“Not really,” he admitted.But he’s dating my ex-wife, and I don’t like it.
He went on. “I hate that he gaslighted poor Carmen. She was going through enough as it was.”
“I know.” Elena closed her eyes. “I feel like Sam’s connected to all this. To Judge Drury. To the corruption in Connersville. I don’t know how to prove any of it.”
James remembered that his ex-wife had been living in Connersville. Was she a part of this, too?
If Bethany were responsible for any of this conspiracy and fraud, what would James do? Would he let her go to prison?
No. But Bethany wasn’t the rule-breaking type. If anything, she had no idea what Sam Ellison was up to.
James knew he had to get to the bottom of this, not only for Elena’s sake, but for Bethany’s. The safety of his child’s mother was at stake.
“Let me help you,” he said quietly. “Tell me what I can do.”
Chapter Sixteen
Standing there in James’s kitchen, Elena was overwhelmed with a desire to throw her arms around him and burrow her head in his chest. But something held her back. There was a strange rage etched between his eyes, proof that this man—Sam Ellison—was not someone James liked very much. Elena wondered if it was wrong to pry. But rather than demand more of James than he wanted to give, she surprised herself and rose on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “We’re going to figure this out,” she said. “It’s a promise to you, to my mother, and to all of Millbrook.”
James’s cheeks were pink.
But then, before he could respond, a few members of the party cried out that it was time for singing, that everyone needed to come to the living room for carols. Elena pulled James out of the kitchen, linking her arm with his as they stood with his friends and colleagues and neighbors and loved ones, people he cared about so much, and sang favorite Christmas songs: “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” and “We Three Kings” and “O Holy Night.” Their voices carried through the house, making the windows vibrate.
Often, Elena glanced at her mother, surprised and glad that Carmen seemed to remember all the lyrics. These were memories she couldn’t escape from.
It had been a very long time since Elena had sung Christmas carols. The emotions overwhelmed her. She remembered last Christmas, prowling down the street in Queens, buying wine at the bodega, and wishing Butros a Merry Christmas. They’d laughed together, just as they had this past Thanksgiving. She wondered if he realized she was gone, or if he’d guessed she’d fallen back into the fabric of New York City living. She wondered how many people who came to the bodega disappeared one day and never came back.
And then she wondered—if she really decided to move to Millbrook, if she really made that life-altering choice—who would come with her to Queens to pack her things and turn over her keys? Would it be James? Maxine? Her chest gushed with love for these people. She couldn’t believe how lucky she felt.
But try as she might, she couldn’t fully picture herself back in Queens, smiling as she hauled the last of her things down the stairs. She didn’t want to count her chickens before they hatched, she supposed. That, or she was too accustomed to bad luck to imagine anything good.
They sang for nearly an hour, their voices rising and falling, until exhaustion overtook them.
“That was wonderful,” James said after a long pause, clasping his hands together. Tears glinted and caught the light from James’s Christmas tree. “It is only through communion and song that we become stronger,” he added. “I feel strong tonight.”
Everyone in the living room nodded, speechless. It was true. There was a magic to singing together that made you forget whatever woes awaited you outside the house.
But not long after the caroling finished, Carmen confessed she was too tired to stay out longer. Elena was oddly glad, as she wanted to get out of public, put on her pajama pants, and watch a movie. She wanted to stop thinking so much. James packed them a Tupperware of cookies and urged Elena to text him when they got home.
“Thanks for coming,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, just as she’d kissed him.
She wondered if he was embarrassed that everyone knew they were falling in love.
She didn’t care if he was.
Back at home, Carmen went to her bedroom to change and met Elena in the living room, where Elena poured her mother a glass of non-alcoholic wine and herself a glass of real wine. They sat on the sofa and watched the snow fall gently outside. Elena burned to know what was going on in her mother’s mind, what she could remember of the past few months. Would it upset her to ask about Sam, about Cranberry Cove, about all that mess?
For a little while, they sat in silence. Elena dared to open her phone, if only to check the time. This was a big mistake. A notification popped up from CNN, with an announcement: Timothy Linklater Named Top Journalist of 2025. Elena got to her feet, although she thought she might faint. There on her screen was his face, the face she’d tried and failed to forget over the years. Handsome Timothy seemed to grow more good-looking in the Syrian sun as time passed. In the photograph, he gazed out a window at the war-torn desert. He had a pencil tucked behind his ear. He looked like the perfect portrait of an American hero. What a terrible man.
He’d stolen everything from Elena. Had he planned it all along? And who else had he stolen from along the way? Elena imagined herself in a long line of other journalists and sources,all of whom Timothy had taken advantage of on the way to this CNN profile. She shivered.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Carmen’s voice was sweeter than Elena had ever heard it. She beckoned for Elena to sit on the sofa next to her, and as though Elena were eight rather than forty-two, she wrapped her arms around her and tucked her chin on Elena’s shoulder. Elena let out a sob, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Honey, you can tell me,” Carmen breathed. “At least try. I’ve been through a great deal, you know. I remember what it was like to be your age.”
Elena sniffed, thinking,You knew what it was like to be in love and happy and fulfilled at forty-two. You don’t know what it’s like to be me.
But instead, she said, “The stories that came out of Syria about me weren’t true.”
Carmen snuggled closer and wrapped a blanket around them both. “They said you did terrible things,” Carmen whispered. “And I knew in my heart you didn’t do them. You couldn’t have. You’re your grandmother’s granddaughter. You’re my daughter. You’re a journalist in your heart of hearts.”
