Page 40 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
"It was," Charlie agreed.
And it had been. One of the best days she'd had in years, actually. No work stress, no court dates, no difficult clients. Just family and laughter and ridiculous snowman-building competitions with a man who made her stomach flip.
As they walked into the inn, Charlie's phone rang. She pulled it out of her bag and her stomach sank. It was a client.
"Charlie?" Holly looked at her knowingly.
"I have to take this," Charlie said apologetically. "It's that new client and…"
"Yes, Ms. Best-attorney-in-the-State-of-Florida, I understand." Holly gave her a tight smile. "Go save some poor souls with your legal prowess."
Charlie nodded and walked toward the cozy living room area that was seemingly empty. As she answered, she didn't see that Logan had come down the stairs while she and Holly were talking, nor did she notice the look on his face when she mentioned she was an attorney. Nor did she realize that herclient's call had just drawn her in to helping save the Christmas Inn.
13
JANE
Jane stood in the doorway of the great ballroom, letting her eyes adjust to the soft, gray light. Even with all the Christmas bulbs glowing on the wreaths and the velvet ribbon wound up the staircase, the ballroom always felt like a pocket of dusk. Maybe it was the blue-painted walls, or the shadows thrown by the grand pillars, or the way the air stayed so cool, even on warm days—like the room had decided long ago to keep its own weather, separate from the rest of the world.
She stepped inside and closed the door until it was just shy of the latch, leaving a slim triangle of hallway visible in case anyone needed her. The inn was quiet after dinner, with the guests all tucked into their rooms or out exploring the downtown lights. She listened for the ocean; sometimes, if you stood in the very center of the floor, you could hear the surf behind the walls, low and constant. If you were very quiet, you could almost pretend the ballroom was floating, anchored only by salt and history.
Jane craned her head up to look at the chandelier. It hung like a fossilized constellation: dozens of arms, each draped in glass teardrops, the bulbs coated with a fine layer of dust anda few dead moths. Once, it had sparkled so brightly it made guests shield their eyes when the lights were first switched on. She remembered her grandfather, climbing the extension ladder every December to polish each crystal. He always wore gloves for that, to keep the oils from his fingers off the glass, but would hum a Sinatra song so loud it echoed up into the rafters.
They still decorated the ballroom every year. That was the tradition. But no one had hosted a real event here since her grandfather died. Ten years, she realized. She reached for the nearest velvet curtain, running the fabric between her fingers. The curtain was plush and slightly greasy from age, but the color still held—a deep blue that matched the original paint. She pressed her palm flat against her stomach, just below the ribs. A habit she’d tried to break, but it crept up on her in empty moments: the ache of something that had never been, that would never be. Darren had also loved this room; she let herself remember for a moment. And the baby, if it had survived, would have been old enough to run circles around the dance floor, like she used to.
Her eyes blurred, and she let her hand drop. What was the point of all this tradition if no one remembered it? Jane sometimes wondered if she was only preserving the ghosts. Maybe that’s all she was now—a keeper of ghosts.
She was about to turn off the lights and go find the boxes, making a mental note to get her father to bring the ladder because this year, Jane was determined to polish the chandelier, when she heard footsteps in the hall. They were soft and light, followed by a cautious tap on the door as it was pushed a little farther open. Jane startled, then straightened, brushing dust from her jeans.
“Who’s there?” Jane called cautiously with a frown marring her brow.
The door swung open, spilling a wedge of warm lamplight from the hallway.
Trinity stood in the gap, hands tucked behind her back, hair in a tangled ponytail. Her cheeks were pink from running up the stairs. She gazed at the chandelier, mouth open, then looked around the room like she’d found a portal to Narnia.
“Wow,” she said, every syllable round with awe. “This is incredible.”
Jane tried to smile, but it felt like moving a scar. “It’s just the ballroom,” she said. Her voice sounded brittle, so she tried again, lighter: “We don’t use it much anymore.”
Trinity took a few steps in, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. She wandered a slow circle, arms out, as if measuring the room’s boundaries. “Do you use it for weddings and other celebrations?”
That was something Jane had entertained in the past two years since she’d come back home. She’d thought about doing that to create another revenue stream for the inn.
“No, usually just dancing. Big dinners. Sometimes there were concerts or lectures. But mostly the Winter Ball.” Jane tried to recall the last time they’d done it right. She could see the tables crowded with people, the coats draped over every chair, the girls in swirling dresses, and the boys in borrowed ties. There had been so much music, so much laughter, you could barely hear yourself think.
“I bet it’s haunted,” Trinity said, twirling once, then pausing to watch her own reflection in a gilded mirror. “I mean, not with ghosts. Just…memories.”
Jane’s throat tightened. She forced a chuckle. “That’s probably accurate.”
Trinity came to stand beside her, eyes fixed on the high windows. “I saw this room last night from the outside. I thought it was, like, a museum or something.” She looked up at Jane, green eyes bright. “Is there going to be a function here? Or do you just decorate it for fun?”
“Fun isn’t exactly the word,” Jane said. She hesitated, weighing how much to explain. But there was nothing secret about it. “It’s tradition. Every year, we decorate the ballroom, even if there’s no party. My grandfather said it was bad luck to let the room go empty at Christmas.” Her voice grew quieter. “He started the Winter Ball when he was young. They had it every year, right through hurricanes and power outages, even when the roof leaked.”
Trinity’s brow furrowed. “Do people still come to the ball?”
Jane looked at her, not sure whether to laugh or cry. “No. Not since he died.”
“That’s really sad,” Trinity said. She walked to the center of the room and tipped her head back to stare at the chandelier, arms held out like wings. “He’d probably want people to use it, not just look at it.” Her young voice dropped. “I think the room is…” She walked over to a pillar and ran her hand over it as if soothing it. “It’s sad.”
