has been in the family for as long as I can remember,” Brody says. His eyes soften, and a small smile tugs at his lips. “Some of my earliest childhood memories were here.”

“Really?” I ask, intrigued.

He nods, glancing at the cottage like it holds a thousand untold stories. “In the summer, there were always big barbecues, games, friends, family… Winter was different. We hunted…” His gaze flicks to me, as if apologizing for mentioning it, clearly aware of my unease. “…we ice fished, snowmobiled, snowshoed, cross-country skied.” His eyes drift toward the horizon, a distant warmth in his expression, like he’s reliving each memory.

“No wonder you’re in such good shape,” I tease.

He chuckles, opening his door. “Come on, let’s head inside. I’ll get a fire going and then unload the groceries.”

I grab my overnight bag and open my door. The snow is thick, sinking around my boots. Thank goodness I listened to Brody and splurged at the department store. These boots were worth every penny. Sunlight glints off the snow, blindingly bright and beautiful, as we step up to the door. Brody curls his gloved hand around the doorknob.

“You don’t lock this place either?” I ask.

“Nothing to steal.” He pushes the door open. “And if anyone breaks down out here, they might need shelter. One time a bunch of kids broke in, though.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah. They cooked up some hot dogs and even did the dishes,” he says with a shrug.

I laugh. “That’s…actually kind of crazy.”

“We keep the booze in a hidden cupboard, so they didn’t get into that,” he says with a playful nudge. “We can, though.”

“Hot toddy, please.” I glance at my phone with mock seriousness. “I mean, it’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s still early morning here. And if we’re going snowmobiling, we can’t be drinking yet.”

“We’re going snowmobiling?”

“Don’t say it like you just chewed on an old bologna sandwich,” he teases.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bologna sandwich, let alone an old one.”

“That’s changing this weekend. You’re getting the full Churchill Falls experience, Little Birdie,” he says, the nickname lingering warmly between us.

“Does that sandwich come with a side of lumber-snack or a big dill?” I fire back, grinning.

“It sure as hell does.” He drops a soft kiss onto my forehead and squeezes my arms. “Now, let me get this fire going.”

“So I can warm up before I go back out there and freeze?” I grin, already imagining the frosty adventure, and I’m kind of…excited about it.

What is happening to me?

“Exactly,” he says, his voice low and satisfied.

As he moves to stack logs and light the fire, I watch the golden flames spring to life, crackling and sending little sparks up the chimney. The cozy warmth fills the room, and I realize that this—snow outside, Brody and me inside, a fire roaring—is exactly where I want to be.

I take off my coat and drape it over a chair before I begin my exploration of the cottage. The space is warm and welcoming, small but perfectly lived-in. The kitchen has a fridge, stove, and the kind of rustic charm that makes cooking feel like an adventure. The living area is huge, with a stone fireplace and a hand-painted sign above it that reads: Life is better at the cottage.

I peek into one of the two bedrooms. A single bed, neatly made, sits against the wall.

“Was this your room?” I ask, wanting to know more—everything—about this man.