Page 49 of Rumor Has It

Damn, if that isn’t the best “don’t fuck with my daughter’s heart” speech without indicating he’s aware Cassidy and I are involved, I’m not sure what is.

Colton grips my shoulders from behind, pushing me into the kitchen. “I found this guy looking for ya, Jelly Bean.”

I’m not sure what I expected to see. But the kitchen bustling with activity proves Colton’s point about the importance of family and traditions around here.

Every burner on the gas stove is lit. The scent of cinnamon from a boiling pot of cider mixes with rosemary and thyme. Cassidy’s mom, Keely, finishes basting a bird, the size of which I’ve never seen, and slides the pan back into the lower oven. She steps aside for Dr. Cavanaugh to put a ham in the top oven. Mrs. Sanchez and Mrs. Ballentine are prepping more food at the kitchen table.

“Hi, Bellamy,” I wave at Gatlin’s wife, who is exiting the side room where the dryer I used is—the summer kitchen Cass calls it—with an armful of red-capped bottles of colorful sprinkles. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

“We came over to help with cookie prep,” she tells me, placing the bottles on a sideboard. “Be prepared to go into sugar shock this afternoon.”

The door to the morning porch opens, setting off the chime of the grandmother clock on the wall and distracting her. A shorter woman with white-blonde hair is holding her phone up, chatting in a constant stream.

Bellamy hears a voice she recognizes. She ducks to hug the new woman and says hello to a third woman on the screen, who is holding a toddler with a pink ski cap.

“We miss you and Dash so much, Kat!” Bellamy says.

“Us too.” Kat holds her hand up, promising. “I swear we will be there next year. Christmas isn’t the same without you.”

My attention returns to the door as it opens and closes again. A boy about ten years old toes off his muddy shoes. He gives Colton a high-five, shouting, “Hi, Grandad!” and scampers down the hall. A moment later, I hear him yell “Hi, Grandpa!”. The kid must be Gracyn and Joe’s son.

Kids—some no taller than the countertop—are everywhere. Some with messy faces are in line waiting to have their syrup-sticky fingers wiped. One small boy, rummaging through a plastic tote bin, jumps up and down on a stool.

“Gramma, look. I fown the ginnerbed man cookie cudder!”

Three heads swirl. The way each older woman reacts with pride and pleasure, it’s hard to tell which one of them is his grandmother.

Rhiannon’s camera shutter snaps every-so-often, capturing each moment.

When I’m pretty sure the kitchen can’t get any fuller, more people come from the summer kitchen, holding large stacks of cookie trays.

Christmas at Kingsbrier is a Hallmark movie come to life.

Cassidy is at the center of the activity with a toddler balanced on her hip. Gnawing on a spatula, the happy little girl dances to the sounds all around them.

Cassidy’s big brown eyes are alight as she hovers behind a little girl with thick, dark curls. Instead of taking charge and doing it for her, Cassidy’s showing the child how to stir the food coloring into scratch-made icing. She must not have a ponytail holder nearby because Cass brushes her hair behind her ear. The action leaves a trace of powdered sugar on her cheek.

Bellamy holds her palms out to the toddler, cooing, “Mommy’s all set, Chesnut.” Chesney lurches toward her mother.

I don’t know what it was about Cassidy holding Gatlin and Bellamy’s daughter, but no sooner does Chesney Newhouse leap from Cassidy’s arms than the room stills.

Lucky for me, Cassidy is single. That also means she hasn’t started a family of her own. Strange, since she’s always surrounded by hers. Or maybe not, and perhaps I’m reading into why the woman who has captured my attention doesn’t have ki—

“Did the doctor say something was wrong?” Cassidy looks at me, concerned.

“What? No. Why?” I try to ignore my sinking stomach.

Cassidy wipes her hands on a towel and beckons Keely to take over for her.

“You were frowning.” She runs her thumb between my brows to erase the crease.

Swallowing, I do the same to the sugary smudge on her face. I hadn’t realized my face betrayed my emotions, and I pretend I don’t know what she means.

“I’m fine. Nothing’s broken.”

What a crock.

She snags a Belgian waffle stick from a tray and we move into the hall to talk privately.

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