* * *
The rustle of worn pages harmonized with the soothing hum of waves lapping against the shoreline as Kat immersed herself inA Christmas Carol. Reading the beloved classic had become a tradition every December 1 after decorating the house with Fern. Even though she knew nearly every word by heart, she found the redemptive tale comforting. During the toughest time of the year, she relished the hopeful reminder that even Scrooge turned his life around.
“Knock, knock.”
Kat glanced up from her lounging position on the bed to find Fern standing in the doorway with a tray of hot chocolate and her mouthwatering Milagros. “I thought you might be in need of a bedtime snack.”
Kat sat up a little straighter and laid the open book across her lap. “Thank you. That sounds lovely.”
Fern slid the tray onto the nightstand, and Kat inhaled the scent of rich dark chocolate and sweet cinnamon.
“One of my favorite stories.” The mattress creaked as Fern perched on the edge of the bed, plucking the thin book from its resting place. “This is a beautiful copy.” She caressed the red leather binding and gold-embossed lettering.
“A thrift store find, if you can believe it.” Kat eagerly reached for the steaming mug of cocoa, smiling as the smooth ceramic warmed her cold fingertips. Although the temperature often reached the low fifties along the California coast in early December, she liked to crack her bedroom window to savor the serene sound of the ocean.
“You know my favorite part of the story?” Fern asked.
“The ending?” Kat guessed, taking a sip. The thick, syrupy liquid slid down her throat, followed by a hint of spice. The dash of cayenne pepper and cinnamon lent Fern’s hot chocolate an extra burst of flavor that other recipes lacked.
Fern shook her head, flipping backward a few pages, while keeping one finger in the spine so she didn’t lose Kat’s place. “My favorite part is when Scrooge sees Jacob Marley and accuses him of being a moldy piece of cheese.” She chuckled softly before turning back to Kat’s spot, gently laying the book facedown on the faded quilt. “We all do that, don’t we?”
“Do what?” Cradling the mug in her palm, Kat nibbled on the sugary treat.
“When there’s something we’re too afraid to face, we pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Even though they were discussing a work of fiction, Kat’s thoughts wandered to the envelope tucked in the bottom drawer of her nightstand. And she had a feeling Fern knew that it would. The older woman had a special knack for seeing right through a person’s carefully erected walls to their innermost secrets.
“I suppose we do….” She set the half-eaten cookie back on the plate, no longer hungry.
“Did I ever tell you the meaning behind my name?”
“Fern?”
“Fernanda. It meansbrave journey. I’ve always thought that was fitting, considering the path my life has taken.”
“I wish I could be as strong as you,” Kat admitted with genuine longing. She kept most of her past locked in the deep recesses of her mind so she didn’t have to face the painful memories.
“Want to know my secret?” Fern asked in a conspiratorial whisper. “I put one foot in front of the other and wait for God to open a door.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Easy? Have you seen how big my feet are? It’s a wonder I don’t trip all over myself.” She laughed—rich and warm like her delicious hot chocolate—and Kat cracked a smile.
How she could find joy and humor in the face of all the sorrow she’d experienced, Kat would never know. Not for the first time, Kat wished Fern was her mother, instead of the less-than-stellar role model she’d been given at birth. “And what if God doesn’t open a door?”
“Oh, mija, He always does. But sometimes, it’s not the one we think it will be.” She leaned forward and lovingly brushed aside a wayward strand of Kat’s wild red hair. “Now, don’t stay up too late.”
After bidding her good night, Fern shuffled across the threadbare carpet and through the doorway.
Kat waited for her footsteps to disappear down the hallway before she slid open the bottom drawer of her nightstand. With hesitant hands, she retrieved a thin white envelope from beneath a stack of books.
The letter, addressed to her mother, Helena Bennet, care of Hope Hideaway, was postmarked over four months ago from a small town several hours inland called Poppy Creek.
Slowly, Kat slipped the single sheet of paper from the envelope, along with a wallet-size photograph. Her stomach twisted as she gazed into the bright coppery eyes so full of life and light.
When she’d first glimpsed the photo, she’d assumed it was her mother, taken decades before her tragic death. The young woman had the same striking eyes, auburn hair, and delicate features. When she’d gazed at the beautiful, carefree smile, Kat had broken down in tears, painfully reminded of the mother she’d tried so desperately to forget.
Then, she’d read the neat, sloping penmanship, and her entire world had shattered in the span of a single breath.
