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“Uncle Tristan, do you know where we can get the perfect tree?”
“I have one in mind on the ranch. We could chop it down together on Friday or Saturday,” he suggested.
“Aunt Calista, you’re off on Friday, right?”
I set my shake down, holding back the whimper that was building in my chest. The last place I wanted to go was Tristan’s ranch. I’d heard Quinn speak of it before. It sounded, you know, perfect, if you liked a cozy cabin and acres of beautiful land made for camping and horseback riding. I loved all those things. Which was why I didn’t want to go. I didn’t need to see Tristan living out a part of our dreams. I mean my dreams. But I knew I couldn’t back down. I would die on the stubborn ship if I had to.
“Yep. I wouldn’t miss it. I have to teach you how to sing ‘O Tannenbaum’ in German.” My mom would make us sing it every year to the tree before we chopped it down. Maybe to ease her guilt. I think she needed the tree to know it was serving a noble purpose. She said it had to be done in German to honor her heritage. The heritage she rarely spoke of. It was too painful for her to speak about the family that had disowned her. For what? Loving one of the kindest, most selfless men to walk the planet. All because he hadn’t graduated from college and worked a low-paying job he loved.
“It’s a date,” Quinn chirped.
I assumed she meant that figuratively, because this would in no way resemble a date.
“Okay,” Quinn sounded so giddy. It did my heart good. “Some other things I want to do are make lots of sugar cookies, watch Christmas movies, roast marshmallows, donate my old clothes and take food to the food bank, go sledding, and definitely skiing.”
Oh no. That was one thing I was not doing. Too many memories of Tristan and me lived on the slopes. It was one reason I hated snow now. The first time he ever told me he loved me was on those slopes during my very first skiing trip. I’d just fallen grandly and couldn’t get up because the powder was so deep. Tristan purposely fell down beside me. Etched in my mind forever was the adoring gaze he gave me at that moment. No one had ever looked at me that way before. It was all-encompassing, like he could see everything from my past to my future. Overcome with emotion, he choked out, “I love you, Calista.”
I pulled him to me and kissed him, tears streaming down my cold cheeks. If ever there was a perfect moment, that was it.
Suddenly, the Oreo shake didn’t feel so good in my stomach. I pushed it away, as well as the memory. “I don’t ski anymore,” I informed Quinn.
She turned toward me, a question in her eyes. “But I saw the skis in the back of your closet when you said I could borrow your jean jacket the other day.”
I didn’t have to look at Tristan to know that his head whipped my way.
Dang it. I thought I hid those better. I should have gotten rid of them a long time ago. Thirteen years, to be exact. I wasn’t even sure why I kept them. You don’t know how ridiculous I have looked over the years, moving Tristan’s stupid gift to me. I’ve had them hanging out passenger-side windows or strapped to the roof of my car. But I couldn’t part with them. Maybe it was because they were proof I couldn’t be so wrong about someone. Or that our relationship wasn’t just all in my head. That once upon a time, I was more than just a bad habit.
I had to stop myself from looking at Tristan. It probably disturbed him I’d kept the skis. The one time I let him buy me anything expensive. Believe me, it disturbed no one more than me. Maybe if I saw the horror in his eyes, I could finally part with them. But now, more than ever, I needed to keep my promise to myself. I couldn’t let him see in my eyes how much he had hurt me.
“Those are just old pieces of junk,” I said to Quinn, hoping Tristan got the memo. He had no reason to fear I was still clinging to the past—to him.
“Oh,” Quinn said, disappointed. “Well, maybe you can rent some, or I bet Uncle Tristan has some you can borrow.”
“That’s okay, honey.” I smiled at her. “That’s something you and your uncle can do together.”
“But,” she started to say.
I shook my head, letting her know it was a moot point. I would swallow my pride and do anything else she wanted with Tristan for her sake, but I would never set foot on a ski slope again.
My list of solemn vows was getting longer and longer.
It was going to be a very long holiday season.
CALISTA
I SHUFFLED INTO THE EMPTY staff lounge early the next morning, debit card in hand, ready to swipe that baby in the vending machine’s card reader as many times as necessary. I needed caffeine. Lots of caffeine, after the night I’d had. It was beyond awkward. There was nothing like cozying up on the couch with my niece, her uncle on one side, me on the other, watching the Cary Grant classic Every Girl Should Be Married. That was Quinn’s choice. I was pretty sure she was trying to send me a not-so-subtle message. If she thought I would ever scheme as hard as the main character to marry a man, she was crazy.
That wasn’t the worst of it. Tristan and I both went to put an arm around Quinn at the same time and we made skin-to-skin contact. The bolt of electricity that shot through my fingers all the way down to my toes made me shiver so violently, I almost broke my vow and looked at him. His touch still did something to me, and I hated myself for it.
To make matters worse, I stayed awake until Stella got home, which wasn’t until one in the morning. She sashayed in with her hair all askew, smelling like cologne. When I questioned her about where she’d been and what she’d been doing like I was her mother, she waved me off and hid in her room. I stayed up for another hour after that, stewing about the situation. Stella was free to date, or whatever she was doing. But I didn’t think it was the best example for Quinn to see her mother move from one man to the next so fast. Especially given that Stella needed time to heal from Jonathon’s death—and his actions. And I worried Stella was going to fall back into her old habits of defining herself by how attractive men found her.
It all made for an exhausting night of very little sleep.
As I headed for the vending machine, I noticed a book on the table nearest it. To Love a Rogue Pirate by Josie Cavanaugh. I picked up the obviously well-loved book, judging by the creases in the torrid cover. Ooh la la, the rogue pirate cover model bared his chiseled chest. Hmm. I wondered if anyone would mind if I borrowed this copy.
Lucy came waltzing in, fresh faced and chipper. She must have gotten more sleep than I did. Her eyes zeroed in on the book, and she fanned herself. “Oh. My. Gosh. Have you read that book?”
“No.” I smiled.
