Page 20 of Grump Hard
The analytical place in my brain, the part that’s been running a cost-benefit analysis on every aspect of life since I wasn’t much more than a child, goes silent. I glance over at Holly, her face lit by the tree’s glow, and realize the silence has a source.
It’s her.
I suspect I’m in trouble, far more serious trouble than anything I would have encountered from the sheriff’s department.
Six
Holly
Four days later…
* * *
The annual cookie-baking marathon is basically the Super Bowl of Hadley family traditions. Mom’s the coach, I’m the star taste-tester, and Dad stays out in the barn until they’re all ready, so he won’t be tempted to “sample” every batch.
I, however, lack that degree of self-control…
“I need one more,” I murmur, plucking a sugar cookie from the cooling rack. “Just one.”
Mom laughs. “That’s what you said five minutes ago.”
“I know,” I say, grinning as I lean back against the counter, watching my mother work at the long farmhouse table, “but I mean it this time, I really do.”
“Oh, stop. Eat as many as you want, baby. You know calories don’t exist at Christmas,” she says as she meticulously pipes icing onto an army of gingerbread men destined for the town’s holiday fundraiser. “Not in this house, anyway.”
“I love this house,” I say around a mouthful of sinfully buttery cookie.
And I do.
Especially at this time of year.
The radio on the counter plays non-stop Christmas carols, a fire pops in the woodstove, and outside the window, the world is a peaceful expanse of white, the mountains blanketed in a fresh layer of snow under a brilliant blue sky.
This is my favorite part of the holidays.
I love the chaos of all the Silver Bell Falls events and traditions, but if I had to choose just one way to celebrate, it would be here, in this house, where I’ve always felt so safe and loved.
I really am so lucky.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, since a certain billionaire with a troubled family history broke-and-entered his way into my life…
“Oh, shoot,” Mom says, straightening. “Sweetheart, would you mind running the Christmas cards out to the mailbox before the postman comes?” She gestures with her icing bag toward the stack of red and green envelopes on the edge of the counter. “I want to get them out today so they’ll have plenty of time to get where they’re going before Christmas.”
“On it,” I say, grabbing the cards.
As I shrug into my coat and step into my snow boots in the mudroom, I call back into the kitchen, “Tell Dad he can pick me up at the end of the driveway when he’s ready, okay? I’m going to walk down and visit the furry cows at the Johnsons before we leave.”
“Okay, baby,” Mom calls back. “See you soon. Let me know if you want to come to Bingo on Saturday.”
“Will do,” I promise before stepping through the door.
Outside, the winter air is a shock after the warmth of the kitchen, but it’s nice to be outside with nothing between me and the view. Vermont isn’t always a kind place in the winter, but damn, it’s beautiful.
Pulling my coat tighter, I start down the recently plowed driveway, boots crunching in the snow. As I walk, my gaze drifts up the mountainside, past the snow-laden pines, to the spot where the Ratcliffe mansion presides over the valley like a silent, stone king, thoughts turning to Luke again.
I can’t believe I didn’t realize how rough his childhood was, but his father didn’t visit much, and Luke and I didn’t talk about things like that when we were kids. We were too young and, even if we’d been older, it often takes time for a person to realize that what they think of as “normal” is anything but.
But Luke didn’t go from a kind, protective kid to a rigid, emotionally guarded man all on his own. No, someone made him that way, most likely his father, since he said he hadn’t seen his mother since he was a child.
