Page 33 of The Healing of Christmas

Louise tapped her shoulder gently. “Let’s just have a good, final Christmas at the inn. All of the Summers, together again. After that, we can figure out how to sell the place and move on with our lives. What do you say?”

Charlotte was touched by how kind her mother seemed. It took her all the way back to her childhood when she’d considered her mother to be a goddess. She’d slept beside her in bed night after night, amazed at how wonderful she’d smelled, like lilacs and vanilla. She’d dreamed of becoming just like her.

Louise hadn’t mentioned any kind of romance with Bert yet. Charlotte prayed Louise would tell her when the time was right. She prayed their love was strong enough to build a future upon.

After Charlotte ate her pie and drank her cup of coffee, she hugged her mother goodbye and wandered back through town. She felt strange and nostalgic, as though her heart was a balloon apt to float out of her mouth and into the sky. She was so out of her mind, in fact, that when Charlie Bryant appeared on the sidewalk in front of her, she hardly recognized him; she took him to be yet another guy from the city, here to experience the “magic” of small-town life. He waved her down.

“Charlotte! Hey.”

Charlotte blinked at his handsome, happy face. Was it possible he was actually pleased to see her? She’d assumed she was just another woman in an endless stream of women, that he was a typical Manhattanite who wined and dined women and then abandoned them. After dinner at the Italian restaurant, he’d texted her a few times, but she’d more or less written him off, deciding that her “attraction” to him was something she needed to ignore. He would be gone from her life by the end of the year. It was best to get that out of the way. It was best to take control.

“Oh. Hi, Charlie.” Charlotte tried not to smile, but his was so infectious that she had to match it. Against her will, her heart pounded. “What are you up to?”

“I just discovered something extraordinary,” Charlie said. “Would you like to see?”

Charlotte hadn’t expected this, either. “Are you just walking through White Plains, looking for someone to kidnap?”

“I promise, it’s worth it,” Charlie told her. “Come on.”

What could Charlotte do? She sidled up beside him, inhaling the smell of him— wood-burning fireplace, the woods, the snow. He didn’t smell like a Manhattanite. There was none of the overpowering cologne or expensive fabric.

To Charlotte’s surprise, Charlie led her to the Presbyterian Church.

“I just popped in here on a walk,” Charlie said as he opened the door. “And I couldn’t believe the architecture. It’s truly sensational.”

Charlotte probably could have drawn what the Presbyterian Church looked like without ever entering its doors again. After all, she’d spent endless Sundays in its pews, drawing on her bulletins, waiting for the pastor to finish his sermon. She’d even been married there and had both of her babies baptized by the pastor working at the time. Her mother had attended both baptisms, but she’d sat in the back, her face scrunched.

“It’s rare to find architecture like this in the city,” Charlie was saying, his arms stretched out in a dramatic gesture toward the ceiling. “I mean, this is pre-1850s. You can tell by the rafters. And the stained-glass windows are sensational! I asked one of the women working in the office if she knew when those were put in, and she said they’re originals from 1813. Charlotte, can you imagine?” Charlie shook his head. “In Manhattan, I’m surrounded by so much new. I’m in charge of developing a lot of it. Yet here, surrounded by history? I feel humbled.”

Charlotte was speechless. For a long time, she listened as he went on about what he loved so much about this church.

“I guarantee that the people who come here every week don’t know how special it is,” Charlie said. “I’m thinking about coming on Sunday, just to tell them.”

“They would love that,” Charlotte said, uttering her first words in a while. “The people who go to this church love this church deep in their bones.”

“Then they deserve to know.”

Charlotte swallowed. Drawn to his energy, she stepped toward him and crossed her arms over her chest. “I used to come here every Sunday.”

Charlie’s eyes lit up.

Charlotte pointed toward the side door near the pulpit. “For a few years, I came in and out of that door to play the piano,” she went on. “I was terrible, but the congregation loved it. They gushed about my skills afterward.”

“Do you still play?”

“No. And trust me, that’s a blessing for everyone.” Charlotte laughed. She realized she was standing less than a foot from Charlie, locked in his gaze. “I’ve never seen the church the way you’re seeing it. I always took it for granted.”

“It’s not your fault,” Charlie said. “That’s just the nature of being human.”

“I wish I could fix that about myself,” Charlotte breathed. “I wish I could remember to be grateful for everything before it goes away.”

Charlie looked on the verge of tears. Charlotte hadn’t expected to see him like that, not ever. She considered making an excuse and fleeing the church. If she stayed much longer, she would do something she would come to regret.

“I was married in this church,” Charlotte said softly.

Charlie smiled.

“That was a disaster,” Charlotte went on.

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