of a smile blooming into an ear to ear grin.
“Oh, really?” he asked, fascinated by the admission.
“That was before I was appointed to the bench. I was a hot-headed prosecutor and a real man about town…until Alice. I thought I knew it all back then. Luckily, Alice showed me that I didn’t. I didn’t know a damn thing about love. I asked her out thirty-seven times before she agreed to have dinner with me. And then when she relented, she still had a condition.”
“What was it?” he asked as a light snow began to fall.
“She told me I had to be myself on our date—not the cocky litigator or the dirty dog of a womanizer—those were her words, mind you, but she wasn’t off the mark. She said she wasn’t interested in that husk of a man. And you know, I wasn’t that interested in being him either,” the judge finished.
Soren nodded, unable to speak. He knew a thing or two about putting on a facade.
“You see, Scooter, Alice made me work, and she helped me see that the best kind of love is the kind you have to fight for, the kind that shows you who you really are. Real love makes you want to do better—be better—and not for yourself. You do it because life isn’t about taking. It’s about giving. And, good heavens, did Alice make me work.”
The judge gestured for them to start walking as Soren felt a tightness clench his heart.
What kind of man was Soren Christopher Traeger Rudolph?
Not the kind the judge would be proud of—not if he saw the empty life he lived when he was away from the Abbotts.
“Why are you telling me this, Judge?” he asked, his voice barely a rasp.
“I’ve known you a long time, Scooter, and I think you could use an Alice.”
Soren released a bark of a laugh. “I’m not really the Alice type.”
“No?” the judge replied with the ghost of a smirk.
“No, there’s no Alice out there for me,” he replied, the words tasting of regret.
The judge nodded. “Perhaps not, or maybe you haven’t met your Alice. But I hope you know, no matter what happens, my family has always treasured our time with you.”
What was this past tense “treasured” talk?
“Judge, what are you saying?” he asked as a bell rang out in the distance.
“I found a spot!” Cole cried from beyond a smattering of Aspens. “Let’s put the flag here.”
“Dad, Scooter! It’s go time!” Scott called, jogging toward them with Cole and the others close behind.
“Scooter, take the south side,” Tom said, pointing off in the distance. “I’ll go north with Uncle Russ. Everyone else, guard the flag.”
“Let the games begin!” the judge said, taking Cole’s hand and heading off with the rest of the team.
And then he was alone.
“What the fuck was that?” he whispered.
He’d had countless conversations with the judge over the years, and none of them had gone anything like that.
He trudged through the snow, his head spinning.
He could barely tell up from down at this point as the far-off squeals and shrieks peppered the air in the distance. His thoughts were all over the place. The Angels, Bridget, Tom’s damned wedding, and this godforsaken town were starting to take a toll on him. He kept walking, grateful for the quiet, when something small and white whizzed past his head. He looked around, but he couldn’t see anyone. The light was fading fast, and in the shade of a grove of towering blue spruce, he looked for the person who’d thrown the snowball that had passed only inches from his head but didn’t see a soul.
“Hello?” he called, shielding his eyes from the falling snow.
No reply…until…smack!
Smack, smack, smack, crack!
Five snowballs hit him in rapid succession—two to the head and three to the shoulder.
He raised his hand defensively.
“Who is that?” he called, bending down and scrambling to make a snowball with the damn ice scoop salad tongs.
He stilled as movement flashed in his peripheral vision.
Then a crack.
A crunch.
And…pow, pow, pow, pow!
Another round of blistering snowballs hit him square in the head.
Again!
This must be what it’s like to live inside a Slurpee machine!
Cold snow slid down his face, and he dropped the snowball maker. Stumbling back a few feet, he lost his footing and toppled over.
Fucking fantastic! With his luck, Carly was his assailant, and he could add having an eight-year-old little girl knock him flat on his ass. If this day wasn’t already a giant shit show, this would be the icing on the