Page 60 of Mistletoe Season
“And finally,” she said with a sniff, “I chose the easiest of the two options.”
“Hiding?”
She nodded. “But when I turned sixteen, someone nominatedmefor The Mistletoe Wish. At first the idea of being one of ‘those kids’ horrified me.” Her lips curved into a sad smile as she shook her head. “But the woman who brought me my Christmas gifts—her name wasGrace Mitchell. She’s kind of a legendary matriarch here in Ransom.” Charlotte chuckled even as a tear slid down her cheek. “One of the gifts she chose for me was a painting of an old castle on top of some cliff with a sunset in the background. A little girl with her long hair flowing in the breeze, waiting at the door of the castle, with a massive lion standing beside her.” Her grin grew. “Ma Mitchell had known me since birth, so my reputation of dressing up as a princess and searching for castles still followed me into my teens, I’m afraid.”
His grin responded to hers, the way she tried to find humor even in the middle of sharing this heartbreaking story. “I imagine you were the sort of princess who fought dragons.”
A light lit her eyes. “It’s the only type of princess worth being.”
“Indeed, it is. Because in real life, there are still a great many dragons to face.”
Her eyes watery, she smiled before she drew in a breath. “One of the best parts of the painting were the words written on a little gold placard at the bottom: ‘Have courage, dear heart.’” Charlotte shook her head. “I think that’s what she wanted me to know most. Maybe she’d seen how I’d lost my courage and confidence over the years and wanted to remind me I still had them.” She shrugged a shoulder. “And I had my dreams.” She paused for a moment before she sighed. “That painting didn’t immediately change anything, but it told me that someone saw my pain and believed there was more to me than just ‘the little girl whose mom left.’ That there was hope.”
A solemn silence followed her words. She drew in a shivering breath before releasing a small chuckle. “Um, sorry, I don’t think you wanted all of that, did you? But, well...” She shrugged. “You asked.”
“I’m glad you told me.” His thumb trailed the inside of her wrist before he released his hold, the feel of her skin sending awareness through him. “It sounds as though you have a great deal of wisdom and passion to bring to your speech.”
Her face broke into a grin, and he somehow felt the movementin his pulse. “I think being pushed into this role propelled something to the front of my mind that I’d hidden in the back. Truths I hadn’t considered for a while, maybe ever.”
“You’ve expressed two important things every thoughtful human wants.” He studied her face. “To be seen and loved for who we really are.”
“Seen and loved enough to stay,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear. The declaration shook through him as if she’d spoken it directly to his soul.Enough to stay.
He leaned back in his seat a little, the intensity of her words shaking him. A cry his heart knew all too well.
“Your father instilled some excellent qualities in you, Charlotte.” Arran waved toward her, attempting to distract himself from the unexpected connection her wounds held with his. “And I’m certain, with your intelligence, you can master public speaking.”
She looked away, another rush of pink rising into her cheeks as she cleared her throat. “So, if number two is to acknowledge the story, what’s number three?”
Deflection? Perhaps she recognized the connection too?
He held up three fingers. “Purpose of the speech. Oftentimes, this is where you encourage people to join the story. So, for example, after your riveting and heartfelt acknowledgment of the story—”
A burst of air erupted from her in a silent laugh.
“You’ll eitherinviteothers to join you orthankthem for joining you, depending on the purpose of the speech.”
“That makes sense.”
“But, Charlotte.” He nudged her hand again. “Putting elements ofyourstory into your speech would make it more meaningful.” Her gaze caught in his. “I’mcertainyou have the courage.”
She searched his face, as if his words mattered to her. “Are you?”
“You’ve continued your friendship with me despite my appalling first impression and poor carpentry skills.”
His response not only brought out her smile but encouraged the proper turn of the conversation in a lighter direction.
“Well, I do have a weakness for the perfect hair wave.” She offered a one-shoulder shrug. “And it’s good to know that sometimes the prince needs a rescue now and again.”
“Thisprince needs rescuing on a regular basis and is humble enough to admit it.” He tapped the table. “So I’m certainly not fit for the fairy tales.”
“I don’t know.” She shoved a file toward him. “Maybe the best stories are when two people rescue each other a little bit. No girl wants to constantly live in damsel-in-distress mode. Not only would it be exhausting, but also a little humiliating.”
He rather liked that definition of a relationship.
They shifted through a few other papers before Arran broke the silence. “Do you still have the painting?”
Her brows rose, the question taking a moment to register, and then she frowned. “No. When Dad and I moved into this Victorian, somewhere in the middle of all the packing and purging, the painting disappeared.” She raised a palm. “But I did buy a necklace with ‘Courage, dear heart’ written on it, as a type of replacement.”
