Page 65 of Sawyer

“Not anymore,” I say.

His shoulders fall, but his cheat heaves with the force of his breathing, with the intensity of his feelings. Slowly lowering his head to my hand, he presses his lips to my bare finger, lingering there as he composes himself. When he looks up again, his eyes are bright and shiny, full of happy tears that I don’t think he can help.

“You’re free,” he says.

I’m yours, I think, though it’s too soon to say it aloud.

“I’m free,” I agree, giggling with happiness when he leans down and kisses my ring finger again.

Chapter 8

Sawyer

When I suggest to Gran that we should invite the Caswells for Thanksgiving dinner, she enthusiastically agrees, immediately calling Coach and Mrs. C. to extend an invitation, which is gratefully accepted.

Thanksgiving morning arrives bright and cold, and I’m happy to help Parker and Reeve sweep the dining room of the lodge before setting a long table for the twelve of us, the five Caswells, and the three Morgans. At the last minute, Joe asks if Vera and Aaron can join us, too, and Gran, who’s never said no to a Thanksgiving guest in her life, tells us to squeeze everyone together and set two more places, which means we’ll be a whopping twenty-two (well, twenty-three if you count Wren!) at dinner.

While looking for extra chairs in the basement, Tanner finds an old box of autumnal decorations, and Parker braids white lights and fall garlands together before Tanner hangs them on the rafters overhead.

Reeve and I carefully take out the china and crystal our mother inherited when she got married. It cost more than it was worth to pack it up and send it to Alaska after her wedding, so we handle every piece with the reverence it deserves. Because there are only twelve place settings, we steal another ten from the kitchen and mix up everything into a festive mishmash of old and new.

Meanwhile, Gran and Paw-Paw run the kitchen like a military operation—she’s the general in charge of all things “feast,” and he’s her sergeant, duly enforcing every command. They order around their grunts (Harper, McKenna, andIsabella) who are probably regretting that they offered to help. Joe is the only one who is let off the hook because Wren fell asleep on his shoulder, and no one wants to wake up a grumpy baby. So, he stands to the side, holding his baby in his arms and grinning with glee every time Harper rolls her eyes.

My dad and Hunter, who only arrived in Skagway last night with Isabella, left early this morning, trekking out to the forest to find a Christmas tree. After we finish Thanksgiving dinner later tonight, Gran will make an enormous vat of hot chocolate, and we will gather ’round the tree to get it decorated while Will Ferrell’s movie,Elf,plays on the big screen TV over the fireplace.

I’m filled with happiness, anticipation, and gratitude this year. I’m thankful for my family, our friends, our health, our homes, and our business, of course. But also for a second chance—arealchance, maybe for the first time ever—with the woman I love.

Sunday and Tuesday evening rehearsals were charged and heady with the freedom we now have to act on our feelings for each other. Our scenes as Catherine and Heathcliff bordered on dirty as our kisses went from passionate to full-on, body-contact, deep-throated make-outs, and when we weren’t on the stage, we were doing more of the same in the dark corners backstage or in the snow flurries outside behind the theater.

On Tuesday night after rehearsal, I asked Ivy to come back to my place and stay the night, but she gently refused.

“I’m crazy about you,” she whispered in the dark quiet of a backstage changing room. She was sitting on my lap and reached up to cup my cheeks, her eyes holding mine. “You know that, right?”

I nodded, twisting my head slightly to press my lips to her palm. “And you know I feel the same.”

“I do,” she said, leaning forward to kiss me again. “But I just broke things off with Clark on Saturday, and I haven’t eventalked to my father yet. I feel like…I just feel like I need a little more time before we jump into bed together, okay?”

“Of course,” I’d assured her, drawing her back into my arms for another PG-13 make-out session. I will wait as long as she needs…and plan to take a lot of cold showers in the meantime.

“Sawyer,” calls Gran, stepping into the dining room, “I need you to go down to the basement and get that case of rosé wine your dad brought back from Oregon. Put it outside on the porch to cool? Tanner, why isn’t the dessert table set up? Where are the guests gonna put their desserts? Do I have to do everything? Reeve! Are you done setting that table yet? Come and help Isabella do the mashed potatoes in batches. Comp’ny’s coming in half an hour. Hop to it, Stewarts!”

As Tanner sets up a table to receive our guests’ dessert offerings, Reeve hustles her butt into the kitchen, and I head downstairs to find the wine. I’m placing it on the porch to cool when my dad and Hunter return with a beautiful, big fir tree in the back of my dad’s pickup truck. With Tanner’s help, the four of us manage to wrangle it into a corner of the lodge, and set it up in the tree stand.

And right about then, the guests start to arrive—first the Morgans, who bring a traditional pumpkin pie, plus a plate of Nanaimo bars, since Mrs. Morgan is originally from Vancouver. Vera arrives next, with a store-bought apple pie and two gallons of vanilla ice cream. Aaron’s up next, avoiding Reeve’s stink eye as he hands Joe a plate of salted caramel brownies and thanks Gran for the invitation. And finally, the Caswells pull up, with Jenny and Vicky racing up the lodge steps to hand Gran a cranberry bundt cake that they made from scratch. Coach follows behind his daughters, whispering to Paw-Paw that the pecan pie he’s holding has so much bourbon in it, the kids have been warned to stay away.

Mrs. C. and Ivy are the last to climb up the stairs of the old lodge, slow and steady, with Ivy’s hand under her aunt’s arm. Mrs. C. sure has lost a lot of weight since I last saw her in August. She wears an orange, brown, and beige plaid scarf wrapped around her head, and a thick wool sweater over black pants and a turtleneck shirt. Even covered from head to toe as she is, she looks pale, chilly, and frail.

“Welcome, ladies! Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Hello, Sawyer! I’m sure sorry to come to your gran’s Thanksgiving supper in slippers,” says Mrs. C. with a rueful chuckle. I look down to see well-worn moccasin-style slippers on her feet. “I’ve got Hand-Foot syndrome from the chemo. Shoes just hurt too much.”

“Those slippers look just fine, Mrs. C.,” I say, giving her a gentle hug. “What matters most to us is that you’re here.”

“You’re a good egg, Sawyer Stewart,” she says, smiling up at me as I let her go. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

Coach Caswell returns from his duties at the dessert table to take his wife’s hand and guide her into the lodge, leaving me and Ivy standing on the porch alone.

“How’s she doing?” I ask Ivy. “For real?”

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