Chapter 2 - The Snow-Dusted Haven
By the time the train ground to a halt at the small, Victorian-style depot of Silver Hollow, Vermont, night had fully descended. The platform was coated in a pristine blanket of powder, crunching beneath my boots as I stepped off the carriage. Cold, sharp air filled my throat—crisp, untainted by the tension of suburban ballrooms and forced pleasantries.
“Nat!”
Emerging from beneath the platform’s wooden awning was Avery, wrapped in an oversized plaid wool coat and a mustard-yellow knit beanie. Her arms were wide open, and before I could even set down my weekender bag, she collided with me in a hug so warm it threatened to melt the snowflakes catching on my eyelashes.
“You actually did it,” Avery murmured against my ear, pulling back to look at me with fierce, shining eyes. “Look at you. You’re shaking, but you’re here.”
“I think my adrenaline wore off somewhere around Albany,” I admitted, letting out a laugh that sounded half like a sob. “My phone hasn't stopped buzzing for two hours. I had to turn off notifications.”
“Let them buzz into the void,” Avery said firmly, snatching my suitcase handle. “Tonight, your only responsibility is drinking hot mulled cider by an open hearth and eating shortbread until you fall asleep. Come on. The truck’s heated up.”
Avery’s cabin was tucked three miles up an unpaved road lined with giant hemlocks and sugar maples. It was everything my parents’ house was not: messy with stacks of vintage books, smelling of pine tar, woodsmoke, and simmering oranges, and utterly free of judgment. There were no white silk tablecloths to stain, no pristine floral centerpieces that couldn't be touched, and no expectations to perform.
After a bowl of steaming vegetable stew, we sat on the braided rug in front of a stone fireplace. Avery handed me a stoneware mug filled with cider and cinnamon.
“So,” she said, tucking her feet beneath a wool throw. “What’s the damage back at the country club?”
I hesitated, pulling my phone from my coat pocket. The lock screen was an avalanche of notifications: sixteen missed calls from Denise, nine from my father, four from Kyle, and seven text messages from Brooke. There were also three emails.
“Brooke texted,” I said, unlocking the device. “Do you want to hear the play-by-play?”
Avery raised her eyebrows. “Read it.”
“At five-forty-five: *Natalie, where are the activity bins? The craft supplies aren’t in the coat closet. People are arriving. This isn't funny.*”
I scrolled.
“At six-fifteen: *The Pearson boys just knocked over the ice sculpture of the angel. Denise is crying in the catering pantry. What the hell did you tell Eleanor Vance? Dad is screaming at the front desk.*”
Avery choked on her cider. “The ice sculpture? Please tell me you’re serious.”
“I’m deadly serious. The Pearson twins are six-year-old tornadoes. Denise promised their parents—who happen to be the biggest private contributors to Dad’s municipal re-election committee—that there would be structured, supervised puppet crafting.”
“Puppet crafting,” Avery echoed, shaking her head in sheer delight. “And who was supposed to run that? The renowned graphic designer Natalie Mercer?”
“Naturally,” I said dryly. “And then at seven-thirty, Brooke sent this: *You ruined my career before it even started. Mrs. Vance confronted Mom right in front of the regional director of the bank. Everyone knows you pulled out. I will never, ever forgive you for this.*”
I stared at the glowing screen. For a fleeting second, that familiar, insidious pang of guilt twitched behind my sternum. For nearly a decade, Brooke’s panic had been my problem. If Brooke forgot an anniversary gift, I ran to the mall. If Brooke’s caterer failed to show, I became the sous-chef. If Mom’s dinner party ran short of wine, I dashed to the cellar and endured Dad’s patronizing remarks about why I wasn't married yet.
“Nat,” Avery said softly, reaching out to cover my hand. Her voice cut right through the rising fog of old habits. “Look at me.”
I lifted my eyes.
“You didn't ruin her career,” Avery said, her tone absolute. “Her career was built on writing checks with your time. When you finally stopped funding her account, the check bounced. That is not your fault. That is basic arithmetic.”
I let her words sink in. The knot in my chest loosened. Outside, the wind howled against the heavy cedar timbers of the cabin, blowing sheets of fresh snow against the glass, but inside, the fire roared warm and bright.
“Now,” Avery grinned, tapping my phone. “What did Eleanor Vance’s email say?”
May you like
My fingers trembled slightly as I clicked the notification from the Hearthlight Foundation.
***