Page 63 of The Christmas Arrangement
I stare at her for a long moment. “Nothing.”
She stares back, then sighs. “Honey, have you forgotten how closely I work with Brody?”
The swift subject change from artisan bread to my manager gives me mental whiplash. “No. What are you talking about?”
“I know this girl isn’t really your girlfriend. I was on the strategy call with Lia Campbell’s team, and I was looped in when she backed out.”
I wince. Of course, she knows—or thinks she does. “It’s true that?—”
“Don’t misunderstand. Tapping Ivy as a replacement was brilliant. Honestly, she’s more effective than Lia would have been. And it’s working. Your fans are eating it up. And the studios are excited about the redemption arc, eager to sell the fantasy of you in love with a small-town florist who looks like an angel. Lean into it, darling. But don’t forget it’s an act.”
“It’s not an act, though.” My voice comes out rough, and I shift gears to soften it. “It was at first, but I really fell for her, Mom.”
“Dasher, honestly. You’ve known her for four days.”
“Five.”
“As if that’s any better. Ivy’s delightful, yes. This town is charming, yes. But this is not your life.”
“It could be.”
Her tone is gentle when she says, “No, it can’t. Brody told me you haven’t returned his call about the meetings he’s set up for you. You haven’t even committed to the audition for the new Lin-Manuel Miranda musical. That’s your dream role. You can’t throw away everything you’ve—no, we’ve—worked so hard to achieve for a girl you just met. I’ve sacrificed too much.” Tears shine in her eyes.
“Don’t you mean I’ve sacrificed too much?”
The question trembles on the air between me and my mother, weighty and dangerous. She takes a sharp breath and presses her palms down hard on the kitchen island. Then she lifts her chin and pins me with eyes so similar to mine it’s like looking in a mirror.
“You can’t begin to imagine how much I’ve sacrificed.” Her voice quavers.
The words slam into my chest with so much force it feels like crashing into a wall. I curl my hands into fists, reflexively. Then relax them. Fist them again. My breathing is ragged. I have to get out of here before I say something I can’t take back.
“I need some air.” I grab my coat from the hook by the door and storm out of the cottage with no destination in mind.
I follow the hypnotic whine of the wood lathe and end up in Nick’s workshop. He must sense me when I come in because there’s no way he hears me. But he turns the wood on the machine two more rotations and then shuts off the lathe.
He removes his safety glasses and looks over his shoulder. “Ha. I was hoping you were Noelle with a fresh cup of coffee.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“I’m not disappointed in the least.” He smacks his work gloves together, knocking off the wood shavings, then peels off the gloves and places them beside the manger in progress. “Now I have an excuse to take a break. Come on, son. Noelle may not make deliveries, but she always keeps a pot on in the kitchen.”
He gives me a casual slap on the back as we walk from the workshop to the inn. I’m careful not to so much as glance in the direction of the cottage.
Inside, we stomp the snow off our boots, fill two mugs with hot coffee, and go into the family’s living room where we settle into chairs across from the Christmas tree—Ivy’s tree.
“Where’s Noelle?” I ask, thinking we should see if she wants to join us.
“She’s out front, taking care of guests. It’s her day off from the library, and I told her to go do something fun but she claims making sure people enjoy their stay is fun.” He shrugs with a smile. “So, what are you and Ivy up to today?”
“There’s a gingerbread house decorating contest at Quinn’s event barn later. We signed up to do that.”
“Always a good time. And there’s stiff competition. Professional judges and everything.”
“Professional gingerbread house judges?” This town gets quirkier by the minute.
Nick chuckles. “A baker, a miller, and an artist. They judge on taste, structural integrity, and aesthetics.”
“Sounds serious.” After a lull, I say, “Did you always live here?”