My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(97)

That’s how long I sat squeezed into the backseat, listening to Hulda’s fake boyfriend snore. He kept his cap pulled low over his eyes, so I sat alone in the dark vehicle, staring out over the lights of the towns in the distance and the red glow of the taillights of the trucks that passed us by.

When Clint finally pulled off the interstate and onto a small highway I thought we must be almost there, but it was another hour before we turned onto a narrow gravel road that wound and curved through the darkness. The lights of the city were long gone. There were only stars. Millions of stars. Honestly, it was like we were the only people on earth when Clint stopped beside a small white house with a wraparound porch and said, “We’re here.”

“This is your house?” I asked Ethan as we crawled out of the backseat.

“No.” Ethan yawned, and I realized it must be after midnight. “Aunt Mary lives here. We’re next door.”

I turned to look, but saw only dark hills beneath that blanket of stars—a moon so large that it felt like I could touch it.

“With next door being…”

“About a half mile on the other side of that ridge.” Ethan pointed to the darkness.

A cold wind blew my hair into my face, jolting me awake. I watched as Clint carried Hulda’s huge suitcase up the stairs and through a door that opened without a key. That’s when I realized I was literally in a place where people didn’t lock their doors at night and the distance to the nearest neighbor was measured in miles.

If all I wanted was to go away then I’d done it. But Aunt Mary was beaming at me. Ethan’s parents were giving me hugs and wishing me good night. And Ethan kept looking at me as if he expected me to bolt off into the darkness at any moment.

I had to congratulate myself on finding the perfect place to hide.

It was a shame I couldn’t stay.

*

“You got everything you need, sweetie?”

Aunt Mary knocked on the bedroom door and it swung open. If she thought it was weird that I was still sitting on the bed with my backpack on my lap, she didn’t say so.

“Do you need some help unpacking?” She pointed to Hulda’s huge suitcase, but I shook my head.

“No, thank you.”

“That’s okay.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve got five months to settle in.”

Five months. A whole semester. I tried to imagine living in a tiny white farmhouse in the middle of nowhere for almost half a year. I had one bar on my cell phone (I’d checked before removing the battery again), and there was no cable TV. Could a person even live like this? Then I thought about the unlocked door, the big Christmas tree, and the handmade stocking already hanging on the mantel, the name Hulda sewn on in green sequins. And I knew that, for some people, the answer was absolutely yes.

“Your house is nice,” I told her.

“It’s old. Like me.” Aunt Mary laughed. “And it’s empty now that my husband and little girl aren’t here. But it’s mine. I was born here, you know.” She glanced at the old building as if expecting it to finish her story. “This was my room when I was your age. And then it was my daughter’s room. And now it’s yours.” She gave me a wide smile. “We’re glad you’re here, Hulda.”

“I’m very glad to be here,” I said because it was the first lie that came to mind.

For a second, though, I thought it must not have been the right lie, because Aunt Mary looked as if she knew there was something wrong with Hulda. Wrong with me.

Then she shook her head. “I just can’t get over how good your English is.”

“Thank you,” I said, and remembered what Ethan had told me on the drive. “Ethan helped me with it when he was in Iceland last summer.”

“Of course. He’s a good boy,” Aunt Mary said, but then something in the woman’s countenance grew serious. She studied me anew. “I would hate for him to get hurt.”

I looked into her big brown eyes. “I would hate that, too.”

And at that moment I meant it.

I swear, I really did.

*

“She’s so quiet.” I could make out the words, but I couldn’t place the voice. Or the room. Or the house. Or the overwhelming stillness that seemed to permeate everything around me. There were no honking horns, no dinging elevators or room-service carts being pushed down anonymous, never-ending hallways. That was when I told myself that I was still sleeping, that it had to be a dream.

“It’s a long flight. She must have been exhausted,” someone else said, and I remembered: Aunt Mary. The little white farmhouse with the big Christmas tree.

Ethan. Iceland. Hulda.

I threw off the covers and bolted upright in bed. The sun was too bright, burning through the white lace curtains that covered the windows. It felt like a spotlight, and I knew I had to get away—to get out of there before someone looked too closely, asked too many questions. By now, it would be obvious that I hadn’t shown up in New York, and people would be looking for me. If they found Hulda, they could find Ethan. And if they found Ethan, they’d find me.

“Hulda!” Aunt Mary called from the door. “Good. You’re awake. Come on downstairs, hon. Everyone’s waiting.”

“Okay … I … Everyone?”