Page 74 of The Christmas Arrangement

“He’s staying at the Stonebridge Tavern in the valley,” she finally says.

“Room number?”

“You can’t just show up and?—”

“What’s his room number? Please.”

“Ivy.” Her voice is firm now. “Think about what you’re doing. This isn’t your mess to fix.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh, honey.” her tone softens. “You’re sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay. He’s in Room 412.”

“Thanks. Can you do something else for me?”

“Depends what it is.”

“Can you pick Dash up at the Children’s Hospital and take him and Rachel to the matinee of The Nutcracker? I have three tickets at Will Call, but I’m not sure I’ll be back in time.”

“Well, I do love our youth ballet.”

This is news to me. She’s been feuding with their artistic director for a decade, easy. But I let it go. “Great. I got the best seats in the house, so you should have a fantastic time.”

I end the call and type the hotel’s address into my GPS system to pull up directions. It’s only twenty minutes to the south. I adjust course and turn off the radio so I can think. I need to get Daniel Lovelace to talk to me, trust me, and then do what I want him to do. How hard can it be?

I giggle nervously. Regardless of my likelihood of success, which, frankly, I estimate as low, I’ve at least broken my habit of shying away from risk.

The Stonebridge Tavern’s been around almost as long as the country has, and it looks its age. Once a way-stop for weary travelers, it now serves mainly as overflow accommodations for visitors to Mistletoe Mountain’s holiday celebrations who can’t find lodging in town. Dad’s been known to direct tourists to this place when the inn’s completely booked.

I park in the visitor lot and sit for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, and gather my resolve. Then I force myself out of the station wagon and across the lot to the hotel. The lobby is clean and bright, but nearly devoid of holiday decorations—at least by Mistletoe Mountain standards. The desk clerk barely looks up as I cross to the elevator. Fourth floor. Room 412.

I’m about to knock on a stranger’s door and blow up his world. Except he doesn’t feel like a stranger. Not really. I’ve been listening to his voice all week without knowing it. Every time Dash laughs, every time his speaking voice drops into that raspy register, I’ve been hearing echoes of Daniel Lovelace.

I knock before I can overthink it.

Footsteps. Then the door opens.

Daniel Lovelace is built like Dash, with the same height and the same broad shoulders. He’s older, of course. Weathered. He wears jeans and a faded tour t-shirt and his feet are bare. And when he looks at me, I see Dash’s eyes. Dark brown, deep, intense.

“Can I help you?” His famous voice is careful, guarded.

“I’m Ivy Jolly.” The words come out steadier than I feel.

“I know who you are.” Of course he does. Anyone with a pulse and an internet connection probably knows who I am now. The weirdness of this fact almost knocks me off course.

I refocus. “I want to talk to you about Dash.”

His expression shifts, opening up like he’s been waiting for this conversation.

He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

The room is neat but lived-in. A guitar case sits propped against the wall. On the desk, a notebook lies open to a page covered in scratched out lyrics. Half-empty coffee cups litter the nightstand and the dresser.

He gestures to the armchair by the window. I sit. He sits across from me and kicks his long legs out. The posture pings something in my memory.