That Holiday Feeling (Virgin River #8)(27)

Two

There was smoke curling from the chimney at Holiday Retreat. Lights were blazing from the downstairs windows. Trace sat in his car and stared, trying to make sense of it. He’d expected to spend the Christmas holiday alone here, mourning Mae in private, reliving the happy times they’d spent together over the years they’d known each other.

And, he conceded with a rueful grimace, catching up on the mounds of paperwork he’d brought with him, along with his cell phone, laptop computer and fax machine.

What the dickens was going on? he wondered, thoroughly disgruntled by this turn of events. Mae had said nothing about anyone else being here. Nor had the attorney in the note that had accompanied a key to the inn. The note had merely advised that Mae had seen to having plenty of food and firewood on hand and that she hoped his visit would be a memorable one. If he had any problems, he was to contact Nate Daniels, the man Trace had heard of, but never met, the man who was the shadowy love of Mae’s life.

Trace fingered the old-fashioned key in his pocket as he walked through the foot or so of recently accumulated snow. He was halfway to the door when he spotted indentations, a hectic swirl of footsteps and something else. He looked more closely and saw…not one but two snow angels, the sort made by flopping down in new-fallen snow and moving outstretched arms to create wings.

At first the sight brought a smile, reminding him of innocent, long-ago days as a kid before the unpredictability of the family’s day-to-day existence had registered with him. Winters back home had been relatively mild, so that rare snowfalls had been regarded with sheer delight. He hadn’t owned a sled, but he’d had his share of snowball fights and made more than a few snow angels.

Then the full implication of the snow angels sank in, and pleasant memories gave way to edginess. Judging from the smaller size of one snow angel, there was a kid on the premises and that generally meant noisy chaos, the last thing he’d anticipated when he’d made the commitment to Mae to spend the Christmas holidays here. For a man who made his living by providing expensive hobbies and toys to children, Trace was amazingly uneasy when confronted with an individual child. For him, toys were a multimillion-dollar business, not entertainment. Unless he could persuade himself to use whatever child was around to conduct market research, this whole situation had just gone from bad to worse.

He was about to turn tail and run, but then he heard Mae’s voice in his head as she’d extracted that promise from him. He’d never gone back on his word to her, ever. He wasn’t about to start now.

Filled with a sense of dread, he made his way to the front door. He stood on the slick porch debating whether to ring the bell, rather than walking in on whomever was here. Then again, he had just as much right to be here as the unknown occupant did. More, perhaps. That remained to be seen.

He stuck the key in the lock, turned it and pushed open the heavy door, noting as he did that it was in serious need of paint. It had once been bright red, as had all the shutters on the house. Now it was faded to a shade only slightly deeper than pink. Maybe he’d take care of that while he was here. It would be a fitting homage to Mae to see the doors and shutters restored to their scarlet holiday brilliance.

He was about to close the door when a girl—just about the size of the snow angel outside, he noted—skidded to a stop in front of him on one of the scooters his company made. It had been the hottest gift of the holiday season two years ago. It was not meant to be used indoors, though he could understand the temptation given the wide expanse of hardwood floors. And it wasn’t as if those floors were in particularly great shape. They could do with sanding and a fresh coat of wax. Something else he could do while he was here…in Mae’s memory.

First, though, he had to figure out who was this imp of a child regarding him with blatant curiosity, her golden hair scooped through the opening of a baseball cap, her T-shirt half in and half out of her jeans.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded in the no-nonsense tone he used on executives who’d failed to deliver on their division’s projections.

The kid didn’t even flinch. “I’m Hannah and I live here. Who are you? And how come you have a key to my house?”

Trace’s head began to throb. What the devil was Mae up to? “Are your parents here?”

“Just my mom. My dad divorced us. He lives in Florida. My mom’s baking Christmas cookies.” She cast an appealing smile at him. “Don’t they smell great?”

Trace automatically sniffed the air. They did smell fantastic, just the way Mae’s always had. He’d eaten fancier food than what was served at Holiday Retreat, but he’d never had any that tasted better or was prepared with more love. He wondered if Hannah’s mom shared Mae’s talents in the kitchen, then sighed. That was hardly the point.

“Want me to get my mom?” Hannah inquired.

“I’ll find her,” Trace said, heading determinedly toward the kitchen. He’d taken only a step before he turned back. “By the way, that scooter is not an indoor toy.”

The kid’s smile never faltered. “Maybe not, but it works great in here.” And off she went, completely unimpressed by his admonishment.

Trace sighed and went in search of her mother.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t the frail wisp of a woman who was bent over in an incredibly provocative pose, her head stuck halfway into the huge, professional-quality stainless-steel oven that had been Mae’s pride and joy.