One More for Christmas

Should she admit that she knew almost nothing about her daughter’s business? She’d done an internet search, of course. The website was impressive. The testimonials equally good. Really Festive Holidays.

Who would have thought that would be a sound business proposition?

“My daughter will be able to help—I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so. Brodie is my strong one. He does what has to be done. But I know when he’s hurting. He’s pinning a lot of hope on your daughter. He showed me her website. The photography alone made me want to book something myself. You must be very proud of her.”

“I am proud.”

“Did she always love Christmas as a child?”

Gayle put her cup down. “Yes.”

And she’d never understood it. Her girls had imagined it to be a mystical, magical time of year. Gayle saw it as part of a commercial conspiracy designed to tempt innocent people to spend a fortune in order to create the type of holiday celebration showcased by the media. Buy this and your Christmas will be perfect. Life was rarely dreamy, and you did a child no favors by pretending that it was. The one gift she hadn’t wanted to give her girls was that of unrealistic expectations.

She still remembered the moment when her rosy view of life had been exploded by reality.

But apparently there were people prepared to pay what seemed to Gayle to be outrageous sums of money to experience her daughter’s vision of a romantic winter vacation.

She’d looked at the website and almost been tempted to book a week visiting the European Christmas markets, an activity that would normally make her want to run fast in the opposite direction.

Mary stood up and cleared the cups. “If you don’t normally spend Christmas together, this trip must be extra special for you.”

“It is.” Extra special and extra stressful.

“Well, we’ll do what we can to make it memorable. Do you work, Gayle?”

Gayle thought about the award in her office—that wretched award—the book sales, her enviable list of clients. Her agent had called her several times in the past few weeks to let her know that her new book was outselling her last.

For once, she had no desire to talk about her work. “I run a boutique consulting business.” It was clear from Mary’s interested expression that she had no idea what that would involve but was too polite to say so.

“That sounds impressive.”

“Not really.” Normally she’d be asking questions and helping Mary examine and possibly redefine her life. But right now it seemed to her that Mary was far more confident about her choices than Gayle was.

There was no chance to say anything more because at that moment Ella walked into the room.

Gayle tensed but Mary gave a quick smile.

“You must be hungry after being out in the snow. I’ll fetch you a cooked breakfast.” She made a rapid, tactful exit. Gayle almost begged her to stay. She wasn’t sure she could handle more questions at the moment.

Ella hesitated. “Good breakfast?”

“Delicious.”

“I’m sorry if my questions made you feel uncomfortable, Mom.” She sat down in the empty chair next to Gayle. “You seemed upset and I wanted you to feel able to talk about it, but I understand that not everyone wants to do that. And given that I didn’t talk to you about Michael, it’s hypocritical of me to expect you to do the same about Dad. I’m sure there are many things that you want to keep private, and I’m going to stop asking you. But I want you to know that if you want to talk, then I’m here to listen.”

Gayle was totally wrong-footed.

How did Ella do that so easily? She’d apologized, unreservedly, for making Gayle feel uncomfortable. And perhaps her questions were understandable. Both her daughters deserved answers. But how, when you’d covered something up for such a long time, did you begin to tell the truth?

Samantha

Samantha sat in the suffocating intimacy of the car, gripping her phone.

She kept her gaze fixed forward, but avoiding awkward eye contact did nothing to dilute the tension. Did he feel it, too? Was he nervous to be sitting next to a self-confessed sexually frustrated woman?

Or maybe he wasn’t tense. Maybe he was feeling pity that her sex life was so unfulfilling. Maybe he was wondering if it was her fault.