She recovered.
“We’re trying to move forward.”
“So am I.”
“Good.”
Then I asked.
“Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“If you discovered something you believed for eight years was completely wrong, what would you do?”
She laughed nervously.
“That’s a strange question.”
“Humor me.”
“I suppose I’d apologize.”
“Good.”
I ended the call.
The Christmas dinner was held at the Caldwell family estate outside Aspen.
Ethan’s parents owned nearly two hundred acres.
Snow covered the fields.
Pine trees lined the road.
The main house sat above a frozen pond.
When we were married, I had spent three Christmases there.
I knew every room.
Every staircase.
Every family tradition.
I had not expected returning to make my hands shake.
The complication was transportation.
A winter storm had closed sections of the highway.
A friend from my current military consulting work heard me complaining.
Colonel Marcus Bell ran logistics for a National Guard aviation unit.
He also knew about the boys.
When he learned where we needed to go, he said.
“We have a training flight Christmas afternoon.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We’re landing twenty miles from there anyway.”
“You are not dropping four children at my ex-husband’s Christmas dinner in a military helicopter.”
He grinned.
“Why not?”
“Because that is absurdly dramatic.”
“Life rarely hands you production value for free.”
I laughed.
Then he explained the route.
Legal.
Approved.
No detour beyond operational allowance.
The estate had a field previously used for emergency helicopter landings during wildfire season.
Margaret gave permission without asking why.
