Read Chapter 28: The Missing Man's Return

The inn had never looked so alive. Garland wrapped the banisters, candles flickered on every windowsill, and the smell of roasted goose and mulled wine curled through the rooms like a promise. Maren moved through the crowd with a tray of cider, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen and the warmth of something she hadn’t felt in months—hope.

The town had come. All of them. The Baileys from the feed store, the choir director with her silver hair, the teenage boys who usually loitered outside the gas station. They packed the parlor and spilled into the dining room, their voices a low, cheerful hum beneath the crackle of the fire. Every room upstairs was booked, every cot in the attic pressed into service.

Maren caught Julian’s eye across the room. He stood by the window, a glass of something dark in his hand, watching the snow fall in thick, silent sheets. He’d helped her hang the wreaths, had let her drag him into the kitchen to taste the spiced cider, but there was a distance in him tonight. A waiting.

She crossed to him, nudging his shoulder with hers. “You look like a man at a funeral.”

“Sorry.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just—this is the first Christmas Eve I’ve spent in this town since my mother died. And I keep thinking about what he said.”

The caller. The unknown voice that claimed Julian’s father had asked about him. Had told him to return to the cabin before the storm.

Maren’s stomach tightened. She hadn’t told Julian the whole truth about that call—that the man had said his father was in trouble, that he’d wanted to come back but couldn’t. She’d held that back, clinging to the fragile hope that Walter would walk through the door himself. That the inn would be enough to draw him home.

“He’ll come,” she said, and she wasn’t sure if she was comforting him or herself. “If he’s out there, he’ll come.”

The clock on the mantel chimed eleven. Then quarter past. Half past. The party swelled and ebbed, plates emptied, carols were sung, and still Julian watched the door.

At midnight, Maren stood on a chair and raised her glass. “To the Winter Guest Inn,” she said, her voice catching. “And to every one of you who made this possible. You’ve given this old place a reason to keep standing.”

A cheer went up. Glasses clinked. Someone started another carol, and for a moment, Maren let herself believe it was enough. That the money raised tonight, the love in this room, would be enough to hold the foreclosure at bay, to bring Walter home, to make everything right.

Then the door knocked.

Three slow, heavy thuds, like a hand too weak to pound.

The room went quiet. Every head turned. Julian’s glass froze halfway to his lips.

Maren stepped off the chair, her heart slamming against her ribs. She crossed the room, her boots echoing on the wide plank floors, and pulled the door open.

A man stood on the porch, slumped against the frame, snow crusted on his shoulders and silvering his hair. He was thin—gaunt, really—his cheeks hollow, his coat hanging loose on a frame that should have been broad. His eyes were the same color as Julian’s. The same shape, the same tired depth.

“Arthur,” Maren breathed.

Julian’s father lifted his head, blinking against the warm light spilling from the inn. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Then his knees buckled.

Julian was there in an instant, his hands catching his father before he hit the ground, easing him to the threshold. “Dad.” His voice cracked. “Dad, it’s you. It’s really you.”

Arthur’s hand came up, trembling, and touched Julian’s face. “Son,” he rasped. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The town moved as one—someone called for a doctor, someone else pushed chairs aside, and Maren guided them to a spot by the fire. She knelt beside them, her hands busy with blankets and warm broth, but her eyes fixed on Julian’s face.

He was crying. Silently, his jaw tight, tears tracking down his cheeks as he held his father’s hands, as if afraid to let go. Arthur had collapsed into the chair, his breath shallow and labored, but his eyes never left his son.

“I thought you were dead,” Julian said, his voice raw. “I found your cabin. The journal. I thought you were gone.”

Arthur closed his eyes. “I know. I couldn’t risk telling you the truth. I owed money to men who—” He coughed, a rattling sound that made Maren’s chest ache. “They threatened you. Both of you. I had to disappear. I thought if I vanished, if I drew them away from you, you’d be safe.”

“Safe?” Julian’s voice rose, his grief bending toward anger. “You left me. You left me to think you were dead in a snowstorm, to walk that cliff edge looking for you, to spend Christmas Eve alone in this—this ghost town of a house, and you call that safe?”

Arthur’s eyes glistened. “I know. I know I can’t make that right. But I came back. I walked for three days to get here. I needed to see you. I needed to tell you I’m sorry.”

Julian’s shoulders shook. He bowed his head, and Maren watched the fight drain out of him. When he looked up again, his anger had softened into something rawer. Something like grief and relief all tangled together.

“You’re alive,” he whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

Arthur reached up, his hand shaking, and gripped Julian’s arm. “I have things to tell you. About why I came to Vermont. About your grandmother. About the inn.” His gaze flicked to Maren, a knowing look in his tired eyes. “But not tonight. Tonight, let me just be here.”

The fire crackled. The candles guttered. Somewhere behind them, a woman began to sing “Silent Night” in a low, gentle voice, and one by one, the town joined in.

Maren stood and stepped back, giving them space. Her throat was tight, her eyes stinging, as she watched the two men fold into each other—father and son, separated for a year by secrets and fear, finally finding their way home.

She should have felt joy. She did feel joy, a fierce, aching joy that made her chest swell.

But there was something else, too, low and bittersweet in her heart. A pang she couldn’t name, watching Julian hold his father with such desperate love.

Her own mother hadn’t called her back. Christmas had come, and the inn was full of light and music and family, and still, Maren felt the cold edge of something missing.

She turned away from the fire, letting the carol wash over her, and told herself the ache would pass.

This was Julian’s night.

Tomorrow, they would hear the rest of the story.