8

I’d always imagined that snow would feel a lot like sand, only colder. I was wrong. Sand was sometimes dry. Snow never was. I drew in a sharp breath and sprang to my feet, an uncomfortable wet seeping through my various layers.

To his credit, Reed’s father looked contrite. Still, his mustache quivered.

“I didn't mean to scare you.” He extended a hand, ostensibly to help me brush off the snow. At the last second, he must have thought better of the move. He snatched his hand back so quickly that his elbow popped. “Sorry, sorry.” He flushed, as horrified as if he’d actually touched me. Which he hadn't.

All this made my frigid feelings toward him thaw. Slightly.

“It’s fine.” I whacked snow from the back of my jeans and rubbed my hands together. Upon closer inspection, I decided that once I got past the mustache, Reed’s dad had an interesting face. Strong jaw, good teeth, straight nose, flaring eyebrows, and—“Your eyes are two different colors,” I said, startled. Although they weren't, technically. But they were certainly two entirely different shades—one rich brown and the other shot through with a starburst of gold.

He waved this away. “It’s genetic. Listen. I’m sorry about before.”

Sorry about upsetting his son or sorry that I'd seen it? Either way, their family drama was none of my business. I folded my arms and waited.

“It’s just that Reed knows he's supposed to video chat with his mother while he's here on vacations—otherwise she doesn't let him come down—but he's always trying to get out of it. Which is obviously not your fault.” He flared his nostrils and let out a long breath. “I'm sorry. I'm just annoyed.”

He clearly was. His forehead creased as his brows lowered.

I'd always heard that parenthood ages people. In this case, I couldn’t say the aging was a bad thing. The crinkles and fine lines were more interesting than off-putting. Which was neither here nor there.

“It’s just that Reed has these weird hobbies and obsessions, and Evie worries that being here in Birchardville is bad for him because there’s not much going on, and he spends a lot of his time on the Internet researching local history and obsessing over dead people. Interesting dead people, by all accounts, but still dead.”

I put up a hand. “He followed me.” This seemed important to clarify. The rest was none of my business.

“You're right,” he said, his nostrils flaring again. “And anyway, that’s not what I wanted to say.”

I folded my arms. Let him get to the point by himself—if he could find it.

“I came to apologize for giving you a poor impression and to—well, that’s it. I'm sorry I lost my temper in front of you.”

“Why would that matter?”

He inclined his head. “It matters because I did it, and it was wrong. I’ve apologized to Reed, and I’m apologizing to you.”

OK, then. I turned to go, but he continued.

“Local gossip says you're staying over the holidays. And if that’s true, you're welcome to join us on Christmas Eve.” He nodded toward the church. “And to the Birchardville Store after. There's always refreshments and carols.” When I didn't reply, he shifted his weight and coughed uncomfortably. “I know Reed would love if you came.”

Sure. Reed would love it. “Noted.”

“Unless you have other plans for Christmas, of course.”

As if I’d be in a place like Birchardville if I had. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

I left him standing between two weather-beaten headstones.