Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“I try not to,” I say, but the corner of my mouth betrays me.
She catches it. Of course she does. “Was that a smile? Quick, Jared, mark the calendar.”
“Calendar’s already full,” Jared calls. “We hit a smile quota last June.”
“Keep moving,” I repeat, but it’s less bite and more habit.
We swap Comet for Donner, who immediately noses Ivy’s candy-cane scarf with predatory interest.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“It’s okay,” Ivy says, laughing. “If I die in the line of content, tell my boss I went out festive.”
“Donner,” I warn. The gelding sighs like he’s the one burdened with foolish city folk and reconsiders scarf dining.
I check the buckles on his harness, fingers moving without thought. Leather, brass, wool—things that make sense. The world is quieter when it’s this—weight and purpose and a loop that fastens the way it did yesterday and will tomorrow. Ivy angles her phone to catch the close-up of my hands on the strap. She doesn’t shove it in my face or ask me to redo anything. Just…films. Like she’s trying to catch the truth of it instead of posing it.
“Can I get your voice?” she asks. “Just a few sentences while you work. Why you check the way you do. What you listen for.”
“Why would anyone care?”
“Because people forget,” she says. “And you make them remember.”
I hate that she’s quoting me back to myself. I hate more that she’s not wrong. I clear my throat. “I check because something that goes wrong in here goes wrong out there.” I flick my chin toward the trail. “A bell that’s loose can spook a nervous horse. A strap that looks fine can crack in cold if it’s dry. You keep your hands on what you’re responsible for.”
She’s quiet. The phone stays low. I keep talking to shut myself up.
“You listen for evenness. Bells that sound like they belong together. You watch the ears, the tail, the breath. You don’t rush. The horse tells you what they need if you’re paying attention.”
“Okay,” she says softly, and I don’t look up because I don’t want to see whatever is in her eyes. “That was perfect.”
“It was factual.”
“Sometimes those are the same thing.”
We lead Donner out. Snow starts in soft, drifting flakes, one catching on her eyelashes. She blinks and the flake melts against her skin, and I decide whoever at the sponsor’s office picked “send Ivy” owes me hazard pay. Did they have to send someone that looks like an angel ornament come to life?
“Where do you want your b-roll?” I ask, because business feels safer than whatever that thought was.
She brightens. Of course she does. “If we can walk the lane by the birches, that’d be great. The white trunks will pop, and we can get that soft light through the branches. I’ll keep the angle low and cut with wide shots of the snow falling. Title card can be ‘Why We Sleigh.’ Kidding. Maybe.”
“No slogans near me,” I say, but I guide Donner toward the birch lane anyway because she’s right about the light. We pass the bake shop delivery cart as Mrs. Olsen trundles by, dropping off boxes at the Peppermint Inn. She waves so enthusiastically I worry she’ll tip over the whole sleigh of snickerdoodles.
“Rhett!” she calls. “Tell that pretty girl I’ve got hot cocoa bombs at the bakery if she needs props.”
“I’m good on bombs,” I say before I can catch the word, and my jaw goes tight for a beat too long. Ivy glances at me, then at the snow, and says nothing. Good. Thank you.
Mayor Turner pops out of nowhere like all mayors do in small towns. “Everything merry?”
“Medium merry,” I say.
“Climbing,” Ivy adds. “Thank you for the intro earlier, Mayor Turner. We’re getting great…audio of horse bells.”
“Marvelous!” The mayor claps, her mitten bells jingling. “The seniors at Pine Hollow want to come for a ride tomorrow. Do we still have the quilt from Mrs. Hadley?”
“We do,” I say. “And we’ll keep the loop short if the wind picks up.”
“Look at him, already taking care of everyone,” the mayor stage-whispers to Ivy, as if I can’t hear them. “He’s a marshmallow center under all that grump.”
“I can hear you,” I deadpan.
“We want you to,” she sings, then swans down the street in a trail of tartan.
Ivy covers a smile with her scarf, which, mercifully, Donner does not eat. “You okay with that tomorrow? Seniors?”
“I’m okay with people who don’t point cameras at me,” I say. “And I’m okay with doing this for them. I’m not okay with Christmas trying to turn my barn into a movie.”
Her voice gets quiet again, winter-soft. “I can keep it small. I promise. We can make something beautiful without making you miserable.”
I don’t say what I think, which is that misery isn’t really about the camera. It’s about the way December presses on all the places you thought you’d scarred over. It’s about the music that starts in grocery stores and the red caps on gas station coffee cups and the cheer that asks for a version of you that doesn’t fit anymore. It’s about remembering sand instead of snow and faces you don’t see in chairs.