by Olivia Miles
She looked at Tess, realizing how tired her sister looked, how thin, and Carrie knew then that even though Tess might not want her here, this was where she was needed.
This Christmas was going to be special. One way or another. That would be her silent promise to Tess. That would be her apology. And that would make everything better. For both of them.
It had to.
Chapter Eight
Tess
Tess could sense that Carrie was giving her a funny look as they finished depositing her rather alarming number of bags in the front hall. Was it the hair? The lack of makeup? The fact that she had aged about five years in the ten months since Andrew had left this world?
“Phoebe,” she said as she closed the door, securing the house from the cold wind. “Why don’t you show Aunt Carrie to one of the spare rooms?”
One of the spare rooms. A reminder that this house was empty, not full. It was meant for a family. Meant for more than one child, really. It had four bedrooms and a third floor that wasn’t yet finished. She’d mentally assigned the small room at the back of the house as the next child’s room. The baby’s room. Only there never was another baby and now there never would be. Instead it served as a makeshift study, with a desk and pull-out couch. A spare room. But to Tess, it served as a reminder of a dream that wouldn’t come true, and a future that no longer felt certain.
She watched as Phoebe and Carrie disappeared up the stairs, Phoebe carrying some of the shopping bags containing the wrapped presents, chattering on about what might be inside while Carrie maneuvered her luggage. It was too much for one person, really, and it should have required two trips. But Carrie seemed to have a system. Or maybe she just knew better than to ask for Tess’s help. And Tess didn’t offer any. Instead, she remained at the bottom of the stairs, wishing that for once, things had gone as planned and that Jules had arrived when she said she would.
Now, she had hours to wait until her youngest sister arrived, leaving her in the house with Carrie, their unspoken words, and the memory of the last conversation they’d had. Even with Carrie upstairs, her chest still tightened with anger that wouldn’t fade with a conversation or an apology, not that she was yet to receive one. Nope, her sister seemed determined to pretend that nothing was wrong.
Tess’s jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. There was only one thing she could do when she got like this.
She walked into the kitchen and pulled out her baking gear. Cupcake tins. Mixing bowl. Flour. Sugar. Unsalted butter that she preferred at room temperature. She didn’t need her recipe box—not anymore, at least. The base of her cupcake recipe was simple, passed down and tweaked and then tweaked some more as she experimented with different flavors. Today she decided to make a simple red velvet base, something festive for Phoebe’s sake. Something she could offer up to her sisters, because other than casseroles in the freezer, there was little else she could give them right now—not emotionally, not even physically, she thought, her stomach tightening as her mind wandered to her account balance. She’d bought everything on Phoebe’s list for Santa. How couldn’t she? But now she thought of what she might return, what Phoebe might not notice was missing. There was enough, for now, but soon…
She washed her hands, letting the warm water run for longer than usual. Until she heard back from the job, hope sprung. Until she heard back, she wouldn’t panic. Except that it was hard not to panic when she thought of how long she had waited for that one interview to come along. If it took just as long to get another call, then the school year would be nearly over, and summer break would be upon them, and…
And her heart was beating so fast now that she had to take a calming breath and remind herself to wait. Wait to hear back from the interview.
The standing mixer had been a wedding gift—over a decade old, but she’d taken such care of it that it could have been new. She added her wet ingredients and turned it on. The whirr of the machine instantly calmed her, just like it always did, even when she was just a kid not that much older than Phoebe, using her mother’s handheld beaters. When, like Phoebe, her entire world felt uncertain.
Only she didn’t want Phoebe to feel the way she had as a child. She wanted more for her daughter. Better for her daughter. She always had. Always would.
It was the only thing that got her out of bed most days, even though she wondered how life could ever be much better for Phoebe. She’d tried. And somehow, events had turned against her. Like her, Phoebe had lost her father. Only Andrew hadn’t chosen to leave them.
“Are you making cupcakes?” Phoebe bounded into the room, her braids flying. “Can I help fill the tins?”
“Filling the tins” was Phoebe’s code for licking the remaining batter from the bowl when she was finished.
Tess gave her a knowing smile. “Only if you promise to actually fill them this time and not leave a cupcake worth of batter in the bottom in the hopes of eating it. You know you’ll get a tummy ache from that. I’d be a bad mommy if I let you eat raw eggs.” Bacteria. Salmonella. Visions of Phoebe spending the holidays in the hospital filled her mind. She was being ridiculous, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. You could never be too careful.
“Did your mommy let you eat raw eggs?” Phoebe asked as she climbed up onto a stool at the large island that had been one of the greatest appeals of this home, along with the carved wood banister and the stained-glass window at the second-floor landing. She and Andrew had made an offer the very day they’d seen the house, and moved in six weeks later, armed with paint cans and rollers and smiles and dreams.
Her heart ached when she thought of how much they’d loved this house. She couldn’t leave it. And she couldn’t lose it.
And until she heard back on the job, she would not panic.
Tess measured out the flour and began sifting it. She realized that Phoebe was still waiting for an answer to her question.
“Yes. Grandma let me eat raw eggs.” Her mother had let her do many things she’d never in a million years let Phoebe do, like ride her bike to town without adult supervision on the main roads, and, of course, without a helmet. Like try a few sips of beer from the cans she kept on hand for Tess’s father, back when he was still at least sometimes coming home at night. Like letting Tess disappear without saying where she was going when she was Phoebe’s age or younger, giving only a promise of returning by dinner, eventually not even demanding that much. By then, dinner was the last thing on her mind, forgotten about when she was in her bedroom in one of her dark moods, or immersed in the custom furniture pieces she made on commission: end tables, bassinettes, and dining tables with turned legs. There was always cereal, she’d made sure of that. Whether it was eaten or not went unnoticed, as many things did.
Her mother never knew about the time that Tess, about twelve then, got dared into trying to swim across the lake, how she’d gotten a cramp halfway out, and didn’t think she would make it back to shore. How it was Carrie, always the more athletic of the sisters, who swam out and got her.
Tess pinched her lips.
“You ate raw eggs? Disgusting!” Phoebe wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue.
Tess laughed. A fleeting moment of complete distraction. She’d take it. “Not an actual raw egg, silly. But in batter, yes. I certainly ate my share.”
And yet she was still here.
And Andrew wasn’t.
She focused on the cupcakes before her mind ran into dark corners and stayed there. Baking was the one thing she and her mother had in common. One peaceful activity that kept her mother grounded, where, outside of her craft, she seemed to shine. Whenever Tess saw the darkness encroaching, when she would knock on her mother’s door and get no answer, or see the mound shape of her body still in bed, under the covers when she came home from school, she would take it upon herself to bake all on her own, pretending that her mother was at her side, rifling through her recipe box, scooping out sugar, tasting their homemade creations. She’d share them with her sisters, and leave on
e outside of her mother’s bedroom door.
“Where is Carrie?” Tess asked Phoebe in a low voice as she inspected the batter for any lumps.
“In the spare room,” Phoebe said.
Good, Tess thought. With any luck, she’d stay there.
Still, as she added the remaining ingredients and watched the batter evolve, she felt a twinge of something she couldn’t place. Nostalgia? Regret? Sadness? Maybe all of the above. Her sister was upstairs in her house. It was Christmas. It shouldn’t be this way.
It should be very different. For many reasons.
Carrie eventually came downstairs. Tess supposed they both knew this moment had to happen eventually. The cupcakes were baked and cooling on the rack. Phoebe had gone off to her room to make some paper ornaments to decorate her room. Tess was finishing up a peppermint butter cream that she thought would complement the red velvet cupcakes. She’d crush some candy canes on the top when she was finished. Phoebe would love it.
“Baking?” Carrie hovered in the opening to the kitchen, as if she wasn’t exactly sure she was welcome over the threshold. Technically, she wasn’t. Tess hadn’t invited her here. In fact, the last time they’d spoken, Tess had made it clear that Carrie was never again welcome here.
And yet here she was.
In fairness, she looked just as uncomfortable as Tess felt. Pale, with her hair pulled back and her eyes wide. Her fingers played with the edges of her sleeves. A nervous habit she’d had since…Well, since their dad left, Tess supposed.
For a moment, her heart softened. Just a little.
Tess shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
It was something she shared with her mother all on her own. Carrie wasn’t interested and Jules was too young. It felt special, to stand out, to have something in common, and to know that no matter what else happened, they always had their cakes and pies and cookie baking days. Their good days.
Slowly, Carrie walked closer to the island where Tess stood. She eyed the unfrosted cupcakes eagerly. When they were younger, Carrie would always be the first to taste one, even before Jules—even before Tess. Tess didn’t mind this; she’d actually appreciated it. Carrie was her number one taste tester, her trusted source for feedback when Tess experimented with new flavor combinations. Some were wins (like the lemon meringue cupcake that she always took to summer barbeques) and others were flops (really, zucchini had no business being in a cupcake).
All three Campbell sisters were creative in their own ways. Their mother had made sure of that, always keeping the house stocked with books, fabric, markers and colored pencils, plain paper and printed paper, yarn and thread, and for Tess, butter and sugar. Maybe it was just a way to keep them busy, or maybe it was a glimmer of their mother’s true spirit.
When a recipe didn’t turn out exactly as she’d wanted, Carrie would offer up suggestions—something to cut the sweetness, or a dash of more vanilla. Tess always heeded Carrie’s advice. She relied on her. Always did. Always could.
Until last February.
She set her jaw as she transferred the butter cream to a piping bag and began swirling the frosting onto each cupcake.
“You make that look so easy,” Carrie observed.
“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Tess said tightly. Lately, more practice than ever. When Phoebe slept in, Tess baked. She dropped off her cupcakes at class parties and bake sales, at nursing homes and neighbors’ houses. Her friend Natalie had a freezer full and admitted once that in a pinch, she’d offered some up for a class party at the twins’ preschool. Tess didn’t mind. She’d been flattered.
She glanced up to see her sister staring longingly at the tray. “Go on and have one,” she said, somewhat halfheartedly. After all, it wasn’t a peace offering. If anyone needed to extend an olive branch, it was Carrie.
“Thanks,” Carrie said and helped herself to the cupcake on the end of the wire tray, careful not to upset any of the others.
Tess waited until Carrie had taken a bite, closing her eyes while she chewed, just like she did when she was a little girl. Back then, she’d get frosting on her nose and lips and laugh at the mess.
Tess felt her chest pull at the memory. At so many memories. It seemed all she had left anymore were those memories.
Right. No thinking about any of that. Things had changed. Carrie had changed.
Tess had changed, too. She’d been forced to. She adjusted the piping bag in her hands and finished topping the remaining cupcakes.
“I’ve missed these cupcakes,” Carrie said, licking her fingers.
A filthy habit, Tess thought. Something she never allowed Phoebe to do but something their mother had never instilled in them. She resisted the urge to pluck a sheet of paper towel from the roll and hand it to her sister. Carrie was a grown woman. She knew what she was doing.
Which was exactly why Tess couldn’t forgive her for not coming to Andrew’s funeral.
It had been a choice. A conscious, deliberate choice. And all choices had consequences.
Her mind flashed to the last time she’d seen Andrew, the quick kiss he’d planted on her cheek as he headed out the door to his car, into the night. It was a cold night. Too cold for snow. A front had moved through after the warm-up the day before.
The slopes would be icy, Tess remembered warning him, but he’d just shrugged her concerns away. He wanted to go.
She closed her eyes for a moment and then, because she saw no alternative other than to go upstairs into her bedroom and crawl under the covers and never come out, she walked to the pantry and pulled out the candy canes that Phoebe had dropped into her cart the last time they’d been to the grocery store.
“I missed these cupcakes,” Carrie said again, her voice quieter this time. “But…I’ve missed you too.”
Tess stared into the contents of the pantry for a moment and then slammed the cabinet doors closed. She averted her gaze from Carrie as she walked back to the counter. Her rolling pin was in the drawer under the oven. She grabbed it now and turned to her sister. Carrie eyed the wooden rolling pin warily.
Tess nearly smiled at that.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Carrie,” she said heavily. She felt weary. Exhausted. Sad. She wished in many ways that Carrie had said nothing at all, that they had gone on talking about cupcakes, frosting. The weather. Anything but something real. Anything but something painful.
“I’m…I’m sorry, Tess.”
Tess started shelling candy canes from their wrappers and tossing them into a storage bag. Carrie’s voice was soft and pleading and filled with regret. She couldn’t look at her sister. She was afraid if she did that she might cry, that all the hurt and pain that had been tied up inside her would come spilling out.
But most of all, Tess was afraid that she would forgive Carrie. And as much as she needed her sister right now, just as much as she’d needed her that awful day last winter, she couldn’t forgive her. She just couldn’t.
“Sorry that you didn’t come to the funeral? Or sorry that you weren’t there for me the one time I needed you the most? Or sorry that we aren’t close anymore?”
“All of it!” Carrie cried. “I’m sorry for all of it!” Carrie’s face crumpled and Tess felt herself waver.
Tess shook her head. She didn’t want to hear it. It wouldn’t change anything. She moved the bag of candy canes to a cutting board and picked up the rolling pin. She gave the candies a good hard whack. And then another. She was aware that she probably looked half deranged, that maybe Carrie was even a little scared of her. Well, good!
“Where is Lucas, anyway?” Tess paused for a moment to ask. She looked Carrie straight in the eye, communicating what they both knew. Carrie hadn’t been there for Tess because she wasn’t willing to leave Lucas. Not for a funeral. Not for the aftermath. Not even for a weekend.
Carrie’s gaze shifted. “He had to work. A big case.”
“That’s never been a reason for you to leave New York before,” Tess pointed out.
Carrie’s cheeks were blotchy now. She set down the remainder of her cupcake. “Well, I wanted to spend this Christmas with my family. With my sisters. I…I wanted to be here for your first Christmas since…”
Carrie trailed off, and Tess didn’t finish that sentence for her. Instead she sprinkled the cupcakes with the crushed candy canes, stood back, and admired them.
“Well,” she said, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost time to pick up Jules.”
Never in a million years did she think that her youngest sister could be the answer to her problems, but life had a funny way of readjusting your expectations, she’d learned.
Chapter Nine
Jules
Jules wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing that neither of her sisters had texted or called since Carrie was scheduled to arrive at the Winter Lake station. At first, she thought this was a bad thing. Perhaps they’d been fighting the entire time. Perhaps they would still be fighting; perhaps they would not even take a break to pick her up from the station.
But then she thought that maybe the silence was a good thing. She resisted the urge to reach out to them, to check in and make sure that everything was okay. This wasn’t her conflict and she didn’t want to make it her problem. She wanted to be the neutral party, and she was fairly certain that Tess would not be ready to hear this, but she could see both sides of the argument. Tess had experienced a family tragedy. And Carrie, much as she wanted to be there, couldn’t just cancel all her plans at the last minute.
It was messy. It was life. And it was hard.
Life was hard. In many ways, it always had been. She’d expected it to get easier the older she got, but she was finding it was just the opposite. Bigger problems. Bigger decisions.
Jules put her phone into her bag and sighed. Nothing but silence from Aaron as well, not that she’d reached out to him either. She couldn’t tell him what he wanted to hear, and until she could, well, he didn’t want to hear from her, did he?
