“Okay, Snowflake Valley, you had me at the giant candy canes.” They line the sidewalk, at least six feet tall and glistening with red and white stripes that look good enough to lick.
My GPS chirps that I should turn right onto Pine Forest Road. This street is quieter, winding away from the town center, bordered by tall pines laden with fresh snow.
It’s beautiful and peaceful, exactly what I need.
Near the end of the road, I catch my first glimpse of what the rental listing calls “The Grand Cabin.”
The cabin is, well, grand.
Two stories of logs with a wraparound porch, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a chimney wide enough to accommodate Santa—even after he’s hit every cookie plate in the world. I park in the circular driveway and stare for a minute, letting it sink in that this palace is all ours for the next two weeks.
The key is under the mat, as promised, so I unlock the door and step into a space so beautiful I actually gasp like a rom-com moron.
Cathedral ceilings soar above the main living area, crossed with exposed wooden beams. The promised stone fireplace dominates the north wall, big enough to roast an entire reindeer (not that I would… obviously. How would Santa do his rounds?). The kitchen has the latest stainless steel appliances and enough counter space to prepare Christmas dinner for thirty, not just the twelve family members arriving tomorrow.
“Holy crap,” I shout as I twirl happily, my voice echoing slightly in the space. This place feels so warm and welcoming compared to my tiny, sparsely decorated apartment in the city. It’s not like I have time for decor shopping… or even having friends over.
I quickly tour the six bedrooms, mentally assigning each to different family members based on the size of their group. I claim the smallest one for myself, the one tucked under the eaves with a window seat overlooking the forest. It feels like a secret hideaway, perfect for escaping when the family togetherness inevitably becomes too much.
Then, I start the laborious process of unloading my car, which takes seven trips and leaves me winded, my cheeks flushed from the cold and exertion. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the December chill, and my thighs burn from trudging through snow while carrying bags that seem to get heavier with each trip.
I spend the next few hours in a decorating frenzy: garlands along the stair railings, twinkling lights around every window, and a small army of nutcrackers on the mantle. The pre-lit artificial tree (because who wants to vacuum pine needles?) goes in the corner with the best view, and I hang every ornament I brought.
By six o’clock, The Grand Cabin is pure holiday overload: twinkling lights in every window, garlands everywhere, and not a single ornament out of place. I’m blasting Christmas music, sipping hot chocolate buried in mini marshmallows, and feeling pretty pleased with myself when my phone rings.
Mom’s face lights up my screen.
“Hey! I was just putting the finishing touches on everything. You guys are going to love this place,” I say, collapsing onto the oversized couch.
There’s a pause, and I immediately know something’s wrong. It’s the same pause that came before “Grandpa’s in the hospital” and “We had to put Muffin down.” My fingers tighten around my mug.
“Honey,” Mom says, her voice tight. “We have a bit of a situation.”
My stomach drops. “What kind of situation?”
“Well, you know we just docked from the cruise…”
I didn’t know, actually, because no one bothered to tell me they were taking a pre-Christmas cruise, but I swallow the petty complaint.
“Half the ship came down with that virus that’s been going around. Your father’s been sick for three days. I started this morning. Aunt Karen and Uncle Bob, too.”
“But you’ll still make it tomorrow, right?” I hate how small my voice sounds, how the omega in me immediately whines at the thought of being left alone. I clear my throat, trying to sound more mature. “I mean, it’s probably just a 24-hour thing.”
“We can’t, sweetheart. They won’t let us disembark, and the doctor says we’re contagious for at least another 72 hours after symptoms stop, and no one’s symptoms have stopped. We can’t risk flying and getting other people sick.”
I close my eyes.
The marshmallows in my hot chocolate have dissolved into a sad, filmy layer. I stare at it, trying to process that I’ve just set up Christmas for twelve in a giant cabin, and no one is coming. All those carefully hung stockings and perfectly placed gifts.
“I’m so sorry, Melody. I know you were looking forward to this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say automatically. “You guys focus on getting better.”
We talk for a few more minutes. Mom promises they’ll make it up to me, and I assure her it’s fine. When I hang up, I look around at the perfectly decorated cabin, big enough for a family reunion, now occupied by exactly one person.
“Merry Christmas to me,” I say to the bobblehead Santa. My gaze drifts to the bottle of wine on the counter—an expensive cabernet I brought to share with Dad.
I put my mug down and walk to the kitchen.