One to Hold (One to Hold 1)

My mother was visiting the day my divorce papers arrived. We both sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee when the postman rang the bell. He carried a package wrapped in brown paper and a long, legal-sized envelope along with assorted letters and bills. I handed Mom the package to open as I pulled the brown envelope apart. She let out an exclamation of delight, but my face fell. In her hands was a box of cupcakes from Bea’s Fancy Cakes, but in mine were several long, legal-sized sheets. At the very top of the first page, in bold, all-capital letters were the words FINAL DECREE.

Despite everything that had happened, all the pain and humiliation, a sick lump of failure tightened in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down and blinked to her frowning eyes. She slowly lowered her happy gift.

“Oh, Mel. How are you doing really?” she asked in her best psychiatrist’s voice.

“I’m relieved, of course,” I exhaled, trying to smile. “But I confess, seeing my name there in black and white followed by DIVORCE in all caps…” I shrugged. “I can’t help remembering how optimistic I was on our wedding day. I thought my life would be so different.”

To her credit, my mother only nodded. Once I’d returned to Wilmington, she’d dropped all suggestions that I try to work things out with Sloan. She immediately switched to supportive mode, and any indications that I might have made a mistake were gone. I assumed she reserved those types of urgings for the pre-divorce discussions, and now that it was over, so were they. Either way, I was thankful. Yet at the same time, I could sense she knew there was more I wasn’t telling her.

“Here,” she said, putting the package on the counter and going to my refrigerator. She opened the door and pulled out a bottle of champagne I’d stuck in the back—in case of celebration. I’d read a quote that said sometimes just having a bottle of champagne in the fridge could be a reason to celebrate. That was two months ago.

“It’s time to open this guy,” she said.

“What?” My brows pulled together in disbelief.

“We’re celebrating. It’s a new chapter in your life.” I watched as she twisted the wire basket off the cork and then popped it.

“Talk about pendulum swings.”

Mom shook her head. “You were very different when you got back home three months ago. I didn’t say anything at the time, but you had a definite look in your eyes.”

I pulled two flutes down from the cabinet and placed them in front of her to fill.

“Was it the look of a crazy person?”

“We don’t use that term in the profession,” she gently scolded as she poured. We waited for the fizz to settle, then she held my glass out. “You looked like you’d been through a long and difficult battle.”

I took the sparkling wine from her. “I had,” I said softly.

“You looked nearly broken,” her voice strained. “It hurt so much to see the remnants of that kind of pain on your face.”

My mom’s eyes were brown, but she had my dark curls. Our eyes met in a warm understanding, and she stepped forward. “I believe you did the right thing,” she said, pulling me into a hug. “I’m sorry I ever questioned you.”

For a moment, I relaxed in her healing embrace. She didn’t know the full story; I didn’t want her to know the full story. It was enough that we were here. It was more than enough. My head rested on her shoulder, and I held her waist.

A few minutes passed and I stepped back, giving her a smile. I sniffed and wiped my eyes. “Thanks, Mom.”

Then she clinked her glass to mine. “Here’s to a better future.”

I smiled and agreed, taking a sip.

Mom stayed through dinner, and we had one of our best visits since I’d married Sloan. It was a cold night, and she pulled on one of my sweaters. I lit the gas log, and we sat close together in front of the fireplace sipping coffee and eating the luscious cinnamon-bun cupcakes.

They were warm and comforting and perfectly timed, considering what else arrived with them. Not only that, they were cupcakes like only Aunt Bea could make—moist and buttery cake with a slightly spicy cinnamon ribbon swirling through the middle. On top was a deliciously crusty buttercrème frosting that was the exact flavor of cinnamon bun icing. We were both swooning from the first bite.

“None of my clients send me gifts like this,” Mom teased, finishing her small confection.

“Isn’t Bea the best?” I agreed, taking another nibble. “She can’t figure out the Internet, but I convinced her I could maintain her account from here. And I still get my seasonal treats.”

Mom placed her hand over mine and rubbed. “I’m glad to hear Baltimore wasn’t all bad.”

I nodded. “There are great people there. Bea was one of the best.”

Aunt Bea might not understand how small the world had become, but she did know how to show kindness from any distance. Her gifts went a long way toward restoring my faith in both humanity and in one’s ability to recover from any setback.

“I need a tree,” I said, taking a sip of

coffee and hoping to transition the conversation away from the past. Christmas was coming, and Mom loved decorating.