Page 101 of Inside Silence
Yesterday she asked me if I wanted to do some baking with her in preparation for the holidays, but I’m afraid that might be a little ambitious for me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her no though, so I was going to ask Phil for some guidance.
The past few weeks have been ones of transition in a multitude of ways. For one, the weather has decided to skip fall and careened straight from summer to winter. We already clocked our first snowfall two days ago. In town it melted off the roads and sidewalks during the day, but a little higher up in the mountains, it has stuck. It’s at least several degrees colder up at Dad and Phil’s place and it looks like a winter wonderland.
But the weather isn’t the only thing I’ve had to adjust to. There was also the aftermath of Auden’s reign of terror. Dad’s been cleared, of course, but the shooting—justified as it might have been—left its mark on him. There’s a shadow in his eyes I hadn’t seen there before, one that comes with taking the life of a man you’ve considered part of your circle for decades. He’s had two such cold realities hit him, both with Jeff and with Auden.
It’s the kind of betrayal that burrows deep, I know. But Dad and I are both lucky we also have a lot to be grateful for, a lot of love in our lives.
Phil said it best; you can’t change the shit behind you but you can damn well make sure you don’t let it stain your future.
I hop behind the wheel, and hurry to the station to welcome Rick Althof to the Edwards County Sheriff’s Department.
Out with the old and in with the new.
Nate
* * *
“Why can’t we just buy one at the stand by the gas station?”
I glance over at Savvy, who is hiding a smile, before lifting my eyes to the rearview mirror to look at Tatum, who is whining from the back seat.
“Where’s the magic in that?” I ask her.
It earns me a mutinous glare that only makes me grin harder.
My daughter has made me spend close to four hundred dollars in the past few days on Christmas shit. Small-town living has gone to her brain, and she now wants to turn our house into a Norman Rockwell Christmas painting like a lot of others have in town.
She’s the one who called me a Grinch—because I’ve never owned a single Christmas ball or string of flickering lights in my life— and told me we needed a little magic in our lives, so it’s fun throwing that back at her.
Not that she was wrong, I haven’t celebrated Christmas, or any other major holiday, in a very long time. In fact, the last time I sat down for a Christmas dinner was one Savvy’s mother cooked. The entire dinner I felt Sheriff Colter’s disapproving eyes on me. Haven’t celebrated a single one since leaving Silence.
But things have definitely changed since then. It’s a new beginning, and I’m making a lot of clean starts; with Tate, with Savvy, with Brant Colter, and with the town of Silence in general.
The holidays are for family, and although I may never have had much of one, it would appear I have one now. One that, ironically, includes the man I thought I hated more than anyone else, the woman I’ve never stopped loving, and the daughter I don’t deserve.
Phil is out on the porch when we pull in, tying some greenery to the porch railing. She waves when she sees us rolling up.
“Happy Thanksgiving! Are you guys ready to go pick out your Christmas tree? The turkey is in the smoker, I already have the thermos of hot chocolate packed, and Brant is hitching Clovis to the sled.”
Clovis is a partially blind Belgian draught horse Phil rescued from the slaughterhouse, much to Brant’s dismay, or so the story goes. The animal is to drag the entire family up the mountain to find an elusive perfect Christmas tree for each house.
This whole day was Phil’s idea, who has embraced grandparenthood with gusto since she met Tate, and seems to be reveling in the role.
“Do we have to?” Tate complains. “It’s cold. Can’t we just do the baking?”
That is the plan for this afternoon; the womenfolk bake Christmas goodies, and Brant and I are supposed to build wooden stands for the trees we bring back, peel potatoes, and keep an eye on the turkey.
“Let it go, Tate,” I warn her in a low voice. “It’s a package deal. You’ve gotta learn to go with the flow.”
“Your dad’s right,” Phil steps in, draping an arm around my daughter and tugging her close. “You’ll be snug as a bug in the sleigh, I’ve already loaded up the blankets. You never know, you might actually enjoy it if you open your mind.”
Still a little in awe of Phil since finding out she is a famous rock star; Tate seems more inclined to listen to her than she ever does to me.
Her soft, “Okay,” and conceding shrug are evidence of that.
The sleigh is little more than a platform on runners, stacked with two rows of straw bales behind each other. Brant and Phil sit on the first row, with Brant handling Clovis, and Savvy and I flank Tate on the back row, our knees wrapped in a large quilt.
It’s pretty up here. A bit chilly—especially for a Nevada transplant like my girl—but the snow is pristine and the air is clean and fresh. It doesn’t take long for Tate to warm up to the experience as well.
