Page 6 of Christmas at the Ranch

Three

I’ll just drive past, I tell myself. I’ll just have a quick look at the place where I stayed with my family ten years ago. Then I’ll leave town and try to find a hotel somewhere before this blizzard gets too fierce.

Soon, I’m driving along Schafer’s Road. What feels like an internal compass directs me to turn left where the lake appears beside the road.

The snow is falling on the frozen, glass-like surface of the water, covering its smoothness with a white blanket.

I pass rolling hills, snow-covered trees on the banks of a roadside creek.

My breath catches in my throat. It’s so beautiful here.

But the snowfall is getting thicker still.

Near the bottom of a hill, my tires begin to slide—meaning I almost miss the driveway leading to the place my family rented that fateful Christmas.

I regain control of my car just in time.

There’s a sign there now, the letters glowing soft white against a forest-green background.

EVERGREEN INN . Then, in smaller letters, Your home away from home .

The emotions I’m experiencing are all jostling for a spot at the front of the line—and then, relief pulls ahead.

An inn is exactly what I need right now.

Even an inn set squarely atop some of my most complicated memories.

And it makes such perfect sense that the enormous cabin my parents rented would become what it was likely always meant to be: an actual hotel.

The long driveway is lined with gas lanterns that flicker in the fading afternoon light and the falling snow.

There are only two cars parked in the small lot in front of the redbrick Victorian.

The windows are lit up, turning the house into a welcoming beacon, shining through thick-trunked spruce with their huge, gray-blue needled branches, some of them so laden with snow they bend to touch the ground.

The house is as large as I remember, and so are the trees.

The hardwoods surrounding it still dwarf the structure, enclose it, make it feel as though this place is in the middle of a forest all its own, completely isolated from anywhere and anyone else.

But it isn’t, and I know it.

Do not look to your left, I tell myself as I pull into a parking spot. But the urge is too strong; I allow myself a glance. All I see are trees and more trees, snow and more snow.

Maybe Wilder Ranch isn’t even there anymore. I wonder what it would be like, to know that for sure—and just the thought makes it feel as if my heart is being driven through with splinters.

A tap at my driver’s side window startles me from my thoughts.

I release my grip on the steering wheel and hastily wipe at the tears that have pooled beneath my eyes.

A girl of maybe nine or ten is standing outside in the snow-dappled late afternoon light.

She’s adorably elf-like, with dancing brown eyes and dark corkscrew curls poking out from beneath a holly-berry-red hat topped with a forest-green pom-pom.

Even though my mood is bleak, there’s something about her sweet, welcoming grin that makes me feel, for just a second, like everything will be okay.

“Please tell me you didn’t just take a wrong turn down this driveway,” she says when I open the window.

“You’re an actual guest, right?” She clasps her woolen-mittened hands together in front of her heart, and I think that even if I had taken a wrong turn I would probably ask for a room at the inn just to make her happy.

“I’m definitely in need of a place to stay,” I say, and her eyes light up like Rudolph’s nose. “Just for one night, but—”

“Yessss. We only have two other guests staying here right now, so you get your pick of the best rooms!” She pulls my door open and yanks me out of the car by both hands while I laugh in surprise.

“I’m Samantha,” she says when we’re both standing in the snow. “But everyone calls me Sam.”

“I’m Emory,” I say.

“Nice to meet you, Emory. I assume you came from”—she looks me up and down—“Toronto? You look city-ish.”

My already wounded-feeling heart seizes. Hey, City Girl… It’s as if I can hear his voice on the wind through the trees. I shake my head to make it stop.

Sam looks perplexed by my expression, my head-shaking. “You’re not from Toronto?”

“Oh, no, sorry, you got it right. I am.”

“Knew it!” She grins again. “And your luggage?” She’s peering into my back seat, then at me. “Is it in the trunk?”

“Oh. I don’t really have any,” I say. “Just that gym bag…” I nod my head toward it.

“That’s all you brought?” Sam asks. I just shrug, not sure how to explain.

Now she’s enthusiastically wrenching open the back door of my car and lifting my gym bag. When I insist on carrying it, she says, “Suit yourself. Follow me!”

I follow her little boot prints toward the house.

The front door is different now: It was dark-stained wood when I stayed here; now it’s painted a festive green.

A large cedar wreath, festooned with red ribbon and studded with berries and dried flowers, hangs from the door knocker—which, I notice with yet another twinge, is in the shape of a horse’s head.

Sam pops open the door and we step inside.

Back then, the entrance transitioned into a large main living area, but now that’s hidden behind a wall and the front of the house is a cozy little lobby.

There’s a knotty pine desk. Overstuffed chairs covered in red-and-black-checked upholstery.

Through an open door, I hear logs crackling, see a welcoming fire, couches and love seats that match the chairs facing the fireplace or turned toward a picture window that looks out at the woods.

“So. What brings you here? Business or pleasure?” Sam asks as she steps behind the desk, clearly trying to sound as grown-up as possible. It’s adorable. But I don’t know how to answer this question and so, guiltily, I lie.

“Business,” I say. “I’m a journalist.”

At my words, her eyes become fully-decorated-Christmas-tree level bright. Then, she squeezes them shut, as if she has just gotten exactly what she wished for under that tree. What have I done?

“Are you a reviewer?” she asks in a reverent whisper.

Then she opens her eyes, takes a step back, and says, “Never mind! Forget I said that! You don’t have to tell me.

Pretend I didn’t ask.” But under her breath I hear her whisper, “Now Mom is definitely going to be able to afford horseback-riding lessons for me!”

“Sam—”

“Really, it’s fine, say no more!”

“It’s just, I’m not exactly—”

We’re interrupted by a woman with Sam’s same lively dark eyes stepping into the room, a flour-dusted apron covering her jeans and red-and-white-striped button-up top. “Sam, what are you up to in here— Oh.” She spots me. “Hello!”

“Mama, we have a guest,” Sam says with a flourish. Then she gives her mother a meaningful look and I feel my cheeks flush as red as the ribbon on the wreath at the door. “We need to give her our best room. It is very, very important.”

“I’m Reesa,” the woman says, shooting a bemused glance at her daughter as I open my mouth to try to explain that I’m not really here on assignment.

But then I pause. I could be, couldn’t I?

After I got laid off from the Globe, in order to pay my bills, and while waiting to find a new job in journalism that has yet to materialize, I started to freelance.

News reporting is almost never done by freelancers and I miss the newsroom, but I also enjoy the lifestyle pieces I’m assigned at various newspapers and magazines.

I throw myself into the research; I’m always trying and learning new things.

Maybe I could pitch a review of Reesa and Sam’s hotel.

If any of my editors still want to hear from me, that is.

“How long will you be staying?” Reesa asks.

“Just one night. I need to leave first thing in the morning.”

“You won’t leave until you’ve had your breakfast, though, right?” says Sam. “You have to try our award-winning scones.”

“Sam,” Reesa murmurs. “My scones haven’t won any awards…”

“They’re the best scones in the world as declared by me,” Sam says, and I can’t help but laugh again at her infectious enthusiasm.

Reesa smiles. “Okay, they are pretty good,” she says.

“I promise,” I tell Sam. “I will not leave until I’ve tried them.”

“Let’s get you checked in, then!” She painstakingly writes up an invoice, but I have nowhere to be so wait patiently, staring out the window above her head as I do, the rhythm of the snow falling outside becoming mesmeric.

After Sam checks me in, we walk through the main room, with its fireplace and comfy seating, to get to the staircase.

As we do, I clock the changes that have taken place in the past decade.

The stairs I once used, off to the side of the kitchen—mostly to sneak out and see Tate—are blocked off now, and so is the kitchen.

Both doors have signs that read Staff Only .

“There are bedrooms downstairs,” Sam says over her shoulder as we climb.

“But the best ones are up here.” We’ve reached the top of the staircase.

“There’s the Loon’s Nest, which in my personal opinion is the best one.

See, it looks out at the lake from one window, and at the forest, and this beautiful, magical horse ranch next door from the other—”

“No!” I can tell both Sam and Reesa are surprised by my abrupt tone. “I don’t…like horses,” I improvise. “I’d have nightmares.”

I can’t bring myself to look out that window, but the knowledge that Wilder Ranch is still there flows through me. It’s not gone. The truth of this beats in my heart, in my soul. I want to run outside and see it. But I can’t do that, and I know it.

“Okay, then,” Sam says, now looking at me like I’m the strangest person she has ever met. “Right this way, I guess. We also have the Great Heron Hideaway—”

But that was the room my parents had slept in, a high-ceilinged corner suite overlooking the lake on one side and the woods on the other.

It’s a beautiful room, but I know it will just remind me of them—and I don’t want to think about my parents right now.

“Do you have anything maybe a little smaller?”

She looks disappointed. “We have the Loonet’s Lair, but that’s just a kid’s room. It has a bunk bed and only one tiny window, and it looks out into the front yard, which doesn’t really—”

“Perfect,” I say. And it is, I can tell as soon as she opens the door. Small, dim, doesn’t remind me of anything. I can crawl into the bottom bunk later and hopefully fall asleep without also descending into the pit of nostalgia that is threatening to engulf me.

“Weird,” I hear Sam say under her breath as her mother shakes her head at her.

“She’s our guest, let her stay in the room she wants,” Reesa whispers back.

Reesa explains that the Loonet’s Lair has a shared bathroom, but since no one else is on this floor it will be my own private en suite. Then Sam begins to list activities.

“There’s the guided snowshoe tour—”

“Sam,” Reesa whispers, “we don’t have that.”

“ I can be the guide,” Sam shoots back, returning her gaze to me. “And the guided cross-country ski tour. Also, skating on the lake! Bonfire at dusk! We could even go next door and see if the Wilders would let us groom the—”

“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “Really, no need.”

“You don’t want to do anything ?”

Except wallow in my own shame, misery, and confusion? Not really, kid. But of course I can’t say such a thing to this sweet, idealistic little girl—so I tell her I’m just going to go for a walk by myself, and look away from her crestfallen expression.

“Will you eat some dinner when you get back?” Reesa asks me. “I’m baking fresh bread and there’s soup on the stove. Not much open in town on a Sunday, in the way of food.”

My stomach is still in knots and I can’t imagine eating much, but I tell her yes, mostly for Sam’s benefit. She looks relieved that I’ve agreed to do something.

“After you eat, we could play a board game—” Sam begins, but Reesa puts her hand on her daughter’s back, rubs it once, a silent signal that causes Sam to stop her excited stream-of-consciousness babble as she tries to suggest more activities for me to try.

Let her be, Reesa is telling her daughter.

I feel more grateful than ever, both for Sam’s heartwarming zest—even if I’m not fully up to participating in it—and for her mother’s quiet compassion.

“It gets dark fast this time of year, so I’ll leave a lantern at the door for you to take on your walk,” Reesa says.

Sam clearly wants to stay and keep offering me an itinerary of made-up activities, but Reesa suggests she come to the kitchen and help her with the scones for the next morning, so she follows her mother.

Alone now, I send Lani a quick text to let her know I’m safe, then root around in my gym bag for the sweatshirt I know is in there.

I don’t have a hat, but I do have the hood of my parka and some thin gloves. This will do.

I pick up the lantern Reesa left for me, step outside, and stand still, listening.

The silence feels like a living thing, quiet but not.

The snow is softening the sharp edges of the world.

It already seems like a lifetime ago that I was on the treadmill, watching my family’s transgressions written across the bottom of a television screen.

I breathe in the cold winter air and step down from the stairs to begin my walk, careful to avoid turning toward or looking for any path in the woods leading to Wilder Ranch—intent on avoiding my past, even though I’ve just run blindly toward it.