Page 111 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
“You’re right. I do.” Her responding nod is tight. “And I knew you were sad back then, but you refused to talk to me about it. Then you were off to college, and you got so busy, and … things changed. You changed. Everything changed.” She sniffs, then squares her shoulders. “Wegrew apart.”
“I grew up, Mom.”
“Yes, you did.” Her eyes scan my face, and the edges begin to shine. “And I’m so very proud of you. So is your father. In fact—” She casts a glance across the ballroom just as he emerges from theswinging doors. “He can’t wait to bring you onboard at Hathaway Cooke. So don’t tell him I said anything, but … you got the job!”
Another lurch of my stomach. “Mom.”
“What?” She blinks at me. “I was a big part of your journey too, you know. Why should your father be the one who always gets to share the good news?”
We both fall silent as he approaches. “Hello, beautiful girls.” He breaks into a grin. “Ready to head out? I’d like to get my family home before Christmas.”
My mother glances at me, then she pats at her sleek updo. “I believe itisChristmas, Charles.”
“Is it?” He checks his watch. “Well, what do you know? You’re right, Kate. It’s past midnight.” He turns to me, his smile faltering. “I guess we missed your entire birthday, Sara. For the first time since the day you were born.”
“I’m so sorry, dear.” My mother’s lips curve into a frown. “We’ll just have to make the gala extra-special for you next year.”
“Actually”—I bob my head—“I had a pretty great birthday, anyway.”
My dad cocks his head. “In Abieville?”
“Alone?” My mother blinks.
“Let’s get home and get some sleep,” I say. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on tomorrow.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sara
“So you’re saying he overheard ourentireconversation?” My mother darts a glance from me over to my father.
It’s Christmas morning, and they’re seated on the Chesterfield sofa. I’m slouched in the wingback armchair closest to the tree. This might not have been the optimal time to share everything about Three, but I owe them all the facts: the good, the bad, and the concussion.
“He didn’t intend to, but the window was open when he came to pick me up, so …” I pause to take a sip of eggnog from my Cindy-Lou Who mug. My mom’s clutching a mug featuring Max, from the part of the movie when the poor dog’s stuck wearing homemade antlers. My dad’s got the Grinch mug, but he hasn’t touched a drop since I started spilling my guts about the past few days.
“And now you thinkwe’reto blame for what happened between you two?” My mother’s hand flies to her throat.
“No. That’s not what I meant at all.”
My dad pulls down his brow. “I don’t suppose the boy has any actual proof of the alleged interaction.” His frown meansbusiness, but it’s hard to take him seriously when we’re all dressed in pajamas covered in cartoon reindeers.
Kind of like the kitchen linens I burned.
Talk about extra.
But our holiday traditions—even our silly matching pajamas—are just more proof of my parents’ love for me. That’s been a burden sometimes, and also a blessing. The hard part’s being honest about both sides of the coin.
“Can you please switch off the lawyer talk, Dad?” A bundle of nerves continues to fizz behind my ribs. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
“I should hope not.” He leans forward and sets his mug on the glass-topped coffee table. “I can’t be expected to remember the details about something I may or may not have said more than a decade ago.”
“I wasn’t asking for specifics, Dad. I’m just curious.” I swallow hard. This is the part that might get a little sticky. “Is Three right? Were you reallythatworried he might hold me back? Did you think my whole future was at risk?”
“Yes.” My dad shifts his jaw. “Yes, and yes.”
“Wow.” Okay, then. At least he’s not shying away from the truth. “That’s awfully direct.”
“I’m a direct man,” he says. “And an honest one.” He settles back against the couch, and crosses his slippered feet. “I may not remember my exact words, but I haven’t forgotten how distracted you were back then. Far too distracted. It got worse every summer. Your mother and I weren’t about to let you throw away years of prep school and private tutors—all those exclusive interviews at top universities—over some infatuation with a boy you barely knew.”
