Page 65 of The Christmas Arrangement

“He’s not here?”

She shakes her head. “No. He, um, needed some time to himself.”

This is a wrinkle. Now what? I check the clock on my phone. If I can track him down quickly, we’ll still have time to talk before we need to be at Quinn’s. I just need to hand Rachel off to Noelle and Dad.

Before I can suggest a visit to the inn, she ducks back into the bedroom and emerges with her bag and her coat.

“Can you take me to the loft, please?”

I can’t exactly tell her no. And, honestly, it solves the problem of finding something for her to do. Maybe she wants to take a nap or check her emails or something. Whatever it is, she’s welcome to do it at Holly’s place.

“Sure.” I find my key ring in the glossy red bowl on the counter and scoop up my keys.

She’s silent as she follows me to the car, silent as we zip over to the loft, silent as I park in Holly’s reserved spot. I ask her a handful of questions that she manages to answer by nodding or shaking her head and one shrug. I give up, and we climb the stairs to the apartment in silence.

Inside, I spot the bakery box on the coffee table. Surely, a sweet treat will end our extended game of charades.

“Rachel, would you like a pastry or cookie? My sister baked them.”

I’m halfway across the room to grab them when she says, “No, thank you. I had some … some … toast.” The word toast turns into a wail, and she bursts into tears.

Her shoulders shake. She drops her bag on the floor and buries her face in her hands.

I stand, frozen, in the living room for a moment, trying to think of something helpful to say. I land on, “I’m sorry? … About the toast?”

She hiccups and raises her head to stare at me. Then she bursts out laughing.

Great, Dash’s mom is having an emotional meltdown and I have no idea where he is.

“Oh, you’re funny.” She manages a wistful smile.

I am? I have no idea what’s funny about this situation.

“Can I get you anything? A glass of water, maybe?” Or a therapist? A priest? The number for a good boulangerie?

“Dasher and I had an argument and he left,” she says in response.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I hesitate. “Maybe he’s at Quinn’s already? The gingerbread contest starts soon.”

Her face brightens with desperate hope. “Could you take me there? Please?”

I want to say no. I want to find Dash on my own, talk to him privately. But she’s looking at me with those dark eyes—Dash’s eyes—and I can’t refuse.

“Of course.”

“Thank you!” She heads for the bathroom, gesturing toward her red, puffy eyes. “I need to touch up my makeup first. I’ll be quick.”

While she’s gone, I sink onto Holly’s white couch and look around the loft. It’s beautiful in a sterile, magazine-spread way. Everything is beige and cream and perfectly arranged. No photos of her and Jack. No messy piles of books or coffee mugs left on side tables. Literally anyone could live here.

When Rachel emerges, her energy has shifted. She looks determined. Her expression is pleasant, but her shoulders are back and there’s an intensity behind her eyes.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Ready,” she replies, then she sweeps past me to the door.

The MacIntosh Farm barn is aglow with white lights strung across the exposed beams. A dozen large wreaths hang around the barn—three on each wall. I made them from fragrant white pine and sugared cranberries. Their aroma complements the scents of gingerbread, peppermint, and vanilla that waft through the warm barn. Four rows of tables covered with red and white striped tablecloths stand ready for action, holding the necessary components to create a gingerbread masterpiece.

Dash isn’t here.