Chapter 3 - The Grand Parlor
I sat frozen for a few seconds, the phone still pressed against my ear while the dial tone hummed a monotonous drone.
Eli leaned forward from the backseat, his little face peering over the console. “Who was that, Mommy? Was that Great-Grandma Helen?”
“Yes, sweetie,” I said, a slow, fierce wave of vindication washing away the numbing cold in my chest. “That was Great-Grandma. And she wants us inside.”
“Can we go back to the cookies?”
“We are going back for everything,” I whispered.
I shifted the car back into drive, spun the steering wheel with a sharp pivot, and steered the sedan back toward the illuminated entrance of Cedar Ridge Lodge. The tires crunched purposefully over the gravel and snow as I pulled right up to the front porch steps, ignoring the designated parking spaces.
Leaving the engine running and the heater on for Eli—who was now excited because Great-Grandma had intervened—I stepped out into the cold air. This time, I didn't feel the chill. Every step up those wooden stairs felt lighter, firmer, and entirely unapologetic.
I didn’t even bother knocking.
I gripped the heavy brass handle of the front door, pushed it downward, and walked straight into the foyer.
The wave of warm air hit me instantly, carrying the scent of roasting turkey, pine needles, and expensive wine. Several guests standing near the coatrack turned to look, their conversations trailing off as they recognized me. Among them was my brother, Grant, holding a highball glass filled with amber liquid and ice. His expensive tailored blazer fit him like a second skin, and his hair was slicked back with pomade.
Beside him stood my father, Richard, laughing quietly at something Grant’s college friend had just whispered.
Grant stopped mid-laugh, his eyes widening in genuine shock as he saw me standing there in my damp red velvet coat with melting snow dripping from my hair.
“Natalie?” Grant blurted out, stepping forward. “What the hell are you doing back here? Mom said she cleared you out.”
“Mom doesn't own this lodge, Grant,” I said, my voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise of the string quartet playing in the ballroom.
Before Grant could fire back a sarcastic retort, my mother materialized from the hallway leading to the kitchens. Her face was flushed, her expression twisting into an ugly mask of annoyance as she marched directly toward us.
“Natalie! What is the meaning of this?” Denise hissed, grabbing my arm with iron fingers. “I told you explicitly to leave. Security—well, we don't have security, but Grant, get your friends to help escort her out. She’s making a scene.”
“Let go of me, Mom,” I said calmly, stepping out of her grip with a sharp jerk of my shoulder.
“Who is making a scene in my foyer?”
The voice echoed through the high-timbered ceiling with absolute authority.
Instantly, the entire room fell dead silent. The string quartet stopped playing mid-note. Heads turned toward the arched double doors leading to the grand parlor.
There, leaning heavily on an ornate mahogany cane topped with a carved silver wolf’s head, stood eighty-four-year-old Helen Vance. Her silver hair was styled in a flawless chignon, and she wore an emerald-green silk dress that commanded every eye in the room. Despite her age, her eyes were like sharp chips of obsidian—piercing, intelligent, and currently blazing with absolute fury.
My father, Richard, instantly straightened up, his face losing its color.
“Mother,” Richard stammered, stepping forward with a nervous, ingratiating smile. “We were just… handling a minor disturbance. Some uninvited guests trying to crash the private family dinner. Denise was just managing it.”
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Grandma Helen didn't even look at her son. Her gaze swept past Richard, past Grant, and landed squarely on my mother.
“Denise,” Grandma Helen said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that carried across the cavernous room. “Come here.”
