Page 25 of Christmas Treasures (Sugarville Grove #6)

CHARLIE

S he didn’t even put on shoes. The second the door closed behind Max and Bianca, Charlie turned and walked through the kitchen like a ghost. Past the table, past the timer she’d forgotten to set, past the oven where something warm and cinnamon-sweet baked.

She pulled open her French doors and stepped onto the patio.

Cold air hit her bare ankles as she turned to slam the doors shut behind her.

But she didn’t care. She needed to be with her plants.

Stumbling from the patio into the snow-covered grass, she headed toward her greenhouse.

Snow seeped through her socks, numbing her feet. Still, she didn’t stop.

The greenhouse waited for her. A warm world trapped in glass.

Her world. The only place she could care for something and not kill it in the process.

She went inside, a rush of warmth and green scent greeting her.

Condensation blurred the edges of the glass.

The plants lush and orderly in their trays and beds were as she’d left them.

Growing. Thriving. She’d built this from nothing.

But why? What did any of it matter? She was too broken to love. Too battered for anyone to love her.

She crossed to the far table and yanked out bunches of winter kale.

Roots snapped. Soil scattered. The bin underneath caught only half of it.

She didn’t care. Then came the chard. She ripped it out by the handful.

A sprouting tray of lettuces she’d babied for weeks?

She plucked them from their containers and threw them against the glass wall.

It wasn’t Max. It wasn’t the tree that had triggered such a negative response.

Even in her anger she could see that. It was every time a man had handed her something she didn’t ask for and called it a gift.

The tech bros who laughed behind her back and parroted her code as if it were their own.

The venture capitalist who told her she was “too emotional” to be the face of her company.

The mentor who’d told her she was brilliant, and then tried to kiss her in a boardroom elevator.

The endless meetings where she was talked over.

Smiled at. Dismissed. Called sweetheart.

And now Max.

He was not cruel. Or arrogant. Certainly not dismissive.

And yet he was a man who thought he knew what she needed better than she did.

But it hadn’t been her choice. He hadn’t listened to her.

He’d thought he could save her by a sweet gesture.

As though she were normal. But she wasn’t.

She was broken. Too broken for a man like Max Hayes.

He’d lost someone, too, but it had not destroyed him.

His foundation was too strong. He had a family who loved him.

And now, a purpose. Bianca needed him, and he’d risen to the challenge without a second thought.

Because he was a man who could love without restraint or worry.

She pressed her hands to the edge of the worktable, breathing hard, her socks soaked, her sweater covered in dirt. Her chest felt hollow. Her throat raw. She just stood there, surrounded by torn roots and wrecked plants, and self-hatred. Tears came. Gusts of sobs that brought her to her knees.

Until she heard the screech of the fire alarm sounding from the house.

The cinnamon rolls.

Socks soaked, sweater clinging to her skin, she raced through the snow and up the porch steps, flinging the French doors open with shaking hands.

The sound nearly knocked her backward.

The fire alarm screamed from the ceiling—a relentless, high-pitched shriek that stabbed through her skull.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she stumbled inside, shutting the door behind her.

Even in her distressed state, she thought of Fig.

If he were to get out, he would perish too. She couldn’t lose him too.

Smoke billowed from the oven vent and clouded the room. And poor Fig. He crouched low to the floor, ears flattened, tail puffed to twice its size, eyes wide with terror. He let out a panicked, warbling yowl.

“I’m here.” Coughing, she dropped to her knees and reached for him, but he ran from her.

She rose to her feet and crossed to the oven, yanking open the door.

A cloud of black smoke exploded into her face, followed by blistering heat.

She grabbed a towel lying on the counter and reached in to pull out the tray of now-blackened rolls.

But the towel slipped, and the top of her hand hit a coil.

She hissed as pain seared through her tender skin.

Regardless, she had to get the tray out.

Frantic, she found an oven mitt, reached in, and yanked it out, then dropped it into the sink with a crash.

She turned the cold water on it, watching the charred buns destroyed by water, then stuck her burned hand under the cold stream until her hand was numb from the cold.

Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision.

She struggled to breathe. And the blasted sound would not stop, screeching and screeching and screeching.

She pushed open several windows, her hand throbbing. The pain was a punishment. For hurting a little girl and a kind, sensitive man.

She must get the alarm to stop. Or else she would be driven to the brink of insanity. Maybe she was already there. She dragged a stool over, climbed up onto it with trembling limbs, and yanked at the fire alarm with all her strength.

It wouldn’t come at first. She had to fight it.

But she finally tore it from the ceiling, nearly dropping it as the last shriek died mid-screech.

Silence. Deadly silence that pressed against her, made her dizzy with relief but also shame.

Her knees buckling slightly as she climbed down from the stool.

The kitchen remained smoky, the air sharp and thick in her lungs.

Fig darted under the table, eyes peeking out, still puffed and wary, but better.

Charlie stood in the middle of her kitchen in soaked socks, her sweater streaked with dirt and ash, her hand throbbing, the cinnamon rolls ruined, the house scorched with her carelessness.

Her vision blurred. Smoke stung her throat.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or disappear.

But all she could do was stand there, breath shaking, staring through the smoke.

She’d had good intentions. She’d been happy making those rolls for Bianca and Max, thinking of how they would enjoy them.

But like everything in her life, she’d ruined them.

Destroyed something sweet and good. The cinnamon rolls. Max. Bianca. Her mother .

She could still see the scarf trailing from beneath the sheet. Still feel the cold sidewalk beneath her knees.

She’d shattered it all again. Why had she had the audacity to think she could love someone and not break them?

Charlie fell to the floor, her back against the island.

Fig crept from beneath the table and meowed, crossing over to her. He rubbed against her leg once, then sat beside her with his chin on her knee.

Charlie placed her good hand on him for a second, appalled by how he still shook with fear. She cradled her other hand, the ache sharp and real, and stared through the smoke to the windows of the French doors. Snow had begun to fall, soft, fat flakes with no worries at all.

Mama . She called to her silently. Mama, I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to make you worry. I didn’t think about anyone but myself.

I just—I was thirteen. I was lonely. I thought they wanted to be my friends.

I was so desperate for someone to like me.

I didn’t know you’d die from my mistake.

My selfishness. I didn’t think it would be the last time I’d hear your voice. Or feel your arms around me.

She swallowed hard.

I miss you. I miss you so much. And I’ve spent years punishing myself, like if I didn’t celebrate Christmas or have friends or care about anything maybe it wouldn’t hurt as badly. But it still hurts. Every day. I’m so tired, Mama.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

I broke Max. He closed up. Protecting himself from my cruelty. And Bianca. She’s just a little girl. Who has suffered so much loss, and what did I do but send her away?

And then, the air seemed to shift. Smoke lifted, heading toward the ceiling or out the open windows.

Not all, but enough that she felt she could breathe again.

Despite the chill, a warmth enveloped her, like arms wrapping around her.

A scent replaced the acrid taste and smell of smoke.

A scent both familiar and impossible—fuchsia and vanilla and something powdery-soft.

Her mother’s perfume. The one her father had bought her every Christmas.

Charlie froze, breath catching. “Mama? Are you there?” She closed her eyes, and she heard her mother’s voice as if she were sitting right beside her.

You were a little girl. You made a mistake.

But you have to forgive yourself and start living.

You weren’t driving the car that hit me.

That was an accident. I forgive you for all of it.

For being young and lonely and wanting friends.

But I cannot allow you to continue this way.

It’s time to let go. Allow him to love you, baby.

And love that little girl like I loved you.

Don’t waste your life. Not for one more moment.

A fresh sob burst from Charlie’s chest. She folded forward, hands covering her face as the tears came freely now. She was forgiven. Her mother wanted her to be happy. To stop pushing love away.

Fig moved from his position by her knee to climb into her lap.

He nudged her with his head, as if to say he forgave her too.

He’d been her best friend. Always there for her.

But he was a cat, not a man or a darling little girl who had brought her a Christmas tree to show her how much they cared. She’d sent them away.

She had to get them back.

“Figgy, we have to bring them home.”

He raised his head, blinking his eyes in agreement.