Chapter 1 - The Christmas Imposter
When I opened the door to the mountain lodge I had spent years earning, my sister was standing beside my fireplace with a champagne glass raised, welcoming two dozen people to “her new Christmas place.” My mother saw me first. She didn’t look surprised that Olivia was lying. She looked worried that I had arrived in time to hear it.
I had driven six hours from Denver to get there. The last forty minutes were all switchbacks up Red Mountain Pass, snow stacked high on either side of Highway 550 like white walls. My old Subaru smelled like coffee and pine air freshener. I had left at four in the morning because I wanted to be the first one to light a fire in the lodge this winter.
The lodge isn't a lodge the way people imagine lodges in Colorado. It's not some sprawling corporate rental with twelve bedrooms and a hot tub the size of a pool. It's a 1948 A-frame that used to be a mining foreman's house, at 9,400 feet, with a roof so steep the snow slides off it in the night with a sound like thunder. I found it three years ago on Zillow, listed for $189,000, which in Colorado mountain terms is essentially free, because the inspection report said it had "significant structural enthusiasm," which is realtor for "might fall down."
I am Rebecca Hart. I'm thirty-seven, American, born in Colorado Springs, raised on military base pragmatism and a belief that if you want something, you work until you can afford it. I work in commercial insurance. Not glamorous, but steady. For six years, I put every bonus, every commission, every tax return into that house. I replaced the foundation myself with a crew of guys from Ouray who called me "boss" and didn't mean it as a joke. I sanded those pine floors on my knees for three weekends. I picked the black soapstone for the fireplace surround because it reminded me of my dad's old toolbox.
I had given my mother a key for emergencies. I had not given Olivia a key at all.
And yet there she was. Olivia Hart. Thirty-four, blonde in the expensive way, wearing a cream cashmere sweater dress and sheer tights in ten-degree weather, holding a coupe glass of something bubbling, standing in front of my fireplace, in front of my soapstone, in front of the mantle my dad and I had built.
"—and we just knew it was meant to be ours," she was saying, her voice doing that breathy, presentational thing she does. "Jason and I have been looking for a Christmas place for years, somewhere our kids can have real snow, real memories. When this came on the market, we had to have it."
Two dozen people turned. Most of them I didn't know. A few I did. My Aunt Carol. My cousin Michael. Two of Olivia's friends from Boulder who run a very successful sourdough starter Instagram. My mother, Diane, standing by the kitchen island I had tiled myself, holding a glass of wine like it was a shield.
She saw me first. Her eyes widened. Not with guilt. Not with surprise that Olivia would say something so audacious. With panic. The exact expression she used to have when Dad would come home early from the base and find that Olivia had thrown a party while she was supposed to be grounded.
"Becca," my mother said.
Every head turned.
Olivia didn't miss a beat. She smiled. That wide, forgiving, older-sister smile that had always made me feel like I was the difficult one.
"Becca! You made it! You got my text about the housewarming, right? I told Mom you were coming up early to help set up!"
I had received no text.
I stood in the open doorway, snow melting off my boots onto the rug I had bought at the Montrose flea market, and looked at my sister christening my house.
The next ten minutes were the kind of social hell that only families can create.
Aunt Carol hugged me too hard and whispered, "Isn't this wonderful? Olivia finally settled down." One of Olivia's Boulder friends asked me if I was the realtor. Jason, Olivia's husband, who I had met exactly three times, came over and clapped me on the shoulder like we were old buddies and said, "Man, long drive, huh? Thanks for coming to celebrate with us."
I didn't move. I couldn't. If I stepped further into the house, I felt like I would be accepting it.
My mother came over, took my arm, her fingers cold.
"Honey, can I talk to you in the bedroom?" she said under her breath.
"Why?" I said, not under my breath. "So Olivia can finish her toast?"
Olivia heard me. She floated over, her heels clicking on the pine floors I had sweat over, balancing her champagne glass with the practiced grace of someone who had never carried a bundle of cedar shingles in her life.
"Becca, sweetie, let's not make a scene in front of the guests," Olivia murmured, her hand resting light and heavy as lead on my forearm. "We can talk about the paperwork logistics later. Everyone is having such a good time."
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"What paperwork logistics, Olivia?" I asked. My voice was very quiet. When I get angry, my voice doesn't rise; it drops into a register that makes my claims adjusters check their math twice. "Because the last time I checked, my name is the only one recorded with Hinsdale County, and the deed is sitting in a fireproof safe in my Denver apartment. Or wait—did you forge my signature, or did Mom give you power of attorney while she was signing her Christmas cards?"
My mother flinched. That told me everything I needed to know.
