“Maybe that’s where I messed up. And I don’t want to repeat the same mistake this time.”
Her only response is a quiet hum as she rubs her face on my sweater.
Chloe belongs here—with me, on this farm. I’ve never felt more certain about anything.
It gives me clarity I didn’t know I was even chasing.
We’ve skirted around the past and our feelings, trying to do everything practically. It’s all been backwards. Especially getting married without even knowing where we stand, while getting to know each other again.
But clarity brings another thought to mind: this is real. And the stakes to this “fake marriage” just shot way, way up.
When Owen hears we’re decorating, he invites himself. He was always underfoot on “Decoration Day,” Mom’s favorite holiday before the actual holiday.
He always loved decorating every nook and cranny with her. As I watch him light up, I wonder how much my grinchy attitude has affected my siblings.
Maybe Chloe and Phoebe joined this family at precisely the right time.
Mom always had a checklist of must-dos on “Decorating Day”—movies on, cookies baking, ugly sweaters mandatory. It was a whole event in our house.
She also had a particular recipe. I remember helping her mix the dough and cover the bowl—an old cherry red Pyrex with holly leaves. I probably annoyed her as often as I asked when it would be ready to roll.
I’d give anything to watch her roll dough one more time.
“You okay?” Chloe asks, sliding beside me, a hand on my back. “I feel like I’ve asked that a lot lately, but you seem far away. No one will blame you if you need to step out and take a breath.”
The weight from our earlier conversation is gone, and I’m grateful for it, especially when this part of the day carries a different heaviness.
“Help me find a recipe?” I ask.
“One of your mom’s?”
I nod, and she hooks her arm through mine, pulling me close so she can rest her head on my shoulder.
“We’re going to make your mom proud today. Should we dig and find her eggnog recipe, too?”
I angle my head to take her in. “How did I get so lucky?”
She tries to dodge the compliment. “Maybe I want it for me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
I could ask her to check the cabinet beneath the coffeepot. There’s a good chance that’s where it is.
But I already know it isn’t.
Or maybe it is—and I’m choosing the more challenging route anyway, because I’m tired of living around the edges of my own house.
“Come with me. It’s upstairs,” I admit, swallowing the tightness in my throat. “In the attic.”
Chloe stills. Her eyes search mine, careful, like she’s reading the weather for a storm.
“We can use something else,” she says quickly. “I can make hot chocolate or snowman cookies. We don’t need to?—”
“No,” I cut in, softer than I mean to. “It’s okay. I want to do this.”
At least I think I do. Ever since Chloe wandered up there and I smelled that mix of cinnamon and clove, and whatever else was in that magical mix Mom always made, I want to be brave enough to explore her memory.
