Page 17 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas

FIFTEEN

MEG

The last time she’d been out this way was when she was on her first assignment for Northwest Extreme, covering an adventure race that would take her up wicked trailheads and launch a much bigger mystery into what had really happened to Pops.

God, you thought he was dead then, Meg.

She shuddered.

It was impossible to reconcile the man she had adored with the reality that he had abandoned her, Mom, and everything he knew for the sake of a story.

A freaking story.

Who does that?

Who lets their only child believe they’re dead?

Her therapist had gently suggested that Pops’s obsessions had been rooted in his mental health.

And that was the part that scared Meg most.

The part she’d tried to explain to Matt.

If she was being honest, it was a path that didn’t feel that far off. She inherited his obsessive tendencies—the looping thoughts, the need for control, the way her mind could spiral and fixate.

It was one of the reasons she had worked so hard to stay self-aware.

She didn’t want to follow in his footsteps.

Or disappear into herself the way he had.

Was that why she was holding back on writing the book?

Was that why she’d let Matt go?

Matt.

Ah, Matt.

She sighed.

Matt Parker was stuck in her brain on an endless loop.

Her sweaty palms clung to the steering wheel. The jittery feeling she’d had since she landed in Oregon was teetering into a full-fledged panic now.

She was going to see him.

Today!

In person.

She blew out a quivery breath.

How would he react to seeing her again?

Better question—how would she?

When she’d stormed out that night in Portland, he’d looked like she’d permanently broken him, and then the next morning at the airport, when he’d shown up unexpectedly to see her off, letting his lips linger on her cheek as he asked one last time if there was any chance, any way they could make it work.

She had walked away.

God, Meg.

You walked away without ever turning back.

She swallowed a sour taste spreading across her tongue. It was a bad move. Not her proudest moment.

But she couldn’t go back.

The damage was done.

Traveling this route, past Hood River and then heading south toward the high desert, was like watching an old movie in slow motion.

She replayed so many scenes, so many adventures—surfing the swelling waves of the Columbia with Matt, trekking to the top of the Newberry Crater, and traversing through deep mile-long underground lava tubes.

Sharing post-hike pints and pretzels. Slow Sunday brunches.

Movie marathons at the vintage theater by her apartment.

Game nights. Everything had been so easy. It felt like another lifetime ago.

The four-hour drive to Bend passed in a blur of memories of a happier time, but once she made it to the high desert town, her nerves kicked in full throttle, like she’d pressed her foot on the accelerator and couldn’t slow it down.

Johanna had offered to book accommodations away from the festivities, but if Meg was going to face Matt and his paramour, Lucinda, she might as well lean all the way in.

She followed her GPS to the Hinton Family Lodge and immediately regretted her decision. The lodge and vintage ski chalets were straight out of a travel magazine.

Damn, impressive.

Meg could write an ode in the form of a sonnet to the lodge.

It was quintessentially Christmas and oozing with charm—a sloped, shingled roof clinging to fluffy mounds of pristine snow, a horse-drawn carriage outfitted with jingling bells cutting through the snowshoe trails, and dazzling vintage Christmas lights and lanterns framing the cabins dotting the grounds.

She checked in at the front desk, trying to quell the butterflies battering her stomach.

Was he here?

She glanced over both shoulders, scanning the lobby and dining area, wondering if she might catch his eye or find him nearby, waiting, lingering, eagerly anticipating her arrival.

Ha, right, Meg.

He’s with someone else.

Matt wasn’t waiting on pins and needles, counting down the seconds until he saw her. His girlfriend, emphasis on girlfriend, was throwing him a huge birthday party.

Get it together, Meg.

She texted Jill after she unpacked and got settled in her cabin, which was equally luxurious. It had a kitchen, dining area, and a giant stone fireplace stacked with fresh-cut logs ready to burn.

Meet me in the lodge.

I scored us cozy seats in by the fire.

Meg changed into her favorite dress—the Grace Kelly, made from gray flannel with dark pink straps and a matching ribbon around the waist. Stepping into the dress made her feel like old Hollywood.

She checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror.

Her blond hair had grown out to her shoulders and was cut in an angled, long bob.

Her green eyes were flecked with brown and gold, depending on how they caught the light.

Freckles dotted her cheeks and forehead.

Spending the bulk of her days working on articles outside had left her skin a natural glow.

Not bad, Meg.

Was she dressing up in hopes of a Matt sighting?

Yes.

Was it futile?

Sure.

But at least she would feel good in the face of meeting Matt’s girlfriend.

She grabbed her puffy coat, ignoring the hammering in her chest as she headed for the main lodge.

If Matt was already here, Jill would have mentioned it, right?

He must have tons to do to prepare for the weekend. Or maybe he and Lucinda were off on a romantic snowshoe tour before the festivities began.

Meg tried to rationalize all the reasons Matt Parker certainly wouldn’t be at his own party.

She practically skipped to the lodge at the thought of getting to see Jill, but she wasn’t ready to have a face-to-face with Matt yet.

What would she say?

Just pretend like the last year hadn’t existed?

It was his birthday weekend, after all. Was it better to ignore the past? To forget about how they’d left things? Or did she need to confront it head-on?

She sighed as tightly packed snow crunched under her feet. The air was sharp and clean, laced with the bright scent of pine needles and the faint, earthy, mineral tang of the dusty red rock—hard evidence of Central Oregon’s geologically active past.

This was where it had happened. This was where it had all gone down.

In some ways, it still felt like yesterday—that first glimpse of seeing someone who looked like Pops and then the realization that it was Pops.

She fought to keep the memories at bay.

Keep breathing.

Go get a drink, Meg.

It’s all going to be okay.

Thank goodness for Gam’s insistence that Meg practice positive self-talk.

She was going to need all the positive self-talk to get through the next couple of days.

Inside the lodge, the scent of woodsmoke and toasted marshmallows enveloped her.

Meg scanned the massive lobby with its knotty pine walls, cozy collections of couches, and touches of plaid.

Everything was draped in rich holiday décor—swaths of garlands with sprigs of holly, bunches of mistletoe hanging from wrought-iron chandeliers, and dainty twinkle lights framing every window.

She pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to hold in her nerves as she quickly scanned the lobby again.

No sign of him—yet.

Whew.

Jill jumped to her feet and waved from the twenty-foot-tall stone fireplace blazing with logs practically as big as Meg. Stockings filled with peppermint sticks, oranges, and pretty little wrapped packages hung from the ornate wood mantel.

“Meg! Meg, Meggy, Meg!” She did a funky dance that only Jill could pull off. Jill was a true beauty in the classic sense. She was tall and thin, with a bone structure that even models would envy. Her silky, thick chestnut hair fell to her shoulders and was streaked with perfect honey highlights.

Jill wasn’t oblivious to the fact that men and women tended to ogle over her, but she wasn’t fazed by it—she never had been.

In their early twenties, she’d gone through a phase where she dated men who were handsome on the outside but completely misaligned with her heart and passions.

Fortunately, she had outgrown that phase and was currently in a long-term relationship with Owen Sheehan, a lanky, funny Irish redhead woodworker, sculptor, and creative jack of all trades she had met in Italy.

Owen stood next to Jill and mimicked her wave. “Maggie, Maggie is in the house.”

“In the house?” Meg teased him as he pulled her in for a burly hug. “Wasn’t that saying dead like ten years ago?”

“You must remember that slang in Ireland takes that long to catch up.” Owen flashed her a cheeky grin.

“Don’t listen to the old man, and his outdated attempt to make people think we’re still young and hip.” Jill winked at him and tackled Meg in a hug. “Meg, I’ve missed your face so much.” She proceeded to squeeze Meg to death.

Meg hugged her back just as fiercely, burying her face in the easy comfort of her oldest friend.

There was something grounding about being around the people who knew you back when you were becoming yourself.

Jill was that for Meg. They’d been friends since second grade, together like twins through so many awkward years—first dances, crushes, breakups, loss, every hard-earned triumph.

Jill had been by her side through it all.

And she was still here.

“Okay, loving the dress.” Jill stood back to give her a once-over. “And the hair. It’s the longest it’s ever been. You look freaking fantastic.”

Jill and Meg made a funny team. Jill towered over Meg and her five-foot-four-and-a-half frame—don’t even think about rounding down.

While Meg’s pale skin tended to turn pink and burn if the sun even glanced in her direction, Jill’s olive complexion soaked up the rays, turning her arms into museum-quality bronze.

They were different in every way that didn’t count and similar in the things that mattered the most.