They’d warmed up in the lodge house in the early hours with a cup of hot cocoa and some cookies he found in the freezer.
“This place could use some Christmas cheer,” she said.
He told her then about his first Christmas here, how his aunt Ingrid had made him a stocking of his own. “It was the first time I really felt like I belonged in a family.”
Only, this time, ache didn’t embed his voice. And she didn’t stop herself from stepping close and pulling him into her arms and kissing him.
“I think it has plenty of cheer,” he said after a bit, his voice a little ragged. He gripped her arms and set her away. “We’d better get back outside before we get into trouble.”
Probably. She grinned at him.
“Don’t look at me that way. I’m trying very hard to be in charge here.”
“Okay, boss.”
He grabbed a basket full of blankets, then took another one from the lodge storage closet, and they carried them out right about the time the sun started to glide through the treetops, gold glistening on the snow.
“It’s so romantic,” she said.
His hand slipped into hers. “I hope it’s romantic enough for Vivien.”
She looked over at him, and his suddenly worried expression turned a knot inside her. “Call her,” she said softly. “Invite her here. Don’t tell her why.”
Then she leaned up and kissed him. “And trust me.”
He gave her a look, but she winked and took off for her cabin.
Her parents’ door was closed, so she went into her room. She changed, slicked her hair back, pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, boots, a white fluffy sweater, and her earmuffs.
Then she grabbed her cello and headed back outside.
She moved a log over to the side and pulled her cello out. The cold would affect the sound, but the acoustics of the ice should mask any sluggishness.
She warmed up by drawing her bow along the open strings, inhaling on the up bow, exhaling on the down, letting her shoulders relax, balancing herself with her instrument.
The voice of the cello, as she expected, reverberated out, shaky at first, then deepening, resounding, finding her bones, her cells, and saturating the air.
She started with Bach, Cello Suite no. 1 in G Major, the low draws accentuating the higher notes, the sound soft, the scales almost whispering into the morning sky.
A fine layer of warmth burned into her arm, her shoulder, her stomach—a week without practice. But soon it washed away, and she settled into a groove.
Then, because she was in a chapel, she played the cello portion of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Simple. Elegant. Beautiful, and she lost herself in the romance.
In the hope.
The song faded and she closed her eyes and dove into “A Thousand Years,” another wedding favorite. The song had an almost lilting, haunting tone to it, and she hummed as she played, swaying, folding herself into it.
She followed with a little Elvis—“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
And then, with the final notes, her eyes closed, and she simply started to play. A mix, maybe, of all her favorites, but as she played, she found herself pulling melodies, launching into new cadenzas, affecting a glissando, then gliding into a variation of the harmony. She found herself in an arpeggio, cascading into the tones of “Silent Night,” and then did a string crossing ricochet, picking up melodies of “Joy to the World” and adding an upbow staccato.
She could hear the music before she even played it, her thoughts vibrating down to the strings, playing almost on instinct.
A couple of fingered octave trills helped her catch her breath, then she dove into a quick third run from “Carol of the Bells,” the sounds high, strong, vibrant. The sunlight streamed down, pouring into the chapel, heating her face, and she leaned into the song, coaxing, almost willing the music free.
She slowed, plucked out the melody, letting it strike the cold air, then dove into deep chords, reverberant against the icy walls.
The woods felt alive—no, she felt alive. Whole. Pulsing with her music, with the—the joy of the music.
Wow, she loved this. The feeling of so much beauty, life, passion vibrating through her.
She ended hard, abruptly, the sound lifting into the air, away.
Sweat ran down her back, her heart thundering.
And then she bent over the instrument and drew her bow slowly along the strings in an easy, gentle vibrato of her favorite hymn. The sound filled the chapel, a wave of lush, resplendent beauty. She played it out, the words finding her heart. Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed, For I am thy God, and will still give thee aid; I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand, upheld by My righteous, omnipotent hand.
Yes. She held onto the last note, hearing her heartbeat.
And then, quietly, applause.
She looked up.
In the aisle stood a beautiful woman dressed in a parka, sable hair down, her mittened hands over her mouth, her cheeks wet.
Stella recognized the man behind her—tall, blond—the guy she’d met at the coffee shop so many nights ago. Boone?
Another couple sat on a bench, their hands entwined.
And behind them, Gerald and his grandson. Gerald was smiling, something at peace on his face.
Then her gaze stopped on the only one who mattered, the man who’d created this magical place.
The man who’d helped her find her music.
Romeo stood, clapping, grinning, so much in his green eyes as he smiled at her, shaking his head.
She bowed her head, then looked at the couple in the aisle. “Vivien?”
“Yes.”
“This is for you.”
Stella closed her eyes and slowly drew out the notes to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect.” Not quite Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus,” but it seemed fitting.
As she looked up, Boone had taken Vivien’s hand and pulled her into a dance hold.
Sweet.
The other couple got up and joined them.
Romeo stepped away, folded his arms. And grinned like a man who’d won a war.
She took her time, then finished, the notes fading away into the morning.
Silence fell as she looked at the bride.
“It’s…well, not to be corny, but…perfect. Isn’t it?” She turned to her groom. “Right?”
“Perfect.” He kissed her. “Now, please, will you marry me?”
Stella looked over at Romeo. He winked at her.
And no matter what the next step was, where, or how, she wasn’t afraid. Because she’d picked the right person to trust.
Thank You, Lord.
And that’s how it was done. Romeo sorta wanted to take a picture of the wedding palace and text it to Owen.
Look who’d saved the day. Okay, not him, and not Stella, although—wow—her talent could strip him of words. He’d walked into a piece of magic when he’d led Vivien and Boone down to the chapel, the music at once bold, inspired, and glorious.
He’d watched her and knew—with everything inside him—that she belonged in Austria.
But also here, because no, he didn’t want to let her go.
Email, texting, video chatting…and he could get on a plane.
Because maybe she was his next adventure.
Which included helping him pull off a winter wonderland wedding.
No, not him. God, who was somehow at the helm of all of this. Romeo could almost feel it, the touch of the miraculous, in his bones.