Page 90 of Mistlefoe
Mom and Dad aren’t exactly the biggest fans of the cold, so they’re happy to oblige. Gramps goes next and Conor hangs on for a moment, observing my expression to gauge if something’s wrong. Problem is, I have no idea. After taking the hint, he places a quick kiss on my cheek and goes inside.
Grammie takes both of my hands in hers. “Ese muchacho te hace feliz.”
“Sí.”
“Y se ve que te quiere.”
I nod, that’s the most wonderful part of all.
“Y es muy atractivo.”
I’m about to nod again when I do a double take. My small, sweet, delicate little grandmother gives me a sly grin.
“Y ahora que he conocido al abuelo, sé que tiene buenos genes.”
“Grammie!” I gape.
“Así que está aprobado.”
“¿Así sin más?”
The quick approval of my boyfriend based on qualifications such as the facts that he makes me happy, likes me, and has good genes, stops being shocking when she explains what we all know: she doesn’t have a long time left. This is the reason why this visit was so important, and I’m just glad I get to share this with her at all.
Best Christmas ever, I think, even though I’m crying different tears now.
CHAPTER 31
CONOR
Abeam of light pierces through my eye, making me moan in protest. I turn my head away but it’s just as bright on the other side. With herculean effort, I lift a hand to rub the sleep off my eyes.
When I open them again, I see the mound of my pillow half obscuring the alarm clock. It’s about an hour later than I normally get up for, but that’s when I remember that it’s Christmas and my gift to myself is no training today. My other gift to myself is the date Sierra and I will have later today.
That’s all the motivation I need to get up, shower and do my hair, and put on clothes that don’t look like I coach kids’s hockey or spend a good portion of my leisure time splitting wood. The date will be low key, just sledding down the hill by Main Street in the morning and drinking homemade hot chocolate, followed by Christmas mass with Sierra’s family and then brunch. But I’m more excited than on the day I got drafted to the pros.
I guess I’m an old man now, when being with loved ones is more exciting than opening presents under the tree.
Said tree catches my attention on the way to the kitchen tomake the hot chocolate. I can’t quite pinpoint what about it made me pause, but it might be because I left my glasses in the bathroom. After retreating and putting them on, I march to my living room with purpose and stare at the tree again.
Same yay-high tree that I could put on a table because I don’t really have enough footprint for the real deal—check. Same twinkling lights and hockey-themed ornaments—check. Two gift-looking things at the base, even though I definitely didn’t put them there—also check.
One’s a box with gold tissue paper and a red bow, jewelry size. The other one is a tube wrapped in the same colors, but opposite—red paper and golden bow. This smells of effort, and I wonder if it’s from Sierra. But how did she even sneak them in? I haven’t even thought of giving her a house key yet.
I take the box first and check the table, but there’s no card under the things either. The mystery continues when I open it and find a nondescript key inside, also with no note.
Can’t be Sierra’s house key when she lives with her parents. Did she go ahead and rent an apartment in secret? But then, there would be a note.
Maybe it’s in the other gift. This one’s wrapped more painstakingly and it takes a longer moment to open. Inside, the tube is kind of like a case. I pull it open and find some papers rolled inside. But instead of an apartment rental contract, what I find is a property sale document.
For an ice rink.
“What?” I whisper in the quiet.
I blink hard, running my eyes across the words over and over until I’m sure that what I’m reading is right. That’s Conrad Mahoney’s name on the seller section, and Conor Mahoney on the buyer’s, all right.
I rush out the door, halfway to my truck realizing that I didn’t grab the car keys or a jacket. My breath blows plumes in the air as I run back into the house to grab my stuff andbundle up. I’m a ball of raw nerve as I drive through the country side, rows of snow capped pine trees flanking the road, a bright blue sky guiding me forward.
I don’t think, I just drive straight into the parking lot of Conrad’s Rink. I almost meet my maker when I slip on ice near the entrance, but the hockey thighs save me from that fate. I pump them hard as I run through the place, now clear of any vestiges ofSPORTY’s party, stopping only outside the door to my grandfather’s office.
