Mia swallowed. “What the heck,” she said, the phrase soft, tired, and almost resigned. “Let’s do it. I haven’t seen William in a few years, and it’s about time we visited him in his hometown.”
Relief washed through Eve so fast it almost made her dizzy. “All right,” she said, and kept her voice steady because Mia needed steadiness. “We’ll talk through logistics after the pageant.”
Mia nodded, but the nod looked like something she gave with effort, as if she was asking her body to cooperate. She moved toward the entryway with purpose, as Lila bounded after them and they stepped out of the house.
Eve watched without staring as Mia locked the door.
She pulled the door inward, testing the seal, her shoulders tight beneath her sweater. She turned the lock three times, then a fourth, then a fifth, each click neat and exact, as if she could build safety from repetition.
“Mom, it’s locked,” Lila said gently, taking her mother’s hand. “Are we going in your car, Aunt Eve?”
“Yes,” Eve said as they walked to her car parked in the driveway. She had to admire how well Lila had handled that.
Eve had known Mia since Mia was eight years old, since the day her mother, Mary, arrived in Los Angeles with a little girl who looked too composed for her age and too watchful for a child. Back then, Mary had been exhausted but determined, a brilliant surgeon with an iron spine and a tremor of fear she tried to hide. Mia had carried her own quiet compulsions in those early months, rituals that helped her feel in control when everything familiar had been stripped away. Mary had gotten her help. Therapy. Tools. Structure. It had worked. Mia had grown into the kind of adult who saved lives with steady hands and a steady mind.
Until two days before Christmas.
The night that child died on Mia’s operating table, the old patterns had crept back in, small enough to hide from anyone who did not know what to look for. A little extra checking. A little extra counting. A little extra gripping of the locket she always wore, like it could anchor her to the present.
It was one more reason Eve had pushed for Mia’s leave.
At their hospital, Mia’s record spoke for itself, the kind of surgical outcome history people whispered about with awe. Mia didn’t miss things. Mia didn’t freeze. Mia didn’t falter. They called her the miracle surgeon.
Yet the crack was there now, hairline but real, and Eve felt it like a fault line under a beautiful house.
Mia was unraveling at the edges.
And Eve knew enough about the mind to recognize what happened when a perfectionist who had always relied on control began losing faith in herself.
2
JULIE CHRISTMAS
St. Augustine, Florida
The Christmas Inn sat on Anastasia Island like it had grown there, as if the ocean breeze and the old streets had shaped it over decades into something welcoming and stubbornly bright. The holidays had left their mark on every corner. Garlands draped the banister. White lights traced the windows. A wreath hung in the dining room, its pine needles fresh enough to scent the air.
Julie Christmas sat at one of the dining tables with a cup of tea between her hands, the steam brushing her face. She had claimed these quiet minutes for herself before the day demanded her again. The Inn had been full through Christmas, laughter and suitcases and last-minute requests, and even with the rush easing, Julie never relaxed completely. Not when the Inn relied on rhythm, and she was the one who kept it.
She lifted the cup for another sip just as footsteps crossed the wood floor behind her.
“Mom?” Jack’s voice carried that familiar blend of warmth and purpose, the tone of a son who had grown up inside this place and knew every creak in the boards.
Julie looked up to see him in the doorway, phone in hand. He held it out. “It’s for you.”
Julie’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh goodness, did I leave my phone again?”
Jack’s mouth curved. “You did. But in the office this time.”
“Who is it?” Julie’s voice dropped as she looked curiously at her son.
“It’s William,” Jack answered her.
Julie’s heart gave a small, pleased jump. William Moore, the best friend who had slowly stolen her heart over the years after her husband passed away.
“Hello, William,” Julie answered, and let a smile soften her voice. “Merry Christmas. I hope you’re not calling to cancel our night out?”
“Merry Christmas, Julie,” William replied. His voice was as bright and cheery as ever. “No, of course not.”
