Page 3 of Merry Mended Hearts

I’d have to write it into my book later.

Shadows pooled beneath branches and the light casting from a break in the clouds overhead. That breaking light felt so symbolic. I needed some light right about now.

I had the urge to go Mary Poppins on this painting, to dive right in and explore. It would be better than my current predicament.

But there would be no exploring. Just as there would be no sequestered, endless hours of losing myself writing or soaking up some time at the spa here.

My heart grew more despondent the longer I thought about it. I removed my phone from my pocket and looked up Mom’s number.

Me: Made it to the inn. Are you sure you booked me a room? They’re saying I’m not on their records.

Mom: Asinine!

Mom was a walking dictionary. It was thanks to her that I had a love of all things literature. I chuckled at her word and read her next message.

Mom: I did! Hang on, I’ll give them a call.

Perfect. Maybe Mom could make some sense of this. She had her transaction number, receipt, and confirmation emails. It was definitely better for the receptionist to talk to the one who’d made the appointment.

Assuming Mom had.

She wasn’t usually one to forget things like this, but there was the time she’d left her suitcase on the plane when we’d flown to Stephanie’s wedding. Mistakes happened, didn’t they?

Me: Thanks, Mom.

Now, all I had to do was wait.

I inhaled, keeping one hand on the suitcase handle, and gazed at the towering Christmas tree beside the fireplace. It was smothered with emerald-green tulle and fat red bulbs with little sprays of glittering gold stems like they’d just been plucked from a tree. Perfectly wrapped presents created small mountains at the tree’s base.

It made me wonder if there was actually anything inside of them or if they were just for decoration.

Behind me, the mom reprimanded her daughter in an exasperated tone. “No, no, Edie. Don’t touch things we can never replace.”

“I’m just looking,” the little girl replied even though her fingers trailed along the front of the antique radio on the table. It was old, standing like a tower on a sea of lace.

The young girl fiddled with the radio’s two front knobs like she was drawing on an Etch-a-Sketch. Her mom bustled over, curly-haired dog in one hand with the other outstretched.

“Edie, I said don’t touch.”

The young girl lowered her hand. Her dark hair tufted out beneath a pink beanie.

“What is it?” she asked.

Keeping my suitcase in hand, I settled onto one of the fat armchairs facing the table. At the same moment, a man in a cowboy hat entered the room. I wondered if he was the same cowboy I’d seen out by the barn when I’d first arrived.

Snow gathered at his boots, and a pair of thick gloves stuck out from the pockets of his wool-lined coat.

“It’s just an old radio,” the mom said. “Now, come on. We should have left ten minutes ago.”

“That’s not just any radio.” The cowboy removed his hat, giving me a full-fledged view of his rugged jawline and pink-tinged cheeks speckled with a day’s growth.

I knew it was cliché. I wrote about things like this all the time. But the instant I heard his low bass drum beat and saw the James Dean rebellious vibe this man’s features had—if James Dean were a cowboy—my breath quickened.

Now that was a jawline.

I was already warm, but this man did a number on my internal body temperature.

“It’s not?” The girl raised a brow. “How come?”

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