Margot exhaled, delighted. “Wonderful. I’ll send over the client brief and timelines shortly. And just so you’re aware—holiday commissions book very early with our clientele, but neverthisearly. This is quite a good sign.”
Lauren swallowed.
Next year’s Christmas. And someone was trying to claim hernow.
“Thank you,” she breathed. “I’ll look for the email.”
“Perfect. And Lauren?” Margot added warmly. “Congratulations.”
When she hung up, the office hummed with its usual morning rhythm—phones ringing, papers shuffling, laughter by the coffee machine.
Lauren stared down at her notepad.
Christmas tree commission
She underlined it once.
Then she drew a crooked heart beside it.
CHAPTER 50
Tom
The house was quiet.
Linda and Gerald had gone to bed an hour ago. The only light came from the lamp over the craft table, spilling a warm circle across the clutter: spools of wire, jars of beads, the mangled necklace from his first attempt coiled in judgment.
Tom rolled his shoulders. He still had a tiny cut on his thumb where the wire had bit him last time.
The first necklace was a disaster—uneven, ugly, desperate. He loved it. He loved it more than the last dozen houses he’d designed. But it wasn’t good enough to give to Lauren.
He laid out the tools in a neat line. Measured the wire twice before cutting.
The wire coiled more smoothly this time. His hands didn’t fight it; they followed it.
He wasn’t thinking about symmetry or design anymore. He just… worked.
He threaded a bead onto the wire—a pale green one. It caught the light in a way that reminded him of her eyes when she laughed.
Then another. And another.
He used to think her crafts were chaotic. Unplanned. Wasteful.
Now he could see how much thought hid inside that chaos—how she found balance.
The necklace began to take shape. Still messy.
But better.
He sat back and looked at it.
It wasn’t good. But itwasbetter.
He picked up the old necklace and held it next to the new one. The contrast made him smile. He was improving.
He thought about Lauren’s hands, steady and sure, guiding thread through fabric, smoothing paper, painting edges. The years of repetition behind that grace.
He wasn’t there yet. But he was learning.
