Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ANTHONY

I started looking for my phone last night, after midnight, but it’s gone, and it’s not showing up on Find my Phone.

I’d wanted to at least text Rosie Merry Christmas . To tell her that I hadn’t given up. Now I can’t tell her a damn thing. I don’t even have her email address, and after signing onto my laptop at four in the morning to do some searches for it, I realized it was a lost cause.

The only message waiting for me was an email from Wilson:

Happy Christmas, buddy! I’m doing much better, thank the little Christ baby. My mother got me an ice pack designed for guys who’ve gotten tapped in the balls. This thing is the tits. Even Nina had to admit it was really something.

Hey, are we on for drinks on Thursday? Nina’s really eager to go. I mean, she wouldn’t like it if I said this, man, and you probably won’t believe it, but she doesn’t have many female friends. She’s really taken with your lady, so I’d appreciate it if we could make this happen.

Oh, and you want to hear something wild? I realized that I’ve actually met Rosie before. Mind, blown. She was the caterer at this sick af circus party I went to. Off the hook. Nina was really impressed by that too. I think she has a lot of questions for Rosie.

Anyway, talk soon. Hopefully on Thursday!

It’s promising in that he obviously doesn’t intend to turn Rosie in. Which isn’t to say he couldn’t be convinced.

I don’t respond, because I have no response. Not yet. And the one person I want to share the message with has an unlisted email address and a phone number in my lost phone.

Worse, the half a foot of snow that’s accumulated outside guarantees I can’t go look for the phone outside or at the hospital or the bar. The only thing I remember about her number is that it doesn’t have a local area code, so I don’t know what the first three numbers are, let alone the last seven.

I hardly slept at all for the second night in a row, stuck in that broken bed that reminds me of Rosie every time I slump to one side or the other.

Now, it’s morning, and I log onto my laptop to do another search for the phone. Still nothing.

Fuck. Fuck .

“Anthony,” my sister calls up the stairs, her voice barely audible through the thick walls. “Santa came!”

I want to hit the wall, but my hand’s already messed up, and being a better brother, a better son, a better person…

That’s all on my bucket list too. I keep mentally adding to the bottom now that I’ve gotten going.

I make my way downstairs and into the drawing room. My mother’s sitting in her usual spot by the hearth, and my sister’s hovering near the tree.

“Get your coffee and come over,” she says, waving to the dining table. To my surprise, there’s already a mug full of coffee waiting for me. I take a sip and nearly choke at the taste of whiskey.

She grins at me. “I figured we all needed a little pick me up this morning.”

I’m not going to argue. It’s not as if any of us can drive anywhere. But I make a mental note to try to talk to her about her problem. I doubt I can make it any better, but I know what it feels like to be deceived and cheated on.

“Santa ate a cookie beside the tree,” Emma tells me. “So apparently magic is real.”

I feel a pulse of almost panic. Rosie told me that I made her think magic could be real. But she could hardly feel that way now. The misplaced phone feels like a lost limb.

“Huh. Who knew.”

I bring the mug over and join them, my mother leaning forward to get a better look at me. “You haven’t slept,” she says with a concern that lives at the edge of condemnatory. “Neither of you.”

“The anticipation of Santa Claus gets me every time,” I joke.

There’s a small pile of wrapped presents under the tree. Some of them are from me, purchased with Rosie yesterday morning. One of them is the yearly scarf from Remus, the owner of the Peanut Bar, which arrived in the mail yesterday.

“Shall we?” Emma intones with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

“First I’d like to tell you something,” our mother says.

We both nod.

“Proceed, Santa,” my sister responds with a smirk.

Smiling, our mother says, “Your real gifts aren’t under that tree.” Turning to Emma, she continues, “If you truly care to, you can redecorate Smith House. Any budget within reason. But be aware that I will try to convince you to open a new practice here or in Asheville. So the longer you’re here, the longer you’ll be compelled to listen to me.”

Emma nods, her mouth hitching up. “A double-edged sword. I appreciate that.”

Then our mother turns to me. “And I’d like you to write a business proposal for me.”

“Mother?”

“You asked us yesterday what money could be invested in the Ware, as if I don’t have plenty of money invested in stocks and bonds that I could give a toss about. I would prefer to invest in you , Anthony.”

“Mother,” I say. “I—”

“If you make it a worthy investment, then there’s absolutely no reason for me to say no. You’ll be insulting me if you treat my money as if it’s in any way inferior to your inheritance. The majority came from the same source, and I see no reason why we shouldn’t spend your father’s money in better ways than he would have.”

For a second, I’m speechless. So I sip the coffee, my mind whirring. She’s right. I’ve avoided accepting help from her, because it felt like a handout. Somehow, the inheritance didn’t, because I felt like I was earning it.

By working for his company.

By marrying by the age he deemed it necessary.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I finally say. “I’d be letting a lot of people down.”

“And are you the only one responsible for them?” she asks, meeting my gaze. “If you’re worried about it, why not marry the girl and use the inheritance to provide your employees with a generous severance payment? Or step down and hand the business over to that idiot Simon. Anyone with sense can see he’s the reason it’s falling apart.”

I rub my head, which is pounding again. My brain’s full of Rosie and not equipped for any of this. “I can’t just give it to him, Mother. It’s a mess.”

“Which he helped make,” she says archly. “He wants to do everything the same way Adrien did, but he’s not Adrien.”

“And neither am I,” I say, my tone bitter.

“Thank God,” my mother and sister say at the same time. They laugh together, but I’m too weary to laugh with them.

“Let’s open the other presents,” Emma says. So we do.

My mother bought us each a copy of Find Your Own Parachute , which feels at least partially like a joke, and I got Emma a cookie cutter shaped like a middle finger, which Rosie’s friends use to make FU cookies for cheaters and jerks. There are a few other books and gift cards, and I got my mother a bracelet Rosie insisted she needed to have. The scarf from Remus is a sickly greenish yellow that I decide to give to the guard outside.

I explain my quandary about the phone to my mother and Emma, and my mother promises she’ll call Jake and Lainey to find out how Rosie is doing.

But they don’t answer their phones, so she’s reduced to sending a text message.

We have lunch and then watch A Christmas Story together in the TV room, drinking some more “special coffee,” and I must fall asleep, because when I wake up sprawled out on the couch, it’s dark outside and my back hurts like hell.

I know a moment of panic.

It’s Christmas, and I haven’t even been able to wish Rosie a Merry Christmas.

It’s Christmas, and I can’t get to her.

I can’t get to her.

I prowl the house like a caged animal, and find my mother sitting alone in the drawing room. “I was wondering when you’d wake up,” she says. “Emma and I thought it was best to let you get some sleep. You looked so exhausted earlier.”

I’m angry, but I know it’s mostly at the situation I’ve found myself in.

“I have to talk to Rosie.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile and nods to the chair across from her seat.

“I’ll stand.”

Shrugging, she says, “Dear, Jake told me she’s decided to go to New York City with her brother as soon as the roads clear up. They plan to stay through New Year’s.”

“New York?” I repeat, feeling like I’ve turned to stone.

“New York,” she agrees.

A feeling of horror overtakes me, creeping in around my hard edges and attempts to wall myself off. I shouldn’t have let her leave like that yesterday. Maybe she’s made this decision because she thinks it’s the best way to keep her family safe. If so, I’d be an asshole to try to convince her otherwise. But I need to at least tell her how I feel. I can’t let her believe that these past weeks have meant nothing to me. “Are my snow shoes still here?”

“Anthony…”

“Are they?”

“Yes, but it’s much too cold. Twenty degrees. And it’s at least eight miles. It would take you all night. If you make it. And how would her brother react if you show up at his door first thing in the morning, half frozen?”

“I don’t care. I can bundle up.”

“What if he thinks you’re an intruder and shoots you?”

“I’ll die knowing I’ve finally taken a stand.”

I’m already heading toward the garage when she gets up, moving much faster than I thought she could, and grips my arm. “She’s not going anywhere tonight. The streets haven’t been plowed.”

“I can’t sit here waiting,” I say, my voice shaking. “I can’t let her slip away from me. I’ll always regret it.”

“So sit with me and make a plan. Emma and I have discussed the situation, and I reached out to those private investigators. They seem confident they can handle Nina.”

But a new conviction grips my chest. “I’m the one who needs to handle Nina, and I will.”

She gives me a sharp look that I feel down to my bones. I see my father, using his knife to make switches. Making me watch him do it.

“I’d never hurt her physically,” I say vehemently.

“I wouldn’t think that of you. I was only going to caution you not to do anything that could get you into trouble. We have enough of that going around.”

I nod, my throat thick.

“And to remind you, again, that there isn’t a single thing wrong with accepting help when you need it. Especially from people who are eager to offer it.”

“Okay,” I say, because she’s right, of course, and also because it seems easier to be agreeable. “Then help me do this. I need to see Rosie. I feel like I’ll die if I don’t.”

She gives a world-weary sigh, as if she’s sick of handling idiots, then says, “Leave in the morning. We can ask that teenager next door to borrow his snowmobile.”

The thirty-something who steals her paper.

“He has a snowmobile?” I ask.

“His kids have been over there joyriding on it all day.”

“You think he left it out?” I ask, my heart thumping.

She gives me a withering look. “If you steal it, I’ll never hear the end of it. And he’ll never stop taking my newspaper.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to go about doing something like that,” I say, “but maybe he’d be willing to lend it to me.”

“I doubt very much that I can stop you.” From the way she says it, I can tell she’s not inclined to try. She’s willing to let me make a fool of myself, and I’m grateful for it. “I’ll tell you how to get there. Bundle up before you leave.”

I listen to her explanation, then put on outdoor layers. I head next door buzzing with purpose, but no one answers the door.

I circle around to the garage, but the door is locked. Of course it is. I could Google how to break the lock, but my phone is still lost and dead.

It hits me like a brick in the face that I’m trying to steal a snowmobile in the middle of the night. What is happening to me? Other than drinking and smoking pot as a teenager, I’ve never done a single illegal thing in my life.

But there’s no time for self-reflection, because I hear a loud rumbling from down the road.

A snowplow. I have no idea what time it is other than dark. Is it possible it’s already technically morning?

I hurry to my feet and run toward the road, waving my hands over my hand manically as the lights from the plow come into view. I’m either about to get buried in a drift of snow or I’m going to hitch a ride for the first time in my life.

To my amazement, the driver, an older man with a long, thick beard like Santa Claus, stops and waves back. Rolling down the window, he leans his head out. “Are you in distress, sir?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “And I could really use your assistance.”

Funny. I’ve always wanted to ride in a snowplow.

“What’s the problem, friend?” the driver calls to me.

“Love.”

It’s two a.m. by the time we roll up outside of Rosie’s brother’s house. Pat, the driver, turns to me in his seat as his plow rumbles to a stop. His thick caterpillar eyebrows lifting, he says, “Go get your woman. I’ll circle back this way in forty-five minutes so you don’t freeze if no one answers. Now, I’ll lay on the horn two times. If you don’t come outside in five minutes, I’ll honk one more time before I continue on my way.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, filled with gratitude. He didn’t need to stop. He definitely didn’t need to go off his scheduled course to bring me here, but he did it anyway. For a stranger.

“I was young once, too,” he told me. “My wife and I were the same way. Her father hated me, but it only made us try harder. She’s gone now. I lost her two years ago, but believe me when I tell you it was worth it, son. Every minute.”

I get out of the plow, stepping into the bracing cold, and Pat salutes me. “Thank you for letting me be a part of your Christmas miracle, my friend.”

I walk toward the wooden cabin through the snow, my footfalls leaving small caverns. All the lights are switched off inside, and even the Christmas bulbs on the front banister are dark. Snow is clinging to me everywhere. It’s still fresh and covered with a new inch that accumulated while we were on the road.

Christmas miracle.

It felt like one, when I saw Pat’s truck, but now that I’m out here, doubt is curling around the edges of my mind and my chest. What if Rosie’s freaked out that I’m here in the middle of the night? What if her brother really does come to the door with a shotgun? If he’s the one who answers the door, there’s a good chance he won’t even let me see her. I have every reason to believe he won’t want her getting involved with a man whose ex-fiancée has threatened her.

Maybe I can find her window and get up there…

I circle behind the cabin, my heart beating hard, my clothes covered in snow, and study the back of the house. There’s a trellis with dead vines clinging to it that’s close enough to two of the windows that I might be able to climb up and knock. If it’ll hold my weight.

There’s also a good chance one of those windows belongs to the master bedroom, and I’ll get Declan’s fist in my face. I’ve seen him before, and that would not end well for me, but I’m here. I’m here, and Rosie is so close, and I’m not going to give up now.

Breathing deeply, I take the first few steps onto the trellis, which groans. I should definitely get down, but I continue climbing the old wood, feeling it try to give underneath me. My injured hand aches and throbs. Adrenaline buckets into me, and I feel…

I wouldn’t say I feel good, but I feel much better than I did at Smith House, waiting for something to change without doing a damn thing to make it change.

I lean over to try to peer into the window to the right, feeling like a creep. But I can’t see inside anyway, so I have to suck it up and knock. So I do, my knuckles landing against the chilled glass.

It feels like an eternity passes before I hear anything from the other side. There’s a faint rustling, and then a face appears.

Joy’s face.

It’s dark, but the moon and stars are out, the snow lending everything an ethereal glow. I can see her face perfectly.

She looks startled, which is a reasonable reaction to finding a grown man staring into your second-story window, then she opens her window, which is probably an unreasonable reaction.

“Santa is supposed to come down the chimney, dear. The window one is Peeping Tom. Most people aren’t happy to see him when he comes around at night.”

“I have to see Rosie,” I say, hoping she’s not about to wake up the whole house.

Her expression becomes stern, her chin tilted down toward me. “Men these days are always two steps forward, four steps back. My Mortimer knew what he wanted, and he went for it. He didn’t dilly-dally or turn wishy-washy. He was a man of conviction, especially when it came to me. What kind of man are you , Anthony Rosings Smith?”

Indeed.

It’s always been hard for me to communicate my feelings, and I didn’t imagine I’d have to do it to a gatekeeper before I even got to Rosie, but my life has been all about firsts since she first mentioned the idea of the list, so why stop now?

“I’m falling in love with Rosie,” I admit. “I know she’s going to New York with her family, and I won’t stop her if that’s what she’s decided is best. But I can’t let her leave before I tell her how I feel.”

She gives me a quick nod and pulls back from the window. “You can come in.”

Easier said than done, it turns out. I end up tumbling onto the floor. There’s a muffled bark from deep within the house, followed by a second bark. Then a third. Shit . My back is aching, my whole body struggling to adjust to the change in temperature, but if I don't act quickly, I’m about to get caught before I even see Rosie. I glance up at Joy, who gestures to her bed. “Get in.”

I pause, trying to visually find a closet or a bathroom or anywhere else, but it’s dark and there’s nowhere. Under the bed isn’t an option—it’s too close to the ground for me to roll underneath it.

“Get in,” she says in a commanding undertone.

I hear footsteps outside—purposeful, loud footsteps—so I get into the bed, pulling the covers over my head. I feel like one of those children who volunteers to play hide and seek and then “hides” on the floor under a blanket, the bump so obvious they can be found even by their great grandmother who’s legally blind without her glasses.

My heart’s thumping in my ears, my whole body.

What the fuck am I doing?

It would be much worse if Declan finds me here.

I’m about to get up when a muffled knock lands on the door, followed by the sound of Joy walking over and cracking it open.

“Yes?”

A man’s deep voice says, “Is everything okay up here? I heard…” There’s a pause. “Joy, do you have someone in your bed ?”

I don’t know how the fuck he can see me in the dark, but I suppose if I were worried about intruders, the first thing I’d do is visually sweep a room.

I want to look.

I also definitely do not want to look.

“Yes,” Joy says without hesitation. “Is that a problem?”

There are several seconds of silence, followed by Declan saying, “Joy, there’s no electricity, and the roads aren’t passable. Who…”

She doesn’t attempt to fill the silence.

He clears his throat. “How…”

Finally, she says, “Honestly, Declan. I thought you were more open-minded. Do you think a woman’s life ends when she gets her first gray hair? My ovaries might have shriveled up, and the love of my life may be dead, bless his beautiful soul, but I still have a woman’s needs. Rosie led me to believe we were welcome here.”

“You are, but Joy…if the electricity hadn’t gone out, the alarm would have gone off when you opened the front door. And…I need to know who… I mean…the only place within walking distance in a snow like this is—”

She laughs with genuine amusement. “Goodness, it’s not Jake. My lover runs the snowplow. I knew I was in for a treat when I heard the first rumblings in the distance.”

I may be tucked under the blankets in a house where I can’t openly show my face, but I feel bad for Declan, whose discomfort is so thick I can feel it from my position hiding under the covers.

“But the door…I didn’t…”

“He climbed the trellis, just like Romeo. Love makes a person young. Now, be a dear, and let him sleep a little.”

“Doesn’t he need to clear the roads?”

“Oh, he will, but he just cleared my roads, and he needs rest before he gets back to work.”

“Uh…”

“So if you hear the door, just know that it’s my friend returning to work. He has an important job.”

“Uh, okay. But please let me know if you’re going to have more midnight guests, Joy. We’re trying to keep everyone safe here.”

“So is he,” she says, so passionately I almost believe she does have a snowplow lover in her bed. “So is he.”

The door creaks shut, there’s a pause, and then Declan’s footsteps retreat.

Thank God.

Several seconds later, I pull the covers down and find Joy grinning at me. “I always wanted to be an actress,” she says.

“You’d be good at it.”

“Rosie’s room is down the hall. Second door to the right. And Anthony?”

“Yes?”

She gives me the look of a disapproving school teacher. “Break all the beds you’d like, but don’t break her heart. That girl is everything to me.”

“Me too,” I say, my voice raw.