I hear what she doesn’t have to say out loud. My parents were madly in love—the kind of love that sunk its teeth in and held on despite decades apart—and they couldn’t make it work. If I follow my mother’s footsteps from twenty-seven years ago, newly pregnant and disillusioned about what life with a bush pilot in the wilds of Alaska would be like, focused on all that it’s not, I won’t last here, no matter how much Jonah and I love each other.

But Jonah and I are not my parents. We’ve already proven that. Jonah has already proven that.

I know Agnes is looking out for me, and so I smile when I say, “I’m really looking forward to starting this charter company with him.” My website design skills may be self-taught, but my marketing prowess is intuitive, and I’m eager to learn everything else required. “Plus, he agreed to move if Alaska doesn’t work for me.” Jonah said he didn’t care where he was, as long as he has me by his side. That he doesn’t want to be in Alaska if I’m not here. I’ve “ruined Alaska” for him. And that right there is the main difference between Jonah and my father.

“That’s … his intentions are good.” Agnes’s gaze darts to the distance, as if wanting to hide the thoughts—or doubts—it may reveal. “Well, I best get back to that roast or Mabel’s likely to overcook it.”

I sense she has more thoughts on the matter, but as is usual with Agnes, she never pushes, never badgers you until she feels she’s been heard. Maybe that’s what makes her opinion so much more invaluable.

Maybe that’s why I’d rather not hear what else she has to say on the matter.

“See you around five?” I offer.

“You can mash the potatoes. I’ve never liked doing those.” She winks. “Don’t sit out here too long. It’s cold.” With a wordless tap against my father’s cross that lasts one … two … three seconds, Agnes turns and trudges back toward the truck.

Leaving me alone in the cemetery once again.

“You know you left a huge hole in our lives, right?” Would that bring people comfort in the afterlife, knowing they are so missed? “It’s not a bad thing, but it’s there, in all of us. Especially for Mabel.” The bubbly, energetic twelve-year-old who used to storm into the kitchen and talk in rushed spurts and run-on sentences has been replaced by a more reserved, at times sullen creature. Agnes blames Mabel’s behavior on burgeoning hormones but I don’t think any of us believe that’s all it is.

I linger for another half hour or so, until my hands are numb and my cheeks hurt, and Agnes’s warning has taken root in the back of my mind. I ramble about nothing and everything, closing my eyes to recall the sound of Wren Fletcher’s quiet chuckle.

Terrified of the day it fades from memory.

Whorls of smoke billow from the chimney into the frigid cold air as I coast past Jonah’s forest-green Ford Escape. I park his Ski-Doo—ours now?—inside the ramshackle metal shed and hurry along the path that Jonah shoveled this morning toward the modular home, taking the time to kick the snow off my boots before stepping inside.

The linoleum floor wears a melted, brown-tinged mess from Jonah’s earlier entrance. “We need a mudroom!” I struggle to yank off my boots, using the wall and counter as leverage to keep my balance. “And a chair to sit on!”

“Where we gonna put that?” asks Jonah from the living room.

“I mean, in our new house.” I take a stretching step over the puddles but land in one, anyway. I cringe as cold water seeps through my wool sock.

“You need slippers.”

I look up to see Jonah leaning against the threshold wall into the kitchen, his arms folded over his chest. My stomach flips as it always does when he walks into a room. I toss my hat and gloves into the overhead basket and shrug off my bulky winter coat, hanging it on one of two hooks by the door. My new parka has done its job, leaving a thin layer of sweat trapped between my long johns and my skin, despite my chilled extremities. “When’d you get back?” I ask, opening and closing my fists to thaw my reddened fingers.

“Twenty minutes ago. You go to the cemetery?”

“Yeah.” I shimmy out of my snow pants. “Agnes came by.”

“When’s dinner?”

I smile. “She said to be there for five. She’s making a moose roast.”

“Finally!” He groans. “George gave that to her weeks ago. I was wondering when she’d pull it out of her freezer.”

I shake my head but laugh. “You’re as bad as my father was, waiting for someone else to feed you.”

“I’m smart like Wren was,” Jonah corrects. His lips twist in thought. “You know, you should get some pointers from Aggie on cooking those. And venison, too. I hear that one’s tricky.”

“Get your own pointers. I told you, I’m not cleaning or cooking your kill.” I peel off my wet sock and smooth the bottom of my damp foot on my other sock to dry it off.

“What about your kill?” he throws back without missing a beat, a playful lilt in his voice.

I saunter over to press my small stature against his firm chest, waiting for him to envelop me in his arms. “Last I checked, the meat at the grocery store is already dead. Even in Alaska.”

He pauses for three beats, and then pulls me flush against his body, leaning down to kiss me, first on the lips, and then along my jawline. “You are going to learn how to shoot a gun, Calla.”

“Why would I do that when I have you?” I argue, dragging my feet with mock reluctance as he steers us into the living room with backward steps, toward the couch.

“For safety.”

“Me with a gun does not sound safe.”

“For me, probably not.” Flopping down, he pulls me onto his lap, guiding my thighs around the outsides of his. He sweeps my hair off my shoulders and grips it at my nape with one hand. “Close your eyes.”

“Why?” I ask, narrowing my gaze to try to read him. As Agnes once said, Jonah likes to play little games. I’ll never forget the time he made me believe he might cut off my hair in retaliation for the night I groomed his bushy face. So I can’t help but wonder what game Jonah has in mind.

“Christ. Would you humor me? For once. Please.”

The exasperation in his tone convinces me to follow directions. I bite my bottom lip as I wait impatiently for whatever he has planned, willing myself to keep from stealing a peek at the sound of crisp tissue paper unraveling.

Calloused fingers slide over the back of my neck where they fumble. I sense a cool chain trail against my skin, and something weighted settles against my chest. His fleeting touch straightens it. “There. You can look now.”

“What is it?” I ask, reaching for the object, my fingers grasping cool metal as I lift it into view. A dainty plane dangles from a chain, its white gold glimmering from polish.

“That’s your real Christmas present. The guy making it took longer than expected.”

“Oh my God … it’s …” It’s so delicate and detailed, right down to the windows and doors, the propeller blades, the wheels. Tiny diamonds cover the wings, winking at me as their facets catch the late-afternoon sunlight that invades the living room through the bay window.