Snowbound - Blake Crouch [94]
It was only at night when she thought of Alaska, in bed, buried under covers, listening to the wind blow through the firs. A few nights ago, a pack of coyotes had moved through the pasture. Their yaps woke her at 3:00 A.M.—evil, mocking laughter—and she sat up in bed, thought for half a second she was back in the Wolverine Hills, saw that huge white wolf with raging pink eyes standing at the foot of her bed.
She’d thrown back the covers and walked into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and sat down at the table, listening to them howl until her hands quit trembling.
One of Rachael’s therapists in Denver had said something that applied to them all. If you let fear take hold, if you let it own you, your life ceases to be your own. She’d even given them a motto, a creed—concise, profane, and unforgettable. Devlin had glanced at the refrigerator clipboard where Will had scribbled it in black Magic Marker, thrice underscored.
Fuck the fear.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Devlin is already rubbing her eyes. It’s nine o’clock, late for a six-year-old. She stands on her tiptoes and hangs the last ornament on the tree—a clear glass cactus. Her parents are sitting on the couch, sipping hot toddies—Arizona-style: fresh-squeezed orange juice, hot water, Grand Marnier, honey, dash of cayenne.
It’s a warm December night. Devlin climbs onto the sofa between Rachael and Will.
“Everybody up for It’s a Wonderful Life?” he asks.
“I’ll probably fall asleep before Harry falls through the ice, but sure,” Rachael says. Will walks over to the television set, finds the video in Devlin’s movie cabinet, pops it into the VCR. He brings the remote back with him. “Will, I’m cold,” Rachael says. “Would you get my sweatshirt?”
“I’m not sure how I feel about touching that hideous thing.”
She grins. “Back off my alma mater.” Will had gone to law school at Carolina while Rachael was finishing her undergrad work at Duke. The schools were only seven miles apart as the crow flies, but a more malicious rivalry you could not find in all of collegiate America. The sweatshirt was a badly faded navy blue, the letters—D-U-K-E—having long since peeled away, leaving only a less faded palimpsest of the word.
Will retrieves it from the sweater chest in their bedroom, brings it back into the den.
“Thanks, honey.” He sits down with his family, presses PLAY. His dark-haired girls snuggle up on either side of him, and whether it’s the holiday or this movie that always makes him cry, Will is briefly overcome, keenly aware of what he has. There is only the small white lights of the Christmas tree, the glow of the FBI warning on the television screen. And for a moment, before the movie begins, the house is so quiet, they can hear the wind blowing out on the desert.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Acade later, in a different state, in what felt to each of them like a different life, the Innises were decorating another tree—a blue spruce Will had chopped down in a small grove by the river two days ago. Rachael lay stretched out on the couch in the living room, watching her husband and daughter hang unfamiliar ornaments and makeshift tube-sock stockings from the mantel. A fire was petering out in the small stone hearth. The farmhouse smelled of wood smoke, hot cocoa, the sap from their Christmas tree.
“You remember those hot toddies we used to make?” Rachael said.
Will smiled. “God, those were good.”
“What’s a toddy?” Devlin asked.
“It’s a hot alcoholic drink. We used to make ours with orange juice,
Grand Marnier. . . . I forget what else we put in them.”
“Cayenne,” Rachael said. “Most important ingredient.”
“Maybe we can make them next year?”
“Definitely.”
Devlin sat at the end of the couch, opposite her mother, massaging Rachael’s feet. “I’ve got a great idea,” she said. “Let’s watch It’s a Wonderful Life, like we used to.”
“Do we still have that video?” Rachael asked.
“No,” Will said. “It got left in Ajo with everything else. But I guess I could drive