Page 1 of No Business Like Snow Business

one

STERLING

Had my father been the sort of man who offered advice about what to do when your car hit black ice when you were driving from a shitty regional airport to the shitty regional town you’d never heard of until a week ago, I liked to imagine it would have been something like, “Don’t panic, Sterling. And whatever you do, don’t slam on the brakes or wrench on the steering wheel.”

Unfortunately, my father’s advice tended to skew more towards “You can have one olive in a martini, or three, but never two,” and “Unless you’re running a marathon, you have no reason to be wearing sneakers”—nothing that would help much in my current situation—so when I hit the ice, I panicked, slammed on the brakes, wrenched on the steering wheel, and crashed the car nose-first down a snowy embankment into a ditch.

“Holy shit.” I gripped the steering wheel tightly and watched a clump of dirty snow slide down the windshield. It stopped halfway, meeting the pile already there.

The seatbelt hugged my body tightly; I was at a steep enough angle that my weight was hanging in it. There would be no reversing out of this. I uncurled my fingers from their death gripon the wheel and turned the ignition off. Then I wondered if I should have left it on, for warmth. What were the rules when you crashed into a ditch in the middle of an Illinois winter? Had my father ever shared any practical wisdom about snow?

“Aspen’s not as charming as it used to be. I prefer Gstaad.”

Not now, Dad, thanks.

I drew a deep breath and tried to think.

About an hour ago, I’d landed at the tiny airport after flying from New York via Chicago. After waiting for ages because the baggage handlers had somehow failed to locate my suitcase in the cargo area of the very small plane, I’d made it to the car rental desk long after all my fellow passengers had happily driven off. I’d finally picked up my rental car, which was at least five years old and smelled slightly musty, and headed for town, my phone resting in the cup holder and calmly giving me directions to the town of Christmas Falls.

My phone!

I scrabbled around in the car for a while, but I couldn’t find my phone.

So much for that.

I’d passed a gas station only a minute or two before ending up in the ditch—the neonFOOD AND GASsign was still imprinted on the backs of my eyelids when I blinked—so if I couldn’t find my phone at least I wouldn’t die of exposure walking back to the gas station, since it was literally just around that last curve of the road, and freezing to death in my car when help was only a quarter of a mile away was stupider.

I checked the pocket of my jeans for my wallet and then grabbed my wool coat off the passenger seat. I unclipped my seatbelt and shoved the car door open. The immediate blast of cold air chilled me to the bone as I struggled to get out. I sank into the snow immediately, pulling my coat on and then scrambling awkwardly up the embankment and onto the road.From here, not even the trunk of the car was visible. I hit the lock button on the keys, and the car chirped. At least that was still working. I thought about trying to grab my suitcase out of the trunk, but after struggling and slip-sliding my way up to the road, the last thing I wanted was to have to clamber up the slope again.

I dug into the pocket of my coat for my scarf and wrapped it around my neck. I tugged the edges up as far as I could without blinding myself, then strode forward, following the road back the way I’d already come.

I couldn’t see any other cars to wave down for help. It was also cold as hell, and what little Christmas spirit I’d had before leaving New York this morning—and to be honest, it was a negligible amount—rapidly deserted me.

Oh my fucking God it’s cold. Cold cold cold.

I hunched down into my scarf and coat, squinting at the snowbank and having horrible visions of wandering in circles, getting lost, and dying ten feet from my car. Which was stupid, since it was the middle of the day, actually sunny, and I knew exactly where the gas station was. I’d hardly had time to imagine my poor mother, struggling to make an appropriate expression of grief past the Botox, or my poor father, having to make an appointment with the family lawyers to have his entire will rewritten now that I’d ruined all his intricate estate planning by dying before him, when the neon sign appeared before me:FOOD AND GAS.

I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

I turned off the highway onto the narrow road that led to the parking lot, stumbled into a snowbank, climbed out again, and hurried toward the cluster of little buildings underneath the sign. There were four or five cars in the parking lot, ice on the windshields and tiny snowdrifts built up against the tires. Two gas pumps stood under an awning. As I drew closer, I sawanother sign. This one was above the brightFOOD AND GAS. It looked as though it was supposed to be lit up too, but it wasn’t. I peered up at it. It said “Christmas Falls Gas” in a font that was either intentionally retro, or just hadn’t been updated in about eighty years.

I hurried to the door and pushed it open, welcoming the blast of warm air that hit me like a balm. I drew in a deep breath and held it and luxuriated in the sensation of warm filling my aching chest. I could have cried in relief except, of course, it went without saying that Van Ruyven men didn’t do anything as unseemly as shed tears.

Unseemly or gauche? I wasn’t sure, but I bet my father would have an opinion about it. Except for once, it wasn’t his voice that intruded on my thoughts.

“Merry Christmas!” The kid sitting at the booth couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, and he was waving at me like we were old friends.

“Uh, Merry Christmas,” I said.

The kid raised his eyebrows at my lackluster response.

A server, wearing jeans and a T-shirt—the sleeves pushed up to show off a collection of colorful tattoos—and an apron around her waist, tapped the kid gently on the back of the head as she sailed past. She was short, busty, and had pink streaks in her dark hair. “Hey, don’t you have homework to do?”

The kid slunk back down in his seat.

The server approached me. “You after a table?”

“Yes, please.” I had no idea how long I’d be stuck here waiting for a tow truck, and a greasy diner burger sounded amazing right now. Well, it sounded better than nothing, and, given the day I was having, I would take it. Gladly.

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