Page 160 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

Aidan and I walk him to the door, trailing him like a couple of groupies.

“Goodbye, Aidan,” Jace says, and to my surprise, Aidan darts forward and hugs him. It’s not that Aidan avoids touch—in fact, he loves being tickled—but it usually takes him a while to get there with someone.

Emotion clogs my throat, and I see something flash in Jace’s eyes too. This means something to him.

“Mary,” he says with a nod, the sound of my name in his voice projecting everywhere, like the roots of a weed.

And then he turns, and he’s gone.

I don’t need to look at Aidan to know he feels it too—something bright has been snatched from us.

His face falls. “Mom, I forgot to ask him about decorating our tree.”

“If we ask him, I think he’ll do it,” I say.

Because I’m starting to believe that.

It takesme a long time to get to sleep that night. The empty walls seem to be staring at me with accusation. So I grab my laptop and start Googling for underwear and bra sets (the ones I have looked incredibly sad in Aidan’s tiny hands, like they belonged to someone’s great-grandmother), and after I buy a few—okay, five—I move on to looking for a new duvet cover. The leotard in the box was a deep emerald green, and I find myself drawn to a duvet cover that’s a similar shade. On impulse, I buy it. Then, remembering my depressing gray phone case, I order one that’s a bright, deep blue.

It still doesn’t seem like enough.

It’s the walls in this room. The emptiness of them felt almost like a blank slate when we first moved in, but we’ve been here for over a month, and they’re still as blank and white as the day we arrived. I could put up a few of the framed prints from our house in Charlotte, or even the inappropriate needlepoint Molly gave me (“make today your bitch”). But none of those choices feel right. I have the weirdest urge to buy a painting. Not a print, but a legitimate, paint-on-canvas painting.

As part of Maisie’s wedding weekend, a group of us went on an Art Walk. Glenn stayed behind at the hotel to work, but Dottie offered to babysit, and on a whim, I let her. (When I picked Aidan up, he’d acquired a cat sweater—we’ve never had a cat, but according to Dottie we will someday—and a copy ofI Am a Rainbow: A Children’s Guide to the Chakras.) I didn’t go on that Art Walk with the intention of buying anything. And I didn’t, other than a small gift for my sister. But being there, seeing so much talent on display…I felt a spark kindle inside me. I was so stirred by it that I asked Glenn to go back with me before we leftand, shockingly, he did. Through his eyes everything had looked smaller. Amateurish. Gaudy. Cheap. The spark had been doused. But what would it be like now that I was free?

My life is falling apart—no, it fell apart months ago—and I want to buy a painting.

The strange thing is that once that revelation lands and settles, I fall asleep quickly.

The itch still hasn’t faded the next day, so I take myself to the River Arts District during my lunch break. It’s unlike me to take a long lunch twice in one week, but when I tell Hilde what I’m after, she grins. “You might want to pop into the glass store. They have some lovely ornaments.”

As she says it, her gaze lands on the naked tree beside my desk. At least I’ve remembered to water it. That’s something, right?

I get a fizzy sense of anticipation as I drive to the River Arts District, the buildings painted with murals that remind me of Jace’s hidden tattoos. The sensation only builds as I park my car and approach a building that houses several studios.

Something significant is about to happen—or maybe it’s already happening.

It doesn’t take me long to find it. If I believed in any of Dottie’s talk of energy and fate and crystals, I’d have to conclude I was drawn to it, magnet to metal, but I don’t. Or at least I never have before.

It’s an abstract painting, the colors neutral, except for one slash of color—red and orange and yellow—that seems to be whirling across it.

It makes my heart lift, unfurls a sense of wonder within me, and makes my feet itch to dance.

I glance at the plaque beside it and do a double take.The Fortune-Teller Series #3, Adalia Buchanan.

Adalia Buchanan is Maisie’s sister-in-law. I’ve met her a couple of times, including at Thanksgiving this year, but we haven’t exchanged more than a handful of words. She’s an artist, so it’s not surprising that I should find her work here, although I didn’t realize she painted. She’s known for her sculptures—huge hulking works of metal and trash made to look like other things. Did she really paint this?

“Mary!” The voice behind me startles me enough that I jump slightly.

A woman with bouncing blond curls, overalls, and a bright red headband materializes behind me. I feel a throb of self-consciousness. Adalia will tell Molly and Maisie about my visit to the studio, but then again, what’s the harm in that? They want me to be happy, and it’s not as if I can buy a large painting without them seeing it at some point.

“I’m thinking of getting myself a Christmas present,” I say, standing a little taller. “I didn’t realize you do paintings too.”

“Not usually,” she says. “But my big guys were too much for me when I was pregnant.”

I get a flash of Jace’s huge body, the bulk and weight of all that muscle, and wonder for what has to be the thousandth or hundred-thousandth time what it would be like to feel him against me. Inside of me.

My blush gives me away, again, and she laughs merrily and says, “Yes, I absolutely know how that sounded.” Her gaze lifts to the painting, and her smile stretches wider. “One of my favorites. You know, going to see a fortune-teller changed my life.” She lifts her hands as if to swat at my skepticism. “No joke. I used to think it was BS, but if it weren’t for that fortune-teller, Finn and I never would have gotten married.” She makes a face. “Or at least it would have taken significantly longer for me to figure out he’s not a stuck-up prick.”

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