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Chapter One
The blustery December wind picked up just as Quinn McCarthy pulled the front door shut behind her, trailing its icy fingers through her hatless hair. She trudged through the new snow that had fallen overnight, careful not to let it tip into her Doc Martens.
Bradley Moore, who did the property maintenance at the Butterfly Lake Lodge, hadn’t been by just yet with the snowplough, but it was only six o’clock in the morning, at least two hours before any of the lodge’s guests were likely to leave their cozy accommodations and brave the frosty winter conditions. The warm, freshly baked cinnamon buns that were delivered to the guest rooms on a tray each morning along with a carafe of hot coffee or tea would make sure of that.
The sky was still inky black overhead, with sparkling pinpricks of stars and a dim first quarter moon lighting the path between Quinn’s family residence and the lodge, but even the short hundred metres between the two buildings was far enough to prompt her to quicken her pace, her arms weighed down with supplies, her exposed fingertips prickling as another frosty breeze blew through.
The light scent of tamarack in the air told Quinn she wasn’t the first of the McCarthys up that morning; her mother Jeannie, as always, was likely up to her elbows in flour and already two batches of pastries in.
The sweet scent of caramelised sugar and cinnamon greeted Quinn as she let herself in through the door off the kitchen, where she found her mother wiping her hands on her apron, which she wore over top of her trademark black leggings and white button-up.
“Morning, honey,” Jeannie said, moving to the door to help relieve Quinn of some of what she was carrying. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
“Brr,” Quinn said, kicking off her boots as she allowed Jeannie to take a stack of books from her. She followed her mother to the table near the windows and dumped everything else down, then wiped the snow off her jeans.
“On the floor?” Jeannie murmured.
“Sorry,” said Quinn. She moved to the counter and picked up a tea towel. Jeannie was, mostly, a fairly easy-going woman, but when it came to her kitchen, she insisted on tidy order.
“I thought for sure you’d sleep in today,” said Jeannie, as Quinn wiped the melting snow off the floor. “What time did you get to bed last night? One?”
“A little later,” Quinn said. “But everything’s coming together.”
She dropped the tea towel on the counter then poured herself a coffee from the urn and added a splash of oat milk from the fridge. The caffeine would jolt her awake, but truthfully, the prospect of finishing the project she’d been working on for the past few months was doing far more to wake her up.
“I’ll be in the great room,” Quinn said, gathering her supplies in her arms again, this time balancing everything a little more carefully with her hot coffee in hand.
“Good luck,” said Jeannie. “I can’t wait to see what this surprise is all about.”
“You’ll love it,” said Quinn, giving her mom a quick peck on the cheek before letting herself out the kitchen door.
The great room was silent save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and the light crackle from the fire Jeannie had already lit. The dancing flames reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows that would shortly look out to Butterfly Lake. The frozen lake was covered with snow, but between the late spring and early fall, its turquoise waters beckoned travellers from all corners of the globe, and the unusual concentration of butterflies on the south side of the lake was a real draw for both tourists and locals alike.
In an alcove off the great room was the puzzle room, a cozy space lined with shelves of the McCarthys’ collection of mystery and crime novels, the family’s favourite genre. There was a glass chest that held all kinds of puzzles and board games, and with the soft leather seating, it was an idyllic place to hole up on a snowy or rainy day to read or play cards.
It was also the perfect spot for Quinn’s project, which would be one of the central events on what she’d taken to calling ‘The iQuinnerary’: an itinerary outlining a three-day-long series of events and celebrations to mark the family’s final Christmas as owners of the Butterfly Lake Lodge.
What had started as a kernel of an idea to cram a Christmas weekend full of lodge traditions had recently morphed into a fulltime obsession for Quinn, as well as her oldest sister Celeste, who managed the front desk of the lodge.
The Butterfly Lake Lodge, which had been in the McCarthy family for decades, first as a seasonal lodging for ski instructors until the late 1970s, then as a guest lodge operated by Jeannie and Quinn’s father, Everett, ever since it was gifted to them by Jeannie’s grandparents, had recently been sold to an Australian couple, and a big blow-out celebration felt like the right way to bid adieu to the place that had been their beloved home, and life’s work, for over forty years.
Jeannie and Everett had not only agreed to let Quinn and Celeste plan the last hurrah but had agreed to foot the bill as well. The plans had been underway for months.
In the fall, they’d sent invitations to some of the lodge’s most treasured repeat guests as well as their extended family, aiming to fill all fourteen rooms with all their favourite people in the world.
Celeste had taken on the task of planning the traditional Christmas Eve party, not just for the guests but for the entire community of Keystone Ridge, and Quinn was in charge of all the events surrounding the party, including trivia night, a scavenger hunt in the winter wonderland forest surrounding the lodge, and the event she was preparing for now: a mystery novel-themed escape room.
One by one, Quinn shelved the books she’d meticulously chosen with titles on their spines to act as clues for the escape room, then stopped when Celeste breezed through the doorway, effortlessly put-together as always in an emerald-green blazer, winter-white dress pants, and black patent pumps, her hair in a tidy bun and her overall look in stark contrast to Quinn’s vintage baggy Levi’s and the old Toronto Blue Jays ’92 World Series crewneck she’d found last week at the Goodwill in Calgary.
“How’s it going in here?” Celeste asked. “Need any help?” The way she pointedly looked at Quinn’s outfit, her gaze ending up on Quinn’s favourite cherry-red Doc Martens, made it clear she was open to assisting with both the event and Quinn’s wardrobe selections.
But Celeste was the face of the inn: Quinn did her thing in the background, and was happy wearing her favourite vintage finds from whatever era that struck her that day, and it just so happened that this morning, she’d felt firmly planted in the 90’s.
She would change before check-in.
“So far so good,” Quinn said.
Celeste picked up one of the clue cards and examined it. “Explain to me how this is going to work.”
“We’ll send people in teams of two, and they’ll be timed,” Quinn explained. “There are four different clues to solve.” She slid the thick parchment across the table towards Celeste, which she’d written the night before in painstakingly perfect calligraphy with the vintage ink pen set she used for all her correspondence.
“The teams will be ‘locked’ in the puzzle room,” she continued, “and only by solving the clues that related to titles of the famous mystery novels and their authors will they be able to escape, and the fastest team gets a prize.”
“Which is…”
“A big bottle of Veuve, and their choice of books from the library.” Quinn gestured to the shelves packed with books they’d collected over the years, which contained some first editions and collectors’ items.
“Nice. Prizes and less for us to pack next week.”
“Exactly,” said Quinn. She continued to carefully tuck the clues in their related books, then returned the books to the shelves in their proper spots, alphabetically in sections by genre: police procedurals, classics, historicals.
“You’re not worried that a few of these clues are going to be too obscure?” Celeste asked.
“Each group gets two hint cards. So, it should be okay.”
Celeste smiled. “I’m sure it’ll be great. Now we just have to figure out who we’re going to stick Rupert Charles with.”
“Wait, what?” said Quinn. “Rupert Charles is coming? When did that happen?”
“We never heard back from the invitation we sent to the Grants’ son,” Celeste said, shrugging. “Rupert was next on the list.”
“And he knows this is a celebratory occasion, right?” Quinn asked. “Not an opportunity for him to glower in a corner?”
Seventy-something-year-old Rupert Charles had visited the lodge twice a year for the last two decades, a commitment which, on paper, justified his place on the invite list. Calling Rupert a cranky old man would be putting it lightly, and the family was always flummoxed that after each time he arrived and complained about every last detail of his visit, he paid his bill and booked his next trip.
Celeste shrugged. “Honestly, I wasn’t going to invite him. But Dad laid the guilt trip on. He’s alone at Christmas, and blah, blah, blah. I called the number we had on file, and he accepted the invitation without missing a beat.”
“Well Dad can deal with him then, I guess,” said Quinn. “What time are we expecting the first guests?”
“The Kapoors will be here mid-afternoon,” Celeste said.
“The two-bedroom suite?” Quinn asked. The Kapoors and their daughter had always shared a single room, but now that Zoe was in her twenties, the extra space would likely be appreciated.
“Yep. And Sharon Henderson will come whenever I guess,” Celeste said. Sharon lived just down the road from the inn, and over the years had booked a room at the lodge every August twenty-second for her husband Leigh’s birthday, just to experience the joy that was served up hot with the delivery of fresh-baked warm cinnamon buns to their room. Leigh had passed two years earlier, and this would be Sharon’s first time back as a guest at the inn alone.
“Rupert will be here at three p.m. exactly.” Celeste glanced down at her clipboard. “Kassie and Jeff had a morning flight, so they’re checking in first, an hour early. And otherwise it’s family: Hunter’s parents, his sister Ashley, Jack’s parents and his brother and sister-in-law and their little one. Kendra and Elodie will take the last room. And then… the Aussies. Geoff with a G and Larry.”
“Who could forget Geoff with a G?” Quinn said, making a face. “And Larry. Your new bosses.”
“Be nice,” said Celeste. Her words were firm, but Quinn knew Celeste was nervous to meet the couple for the first time. There had been a few Zoom calls after the sale, but it was one thing to connect on a screen from the other side of the world, and another to have them in the lodge for the very first time.
“I will…” Quinn said, then grinned, “do my very best.”
And she would, because there was actually a very sweet connection between Larry and Geoff with a G and the lodge.
Larry was the brother of one of the old seasonal ski instructors, Erik Larsen, who had boarded at the lodge before it became a vacation spot. Jeannie and Everett credited Erik in part with them getting together. When Erik’s wife had gone into an early labour, Everett had given up his ride from the lodge for the man and had unexpectedly spent Christmas that year with Jeannie’s family, allowing him and Jeannie time to fall for each other.
When the family had put the lodge up for sale, they’d held out for someone with some connection to the place, who would keep up with their standard of hospitality, and hopefully felt enough of a connection to the place to keep it running in a similar way, and keeping Celeste behind the front desk as a number one priority.
Erik’s brother Larry and his husband Geoff—recent lottery winners back in Australia, keen on travelling the world for the first time and making some interesting investments—weren’t exactly the future stewards of the property the McCarthys had in mind. Still, their jovial spirits and the connection they had through Erik had at least been reassuring during the emotional sale process.
They might not have an intimate knowledge of the area or the lodge’s place in the hospitality scene, but their enthusiasm gave the family a reason to be optimistic.
“So, Jeff—with a J—and Kassie first, right? The newlyweds,” said Quinn. “Think they’re still in that honeymoon phase?”
Kassie and Jeff had tied the knot the previous spring in a wedding live streamed to Kassie’s million-plus social media followers. It was the same weekend Celeste and Jack had gotten together, after he’d stepped in to host the groomsmen for a fly-fishing excursion when Everett had come down with the flu and in turn, saving Celeste a major planning headache.
“Her recent posts seem to be teasing a pregnancy announcement, so…”
“So, we’re looking at some serious baby content coming our way. A whole other world of followers for her to attract,” said Quinn.
“Exactly,” Celeste said.
“Maybe I need to branch out a little,” Quinn said, thinking of her own social media follower count, which was healthy enough but wasn’t necessarily going to translate to the type of major sponsorship she’d need for it to qualify as a ‘real job’. “I can’t seem to pass the 500K mark. Maybe I should start hawking hair products or wellness drinks or something.”
“You know I love your content. But it’s still shocking to me that so many people go on social media to live in the past,” Celeste said, and Quinn made a mock hurt face. “Oh, come on. You know you’re amazing,” she continued, and gave Quinn a side squeeze. “And I love your new hair colour. Blonde suits you. I’ll see you later on?”
“You will,” Quinn said, dropping the fountain pen she’d been using and sliding her phone out of her pocket to see what had come through overnight.
Kassie Harris might have over a million followers on her lifestyle account, but Quinn’s was decidedly more…obscure, and she knew the half-million she’d amassed over the last few years was already quite the feat for the content that she put out.
Her Instagram account, @_ForOldTimesSake, celebrated vintage fashion finds, old school beauty routines, retro tech and gadgets, recipes, food trends, and film and pop culture nostalgia: all the things that fascinated Quinn and had started out just as a place for her to share some interesting things she came across on the internet. She’d been surprised by how a few early posts had taken off and gone viral, resulting in her attracting a healthy number of viewers of all ages, from all over the globe.
Aside from her job helping here and there with the lodge’s operations and their own social media accounts, she spent most of her time curating content for her account and interacting with followers from around the world who shared her enthusiasm for the ‘good old days’.
So of course, each of the four events she was planning for the weekend were going to have their own nostalgic bent: the trivia was eighties-themed, the star scavenger hunt would be done with vintage compasses that Quinn had found at her three favourite local thrift shops, and for the hockey game, Quinn had jerseys made up with the old logo for the Butterfly Lake Lodge, back when it was still in her great-grandparents’ hands.
Just as she was tidying up her supplies, her phone buzzed from the side table.
It was a text from Hunter, her sister Ava’s partner and the real estate agent who had brokered the lodge sale. “Just sending you a few options that are about to go on the market tomorrow,” the message read, and then a few seconds later, links to some local properties: a cute two-bedroom cabin by the river, a condo in Canmore, and a backsplit fifteen minutes’ drive from Keystone Ridge. “And one more,” he texted a few seconds later. It was a building that had a storefront on the main level, and a two-bedroom living space above. “Rent out the retail space for additional income?” Hunter texted.
“Thanks,” she texted back, the familiar anxiety creeping back in.
Because the truth was, planning this weekend had been the perfect distraction over the last few months, a way to avoid facing the moment the McCarthys hauled their last box off the lodge’s property.
Quinn’s life was about to freefall from comfortably predictable to a complete unknown. She had to find a place to live. She’d taken a short-term remote working contract that would start in the new year, managing the website and social media account for a catering company out of Calgary. It suited her skillset but wasn’t exactly making her excited for the future.
She had some experience in the lodge’s operations—the social media stuff, which occupied a couple of hours of her week, and she was on hand to help Celeste with operations, but unlike her sister, Quinn’s passions didn’t lie in hospitality.
And sure, her social media account was somewhat successful, but it wasn’t… a life.
Quinn was unmoored, directionless.
Everett had tried on a couple of occasions to talk through some options. “Just remember,” he said, “both your mother and I started out doing very different things than we’re doing now. The path of life isn’t a straight one. How boring would that be anyway?”
Quinn didn’t disagree, but at least her parents had real careers to pivot from in the first place, Jeannie as an associate at her law firm, and Everett as a published author of science textbooks used in classes across the province.
Quinn, on the other hand, did a hodgepodge of different things, but nothing really resembling an adult career.
Priority one in the new year—a great time to make these things happen, apparently—was to make a decision about the next step. And then take said step, and by the end of the year, be doing something that led to a pension plan or at the very least a title she could give herself on a LinkedIn profile.
Some people might find it a bit pathetic that at the age of twenty-seven, Quinn still lived with her parents, but they gave her space, it was convenient for work, and she’d put enough money away—earned from both her work at the lodge and from sponsorship deals from her social media work—over the last five years since graduating university to put a healthy downpayment down on her first place. As soon as this event and Christmas were over, she would lock something down.
It was time for her to go out on her own. It was time to adult. Whatever that meant. And the first step was to establish roots. Having a mortgage would be an even better incentive for figuring out next steps, a little fire under her seat prompting her forward in life.
It should have happened ages ago, but every time Quinn had pictured leaving the Butterfly Lake Lodge, her home for her entire life, she’d found one excuse or another for cancelling her appointment to tour some places with Hunter.
Sore throat, she’d tell him. Podcast interview. Can’t reschedule.
There was no hiding from it now. The lodge had been a safe nest, but maybe it had made it too easy to do what she did best: linger in the past and ignore the future.
Quinn picked up the box, and as she passed through the great room, she stopped to flick on the lights of the little Christmas Village set up on the sideboard, the collection of glowing porcelain homes and community buildings, a relic they’d inherited from her great-grandparents.
A perfect little town. Frozen in time.
If only her life could be the same.
End of Excerpt
