one
Astrid
“Areyousureyou wouldn’t rather I drive?” Mom wrings her hands in her lap as I navigate her Subaru Outback along the cragged country road. It’s been snowing intermittently since we left Upstate New York for Vermont three hours ago, but the snow has yet to stick to the asphalt.
I flash her a reassuring smile. “I’m okay. The GPS says we’re almost there.”
“We’d already be there if I was driving.” Mom doesn’t like me to drive even in the best weather, on account of my dad having died at the hands of a drunk driver four years ago. Knowing that her concern stems from grief and anxiety makes it somewhat easier to swallow, but only just.
“She’s doing great, Elaine,” Gran says, reaching out from the backseat to pat my shoulder. My grandmother’s insistence that I learn to drive is the only reason I have my license.
Losing her son in a car accident had broken her heart and tested her spirit, but Gran knows driving and independence go hand in hand. She’d let me drive her Cadillac around empty parking lots. The day after my eighteenth birthday, she took me to get my learner’s permit and then made sure I drove at least three days a week until I felt ready to take the test.
Needless to say, these after-school lessons became an eventual point of contention between Mom and Gran—a point that ultimately took a backseat to Gran’s ovarian cancer diagnosis last spring.
The GPS pipes up to inform us that our destination will be on the left. The relief in my mom’s sigh is impossible to miss.
I make a turn at the sign for Maple Ridge Resort and follow the winding drive into the trees. Soon, forest gives way to a snow-frosted clearing, broken up by a handful of buildings decorated with string lights. A small restaurant stands between the large barn and a half-frozen pond. I pull up in front of the two-story lodge with a Christmas tree out front and a sign that reads Main Office above the door.
The cold wraps around me as I step out to open the back door for Gran.
I reach for her hand. “Let me help you—”
“I’m all right, dear,” she says, waving me off.
I snicker to myself as I pull my oversized coat tighter around me. Gran never took well to being fussed over, not during chemo or after her complete surgical hysterectomy last September. Now that her doctors have deemed her cancer free, she wants to do everything herself, arthritis and cataracts be damned.
Warm specks of light peer out from the dark woods further up the hill. Those must be the rental cabins. Mom and Aunt Terry, my dad’s older sister, thought it’d be nice to do something special this Christmas to celebrate Gran’s cancer-free status. They rented a luxury cabin in the woods, big enough to comfortably host our whole family over Christmas, including one very close family friend.
My hand wanders to my abdomen.
“Are you feeling all right, Astrid?” Gran asks.
I drop my hand to my side.
“I’m fine.” I fill my lungs with crisp mountain air and follow Mom and Gran into the main office.
A pretty receptionist greets us with a smile. I wonder if her family runs the place; she can only be a few years older than me, probably around the same age as my cousin, Leena. Her blonde hair is lighter than my honeyed waves and rests a few inches higher on her shoulders.
“Hi there,” she says. “Welcome to Maple Ridge. I’m Noelle.”
“Now that’s a festive name,” Gran says.
“Thank you. It happens to be my real name all year round. Are you checking in?”
“Yes,” Mom says. “We’re staying in the big cabin, last name Greer.”
“Wonderful. I have your reservation right here.” Noelle taps at the keyboard in front of her. “Not sure if you saw on the website, but we have a new restaurant here at the resort, serving breakfast from six to eleven and dinner starting at five. Tonight’s special is pork ribeye with a brandy-apple reduction. It’s absolutely delicious, and I’m not just saying that because my husband’s the head chef.”
Mom and Gran chuckle, just as a man dressed in a chef’s jacket emerges from an interior door as if summoned. Noelle introduces him as her husband, Sawyer, and accepts a quick kiss on the lips. There’s no missing the fact that he’s at least ten years her senior. My face reddens as I picture myself in a similar position with my own older man—not that he’s mine anymore.
“I hope to see you gals at the restaurant this week,” Sawyer says.
Gran turns to Mom. “Remind me what we’re planning for dinner tonight, Elaine.”
“Terry and Pavan are grabbing groceries on their way up. The plan was to cook a big feast, but I don’t think anyone’s going to have the energy for that.”
“I can book you a reservation in our private dining room for tonight,” Noelle says.