Snowbound

SEVENTY-EIGHT

Acade later, in a different state, in what felt to each of them like a different life, the Innises were decorating another tree—a blue spruce Will had chopped down in a small grove by the river two days ago. Rachael lay stretched out on the couch in the living room, watching her husband and daughter hang unfamiliar ornaments and makeshift tube-sock stockings from the mantel. A fire was petering out in the small stone hearth. The farmhouse smelled of wood smoke, hot cocoa, the sap from their Christmas tree.

“You remember those hot toddies we used to make?” Rachael said.

Will smiled. “God, those were good.”

“What’s a toddy?” Devlin asked.

“It’s a hot alcoholic drink. We used to make ours with orange juice,

Grand Marnier. . . . I forget what else we put in them.”

“Cayenne,” Rachael said. “Most important ingredient.”

“Maybe we can make them next year?”

“Definitely.”

Devlin sat at the end of the couch, opposite her mother, massaging Rachael’s feet. “I’ve got a great idea,” she said. “Let’s watch It’s a Wonderful Life, like we used to.”

“Do we still have that video?” Rachael asked.

“No,” Will said. “It got left in Ajo with everything else. But I guess I could drive into town, see if the video store’s still open.”

“No, don’t leave,” Rachael said. “We’ll remember it for next year.”

“Yes. Next year. We’ll do all our old traditions.”

“But I don’t want to go to bed yet, Dad. Can’t we stay up together a little longer?”

“Sure, baby girl. Of course we can.”

Rachael suddenly shivered, said, “Will, I’m cold.”

Will’s socks slid on the dusty hardwood floor as he walked down the hallway into their bedroom. He was already untucking the quilt from the corners when he happened to think of it. He let go of the cover and climbed across the mattress, knelt down on the floor on the other side, opened the deep drawer on his bedside table. There it was. Eight weeks and he hadn’t even thought about it until now. Hadn’t needed to. He reached into the drawer, pulled out Rachael’s navy blue sweatshirt.

He smelled it. The garment no longer carried her true scent, hadn’t for years.

He sat for a moment on the floor near the window, a view of the moonlit pasture through the glass, just holding Rachael’s shirt to his face, sliding his hands over the soft fabric, feeling the cloth between his fingers. He’d slept so many nights alone, this sweatshirt wrapped around his arm. When it had finally lost Rachael’s smell, he’d gone out and bought the perfume she’d worn, sprayed the sweatshirt with the fragrance.

I don’t need this anymore, he thought. He stood, wiped his face, took Rachael’s sweatshirt with him, and walked out of their bedroom, back down the hallway, stopping where it opened into the living room.

They were still together on the couch in the light of the dwindling fire.

His daughter. His unborn child. His wife.

And he thought of all the women who’d been rescued from that lodge, imagined them in this moment, this Christmas Eve, back in their homes with families they had never expected to see again.

He delivered Rachael’s sweatshirt, saying, “We’re gonna need more wood to save this fire. I’m gonna go out and grab an armful.” Will walked into the kitchen. Devlin could hear him stepping into his boots, the doors opening, the screen door banging closed after him. She sat down on the cool hardwood floor beside her mother.

Rachael said, “So what were Christmases like for you and Dad while I was gone?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t do much. They were just, like . . . sad, you know? Really sad. Last year was the first time we actually put up a tree. What were yours like?”

“I never knew when Christmas came, honey. Usually, I didn’t even know if it was December, although there were days when I remember thinking, This feels like Christmas. Honestly, I’m glad I never knew when it came. I think that would have broken me.” Rachael sucked through her teeth and winced. “Ooooh.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

She was rubbing her stomach. “Nothing. Just a little contraction.”

“Is it time?”

“No, honey. These are just Braxton-Hicks. You’ll know when it’s the real deal.”

“How?”

“I’ll be swearing like a sailor.”