“You good?” His question is gruff, but Papa Blue always listened to me in a way that no one else could. He saw everything, even if he didn’t say so.
No, I’m not good.That’s what I want to say. I want to tell him that I miss Silverwood and our Christmas tree farm. That I hate my job in the city.
I always wanted to be an artist, but I wanted Hank more, so I traded big city life in San Francisco for a slow-paced one in small-town Montana. Four years into our marriage, I painted a piece inspired by Hank, titled it,Cowboy Wading into Waterand posted it on Instagram. It blew up overnight, and I became known for my distinctive Montana scenes. I was even featured in Target’s Artist Spotlight series.
It was a beautiful burst of glory I haven’t recaptured since.
After the divorce, I went back to the art gallery I left when I met Hank. While I worked the front desk, I put together my portfolio. Networked.
My agent organized a gallery show, but instead of hitting it big again, I failed. Spectacularly. I only sold one painting that night. After, in my quiet, dark apartment, I cried and typed out a text I never sent.
Rather than dive into any of that, I plaster on a smile. “Good.”
Papa Blue peers at me. “Still living that artist life?”
“Pretty close.”
Starving artist is more like it.
“Honey, you’re living in an apartment the size of a cardboard box,” my mom loves to remind me every time we talk. “Use your divorce settlement.”
But I can’t. I don’t know why. Using that money feels like admitting that I’ve given up. But on what? I still don’t know. Myself? Hank and me? That’s ridiculous. There is no moreHank and me. I’m twenty-nine and divorced. That’s the epitome of giving up.
A harsh gust of icy wind whips through the trees. I hitch a thumb at my rental car. “I should get up to the cabin before the storm blows in.”
“Car won’t make it up that incline.” Papa Blue’s gaze narrows in disapproval.
Over my shoulder, I eye the shoddy Kia and curse the rental company.
I blink at him. “What do I do?”
He grins, the lines on his face deepening. “You can still pull a sled, can’t you?”
Ten minutes later, my bags are stacked on top of a rustic red Christmas sled and the clouds in the sky have lowered further.
He gives the sled, then me, a doubtful look. “You need help up?”
I puff a lock of hair out of my face. “It’s okay. I got it.” Balancing my backpack on my thigh, I dig a pair of thick gloves out and slide them on.
“Still a natural.” Papa Blue breaks into a proud grin.
I smile. A real one this time.
“You give a holler if you need anything.” He squeezes my arm. “We missed you around these parts. Don’t be a stranger.”
I ignore thewe. And the pressure behind my eyes. “I won’t. Thanks.”
Slowly, I leave behind the buzzing Christmas tree farm and hoof my way up the steep incline. It’s only a ten-minute trek, but already my ass muscles burn. Luckily, the hills of San Francisco have prepared me for this.
As I ascend, I hum “Jingle Bells” and periodically peer up at the thick black clouds that have moved in.
“Almost there,” I huff as I weave through thick pine trees, my boots crunching leaves and rock. When the top of the A-frame cabin peeks through the dark treetops like a guiding light, my heart stutters.
Once the ground flattens out, I shove my way through the forest, passing the hand-carved sign that readsOur Mansion in the Mountains.
That’s what Hank and I called it.
It may only be eight hundred square feet, but we lived so many dreamy moments here and created so many happy memories. My first sale. A call from an agent. The night Hank and I first made love. The start of what became our traditional Christmas tree ornament exchange. The time Hank and I—
