“Who?” I ask, deadpan.
He points at my face. “Your eyebrows already did the thing. Ivy. The PR lady. The human sugar cookie.”
“Stop calling her that,” I say, testing the bell strap again. Even. No creak. Good. “And go shovel the back path. Seniors don’t need to be climbing drifts.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, grinning too wide to be healthy, and clatters away.
The barn smells like leather and hay and a little bit like the peppermint treats Lolly dropped off “for the horses,” which is a lie we all tell. I breathe in, out. In for four. Hold. Out for six. The wind’s up, but the snow turned fine and friendly instead of mean; we’ll keep the ride short, close to the birches where the trees break the gusts.
Donner flicks an ear as if to ask why I’m fussing. Comet stands patient, the weight of the harness familiar across her back. Everything here makes sense. You check your gear. You watch your horses. You time your route to the weather and the riders’ bones.
At 1:58 on the dot, laughter blows in with the cold. Mayor Turner’s tartan leads the way, followed by a line of bundled seniors from Pine Hollow, all boots and blankets and joy that’s been around long enough to know it when it sees it. And behind them?—
“I brought permission forms for audio only!” Ivy announces in a stage whisper, holding a clipboard like it’s a golden ticket. She’s wearing different boots—sensible, blessedly dull—and a hat that looks like a marshmallow. The hat makes her eyes too bright to look at for long.
I am not nervous.
“Afternoon,” I say to the group, because it’s easier to talk to a dozen people than to one. “Welcome. We’ve got a short looptoday—wind’s playing tricks—so we’ll stick to the birch lane and the lower meadow. Quilts are in the sleigh. Hand me your walkers and canes, and I’ll tie them down behind.”
“Always so thoughtful,” Mrs. Hadley says, patting my arm with a mitten the size of a catchers’ mitt. “This one’s got more manners than a bishop.”
“I can confirm,” Mayor Turner chirps, then turns to Ivy. “Darling, this is Mrs. Hadley. She knitted that red quilt. Get a bit of the edge, close-up. It photographs like a dream.”
“I’m on it,” Ivy says, and points her phone at exactly the inches of wool I would have pointed her at if I were the kind of man who pointed phones. “Gorgeous texture. Lolly said you’re starting another?”
“Always,” Mrs. Hadley says. “Busy hands keep away the winter blues.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “And the boys.”
Ivy giggles. It bounces off the rafters and somehow doesn’t hurt. Which is new.
We load them carefully. Tuck blankets around knees. Make sure Mr. Levine’s hearing aids aren’t fighting with the bell tones (they don’t, today). Ivy moves like I told her to yesterday: a half step back from the horses, hands visible, voice low. She crouches for glove-level shots of fingers curling around quilt edges and the slow exhale of breath feathering the air. She whispers her puns like confessions. I catch “winter glam-brrr” and hate myself for almost smiling.
Almost.
“All aboard,” Mayor Turner declares, perching on the sleigh step and—saints save us—bell-kissing the air for my benefit. I stare at a knot in the leather until she stops.
“Ready?” Ivy asks, looking at me instead of her phone for this one, like I’m a person and not a walking set piece. It knocks me off balance for half a second, which I resent.
“Ready,” I say, climb onto the box, and cluck Comet into a gentle start. Donner takes the outside. Bells answer. The sleigh pulls like it’s meant to, runners whispering across packed snow. The seniors’ voices knit themselves into the sound—soft oohs, a chuckle, the murmur of a song someone half remembers.
Ivy jogs alongside for a few opening seconds, careful to stay clear of hooves, and then drops back, letting us slide into the lane of white trunks. She holds up her phone at chest height, framing bells, wool, hands, sky.
“You doing okay back there?” I call back to the old men in front and also not just to them.
“Nothing hurts when the bells go,” Mr. Levine says. He taps his knee. “Even this traitor.”
We take the corner slow. Birch branches lift like cathedral ribs. Snow sifts down in quiet applause. I listen for evenness; I hear it. Ivy drifts ahead to catch the sleigh coming toward her and almost collides with a birch because she’s watching the shot instead of the tree. I clear my throat. She hears me and flashes two fingers in apology. The absurd urge to smile shows up again.
Don’t.
The loop is shorter than usual, but no one complains. They pat the horses and tell them secrets they don’t tell their kids. Ivytakes audio of bells echoing under the bridge, of Mayor Turner thanking Mrs. Hadley for the quilt “with twenty years of story knitted in.” She never once lifts the phone to a face. It matters.
Back at the barn, we unload slowly. Jared materializes with hot cider like he’s appeared off a Hallmark craft services truck. Ivy takes cups from him and passes them to cold hands with a running commentary of which quilt corner is best for drips. People laugh. They’re warmer for her being here. I hate that it’s true and love that it’s true and hate that I love it.
“Thank you, Rhett,” Mrs. Hadley says, patting my arm again. “Tell your granddad’s bells we still hear them.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and mean it.
Mayor Turner collects permission forms from Ivy like they’re raffle tickets. “How marvelous! Audio for days! And look at this one,” she adds, peering at Ivy’s screen. “I can feel the wool.”
