“You survived the wind,” Nora said.
“Barely.”
“Then you’ve earned cider.”
The knitting woman looked up. “Everyone earns cider here. Nora just likes making it sound heroic.”
Nora laughed. “Evelyn, this is June Bell. June has been coming here every Christmas for nine years and has criticized my cider every one of them.”
“It lacks clove,” June said.
“It does not.”
“It does.”
I smiled despite myself.
June patted the chair beside her. “Come sit before she makes you judge.”
I joined her by the fire with a mug of cider. June had sharp eyes, cropped white hair, and the relaxed posture of someone who had stopped apologizing for taking up space.
“First Christmas here?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Alone by choice or by circumstance?”
The question was direct, but not unkind.
I watched flames lick around a split log. “A little of both.”
June nodded as though that made perfect sense. “The best trips usually are.”
We talked for nearly an hour. She had been a school librarian, divorced in her fifties, mother to one son who lived in Oregon. She came to the inn every December because, as she put it, “Families can love you deeply and still be terrible at seeing you clearly.”
I looked at her.
She raised one eyebrow. “Too accurate?”
“Uncomfortably.”
“Good. Truth should have a little texture.”
That evening, I ate dinner at a corner table while snow began to fall outside, delicate as sifted sugar. My phone remained in my room. I had left it there on purpose, tucked in the bedside drawer like a misbehaving child.
Afterward, Nora announced that guests were gathering in the parlor for board games. I almost said no. Then I remembered no one was waiting for me to wash dishes, pack leftovers, or locate someone’s missing mitten.
So I said yes.
There were seven of us: June, the elderly newspaper man whose name was Mr. Alvarez, the young couple, Nora’s nephew Ben, and a retired nurse named Clara who knew every rule to every game and obeyed none of them when losing.
We played Scrabble.
I had not played since Arthur died.
At first, I stayed quiet, arranging tiles carefully. Then June challenged Mr. Alvarez’s word, Clara accused Ben of inventing nautical terminology, and the young husband placed “joy” on a triple word score with such pride that his wife kissed his cheek.
Something loosened in me.
When I played the word “anchor,” June studied the board and said, “Interesting choice.”
“It was what fit.”