Page 82 of Mad About Yule

“If you don’t like it, I can always call someone else. I know a guy with a magnificent model train collection.”

“Okay, Tipsy Sue. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere.”

I have to convince every cell in my body not to turn my truck straight to her apartment. She’s been drinking, and that leaves certain detours off the table. Another place comes to mind to take her while she burns off her alcohol. I glance her over—strictly to assess her clothes, but thankfully she’s dressed warm enough for what I’m thinking.

Then, I look her over a second time, just for me.

Sunshine in the middle of a holiday is just about as dead as the town gets. The empty, snow-filled streets remind me of something out of a zombie movie…or one of those Christmas movies where the blue-collar guy wins over the sassy businesswoman. Let’s aim for that one.

I head out on the old highway that winds through the National Forest. Welcoming hills surround Sunshine, but these are just the snow-dusted baby sisters of central Oregon’s true mountain peaks. One thing about living in the Northwest, you can never get too far from mountains, rivers, or lakes. I haven’t been out here in years, but I drive on autopilot, the backroads calling me home.

“How did your family dinner go?” Hope clamps a hand over her mouth, then speaks through her fingers. “I didn’t interrupt, did I?”

“Dinner was over. We were good. It’s…harder. Without Dad here.”

Every time Caleb and I laughed over something, I’d turn around half-expecting to see Dad walk in to join the fun. By the time I got Hope’s text, I’d been ready to bolt just to get away from the memories for a minute.

She slips her hand over to rest on my knee. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t have her hand on my leg, talk about my grief, and navigate snowy roads all in one go. We’ll wind up in the ditch.

After a few more miles, I turn down a fishing access road that on any other day would have at least three other trucks parked on it, their drivers out on the river, hoping for a bite. Today, even the most dedicated anglers are taking a break—or have already come and gone. I stop at a turnout and cut the engine.

“Do you mind taking a walk?”

She pulls her bright red hat on and flashes a grin. “I’m ready.”

I help her slide out the passenger’s side, wishing it wasn’t so cold. My hands can’t make any satisfying contact with her waist through her thick parka. At least she’s wearing her gloves, and I don’t have to worry about her fingers going numb today.

“Did you bring your fishing pole?”

“Nah.” Our boots crunch through the thin snow as I take the lead. “Caleb and I went fishing Saturday morning.”

“I was kidding. Can you actually catch something in all this?”

Hers is not the face of a fisherman, all wide-eyed surprise and a touch of disgust.

“They’re still out there. You just have to find the right spot.”

“You’re more dedicated than I would be.”

I laugh at the way she slursdedicated, giving it a few extra syllables.

She tosses her hands on her hips—or where I assume they are beneath that bulky parka. “I’m not drunk!”

“The call of the drunk woman.”

She huffs at me, but we keep walking.

“My dad used to fly fish all year round. We went to honor him.”

It’s more than I expected to tell her. I don’t offer details about my emotional state that day, and I sure don’t tell her about the tears Caleb and I cried at the river. But she takes my hand, understanding enough.

The gravel peters out at a well-worn path leading down to the riverbank. Some of the trees here still cling to their yellowed leaves, but most are bare. Finally, the path opens onto the Olallie River’s silver waters. The hills beyond are white, the sky a hazy gray. Even like this, I never get tired of the view.

“Oh.” Hope gives a delighted little gasp I want to hear again, in a much warmer location. “It’s so beautiful.”

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