Page 29 of Theirs for the Holidays

“How comfortable is comfortable?”

“High nine figures.”

I have to count out how many zeros that is, and when I tick them all off on my fingers, my mouth drops open. “That’s… amazing, oh my god. I can’t believe I know three multimillionaires. You guys must have had a really good company, that’s very impressive.”

None of them seem particularly happy about it. Their faces look muted, grim, and Rhett snorts. “Yeah. It’s amazing.”

It sounds like it’s anything but.

He gets up and goes to put his boots on, going back outside. Sawyer follows his lead, but he goes in the other direction, disappearing into the kitchen. It’s clear that I’m missing something, and I feel bad for bringing it up and souring the mood.

“I didn’t mean to ruin the evening,” I say to Lennox, the only one still in the room with me. “I didn’t know it was… a bad subject?” I don’t even know why the other two are so mad. Why there’s so much tension.

Lennox takes a breath and lets it out. “It’s not your fault. Things just didn’t go well. Everything between us sort of fell apart when we sold Zephyr. Sometimes it feels like we sold our relationship with each other too.”

“Oh.” I can’t help but feel sad about that. I remember the three of them being so close, being such a unit. It was always the three of them, finishing each other’s sentences, laughing and joking, getting into trouble and then getting themselves back out of it again. It explains a lot about why they are the way they are now. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “That has to be hard.”

A look passes over Lennox’s face, and I can tell there’s regret there. “I’ll take care of the leftovers,” he says, getting up and gathering the pizza boxes.

He takes them into the kitchen, and I hear the rustle of drawers before he slips into the office, closing the door behind him.

I stay in the living room by myself, no longer feeling as warm and cozy as I did before.

11

VIOLET

The next day,it’s back to work. I get up bright and early and creep through the house, trying not to wake up my house guests. It’s kind of a relief to get back to the bakery and be able to lose myself in making dough and trying out the various little experiments I’ve been thinking about for the holiday season.

By the time the bakery opens at eight, I have trays of gougères and cookies with candied nuts. Danishes with jam and little shortbread treats, as well as the usual things that my customers have come to enjoy.

I’m hoping that if I can win people over with old favorites and new treats, I’ll be able to drum up more business. The holidays are the best time to do it, even if it does mean I’m working harder than ever. It’ll be worth it if it results in me getting more customers in the new year.

There’s a steady in and out at first, regulars coming in to get pastries on their way to work, stopping off at the coffee shop across the street and then coming in to complete their breakfasts with me.

I make idle small talk with most of them before they head back out into the gray, slushy morning.

There’s always something of a lull between ten and twelve, when everyone is already at work, and there aren’t as many people on the streets. Some of the people passing through Sweetwater Lake come in, but it’s a slow trickle, maybe one or two every twenty minutes or so.

Around lunch, things pick back up, and I smile when an older woman comes in, tapping her shoes on the mat to avoid tracking snowy melt all over the floor.

“Good afternoon,” I say, greeting her warmly. “Welcome to Blackbird Bakery.”

“Thank you,” she says brightly. “I’ve been meaning to stop by here since I got into town.”

“Oh, are you just passing through?” I ask her.

“My son and his family live in Cartersville, the town over,” she explains. “But it was cheaper to get a hotel here. His house is a little overfull these days, with the new baby and all.”

“Ah, I understand. Congratulations on your new grandchild. What can I get for you?”

She takes some time to peruse what I have on display, asking questions about ingredients, which I answer politely. I never mind getting into the details with a customer, if it seems like they’re actually going to buy something.

“Would you mind if I tried one of the little nut cookies?” she asks. “I’m not sure if you do samples.”

“Sure,” I tell her. “They’re a new offering, so I don’t mind giving out a taste.” I take one of the cookies and cut it into quarters, passing the woman a piece on waxed paper.

She takes it, biting into it and chewing thoughtfully. A smile spreads over her face as she swallows. “Oh, that’s delightful. Is that maple?”