Home for the Holidays
Page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Sara Richardson
Reading group guide copyright © 2020 by Sara Richardson and Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Cover design and illustration by Daniela Medina
Cover photography © Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First edition: September 2020
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Richardson, Sara (Romance fiction writer), author.
Title: Home for the holidays / Sara Richardson.
Description: First edition. | New York : Forever, 2020.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020014839 | ISBN 9781538718216 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781538718223 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3618.I3452 H66 2020 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020014839
ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1821-6 (trade paperback), 978-1-5387-1822-3 (ebook)
E3-20200814-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two: Dahlia
Chapter Three: Rose
Chapter Four: Magnolia
Chapter Five: Dahlia
Chapter Six: Magnolia
Chapter Seven: Rose
Chapter Eight: Magnolia
Chapter Nine: Rose
Chapter Ten: Dahlia
Chapter Eleven: Magnolia
Chapter Twelve: Rose
Chapter Thirteen: Dahlia
Chapter Fourteen: Magnolia
Chapter Fifteen: Rose
Chapter Sixteen: Dahlia
Chapter Seventeen: Magnolia
Chapter Eighteen: Rose
Chapter Nineteen: Dahlia
Chapter Twenty: Rose
Chapter Twenty-One: Magnolia
Chapter Twenty-Two: Dahlia
Chapter Twenty-Three: Rose
Chapter Twenty-Four: Magnolia
Chapter Twenty-Five: Dahlia
Chapter Twenty-Six: Rose
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Magnolia
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Dahlia
Discover More
Reading Group Guide A Letter from the Author
Questions for Readers
About the Author
Praise for Sara Richardson
Also by Sara Richardson
For my beloved aunties.
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Chapter One
Dearest Dahlia, Magnolia, and Rose,
I know we haven’t spoken in many years, but I’m sending you these packages in hopes that we might finally reconnect after all this time. When your mother decided to stop visiting me, I suppose she was doing what she thought best. Maybe she thought things would be easier for all of us. It hasn’t been for me. I can hardly believe it’s been eighteen years since we last played in that old camping trailer you took over here at the inn. It still sits near the pond, full of your old dress-up clothes and jewelry and the many stuffed animals we invited to our parties. Oh, what fun we always had when you would come visit. Do you remember? The fancy afternoon teas and the cookie baking, and the magical Christmas extravaganza we would host at the inn every year? Those memories are some of the very best moments of my life, and I hope you think of them fondly, too.
As another Christmas draws near, I have been thinking more about you, about the love and the laughter you brought into this old place. I know you’ve all grown into beautiful young women, but not much has changed at the Juniper Inn. All of the cozy cottages remain tucked among the pines, which are already covered with a healthy dusting of snow. The mountain peaks still stand guard to the west, looking almost like an ice castle hovering on the horizon. You three always swore the inn was really part of a fairy world, even though no one else could see the magic as clearly as you girls could. I always saw it though. I still see the magic. Even as it’s aged, there’s always been something enchanting about this place. Do you remember how we would sing and dance around the Christmas tree? How we would bundle up in soft woolly layers and gather outside on Christmas Eve for s’mores at the campfire? I wanted to remind you of those simple, cozy days, so I’m sending you each a piece of Christmas from the Juniper Inn.
Dahlia, for you I chose the snowflake music box that always sat on the mantel. You used to wind it up over and over again, singing along to “Let It Snow!” at the top of your little lungs. When it broke the year you turned seven, you spent hours working to fix it—making it sing sweetly again. Even back then there was no problem you couldn’t solve.
Magnolia, for you I chose my Christmas tree rolling pin. What fun we had baking all those cookies for the hordes that would come to the Christmas extravaganza! You had such a gift for baking with love, and I’m thrilled to see you’ve followed one of your greatest passions.
Rose…sweet little Rosie…for you I chose the angel that sat atop the Christmas tree. You used to call her the princess angel, and spent hours admiring every detail of her dress and the flowered halo circling her blond curls. You always had such a sense of style, my dear. It’s no wonder you’ve gotten to where you are today, starting your own design firm. I’m sure your upcoming wedding to Gregory Cunningham will be the most beautiful event Savannah has ever seen. (I know how to use the Internet!)
Time passes so incredibly quickly. I remember the days you were all born. You have grown into beautiful young women, and I am nearly bursting with pride over each of you and your wonderful accomplishments. Though I haven’t been part of your lives for a very long time, I still love you as though you are my own daughters and I hope these keepsakes will spark memories of our Christmases together, just as they did mine.
I must admit I’m not only writing to reminisce. I am also hoping that you will come to see me, to spend Christmas with me at the place we all loved so. I know you are all busy—Dahlia with your children, Magnolia with your bakery, and Rose with your upcoming wedding, but I would love to see you again, my dears. I would love to share the magic of Christmas with you one last time. Please come. It would mean so very much to me.
Love always,
Aunt Sassy
Chapter Two
Dahlia
One last Christmas? Oh, God.
Dahlia leaned into the counter where the open package sat, the music box playing an out-of-tune rendition of “Let It Snow!” Aunt Sassy only had one more Christmas? She was dying? It seemed impossible. She couldn’t quite imagine the vibrant redheaded beauty as a
sick old woman. Dahlia set down the letter and lifted the dainty music box so she could admire it closely. The sparkly silver snowflakes now turned slower than they once had, and the song skipped. Parts of the glitter had chipped away from the snowy base, but somehow the music box’s flaws seemed appropriate. Relatable, even. The years had chipped away some of her sparkle, too.
Especially this last year.
Dahlia turned the box over to examine the underside. When Rose had accidentally knocked the music box off the mantel the Christmas she’d turned three Dahlia was sure her heart had shattered, too. The dancing snowflakes were one of the most beautiful things she’d ever held in her hands—something she looked forward to seeing each year. Her aunt had assured her they could find a new music box, but Dahlia spent the entire day gluing pieces back together and tinkering with the wires, determined to save the trinket. That’s what she did—she fixed things. That’s what she had always done.
Even as her marriage had fallen apart over the last several years, she’d fixed everything around it, desperately trying to hold her little family together right up until her husband walked out the door and into another woman’s arms. And she’d spent every day since his abandonment trying to make it okay. Okay for her kids, okay for her. Okay in the eyes of everyone else. It’s for the best, really, she’d told all the other PTA moms. We’re better friends than we are husband and wife. We’re going to be great co-parents.
It was strange the lies you told when you were going through a crisis, when you didn’t know what to say so you said what you knew people wanted you to say, what they wanted to hear. I’m doing great. The kids are fine. No, we don’t need anything. As if it were all simply a speed bump on their straight-and-narrow road through life. No one had wanted to hear the truth—not even her own mother. No one wanted to hear that instead of hitting a speed bump, the divorce had been more like careening off a cliff—sending her spiraling downward, the car around her in flames. She’d always excelled at putting out fires, but the divorce had left her feeling like she was trying to spit on an inferno.
The front door banged open, bringing with it a whoosh of frigid air that seemed to make the music box drone even slower. Minneapolis had experienced a bitter start to winter—which seemed appropriate this year, too.
“Mom! Mom!”
Dahlia set down the music box before it toppled out of her hands, and turned to greet Maya and Ollie, who were supposed to be with their father this weekend since she’d had them most of Thanksgiving week.
“Hello, my loves.” She gave them each a squeeze, not even needing to ask what they were doing home. She’s seen the email about the Christmas bake sale from the school and had already anticipated they would show up since their father couldn’t bake his way out of a paper bag.
“What’s this?” Ollie snatched up the snowflake music box in his grubby hands. In kindergarten, he still hadn’t grasped the concept of regular handwashing, and always came home with paint and dirt from the playground sealed into the creases of his skin.
Dahlia gently took the music box away before he dropped it. “It’s a gift from my aunt,” she said, setting it on the higher shelf where she kept her cookbooks. Maybe it was silly to try to protect those snowflakes when they were already old and decrepit but holding a memory from her past had given her back a small piece of herself, and she couldn’t bear to risk seeing it broken again.
“My aunt Sassy sent it to me for Christmas.” Along with a request. And somehow Dahlia wasn’t surprised. She’d lived enough to know that sometimes fate stepped in. This year, more than any other year, she needed to go back to the Juniper Inn for Christmas. She needed to see her sisters who lived so far away, and she needed to be there for her aunt.
“Aunt Sassy?” Maya rose to her tiptoes as though trying to get a better look at the music box. “Is she your sister like Aunt Rose and Aunt Mags are?”
“No.” Holding back a sigh, Dahlia lifted the music box off the shelf, wound the knob, and set it in front of the kids so they could get a better look. They were dying to examine it, to touch it—she could tell from their eager little expressions, and she remembered how the music box had once entranced her. “Aunt Sassy is Grammy’s sister.” Though she doubted her mother would claim her. Dahlia had no idea what had happened between the two of them eighteen years ago. Her mother had refused to tell her, so Sassy had remained almost an enigma from Dahlia’s past.
“I didn’t know Grammy had a sister.” Ollie had quickly lost interest in the singing snowflakes, opting instead to rifle through the pantry until he found a bag of gummy snacks.
Dahlia tsked at him, carefully took the package away, and handed him a clementine from the bowl on the counter instead. He peered up at her from underneath his long lashes, his dark eyes so full of light as he offered her the sheepish grin that brought hope blooming in her heart all over again. For all the struggles they’d endured over the past year, her children were pure tangible joy. “Grammy does have a sister,” she told him. “But they don’t talk.”
“How come?” the boy asked, ripping off pieces of the orange peel and letting them fall on the floor. Yes, her children were pure tangible joy and they were also a whole heck of a lot of work. “Grammy and her sister had some problems years ago.” Dahlia handed him the broom along with a look that told him he’d best clean up his mess.
“You always tell us to work out our problems.” Maya was still gazing at the music box. “Dad’s in the car, by the way. He’s on the phone,” her daughter informed her as though she couldn’t resist the temptation to remind Dahlia of the one problem she hadn’t been able to solve. The poor girl. Even at eight years old she was so like Dahlia—always taking more on her shoulders than she should. Always aware and informing and orchestrating. Dahlia would have to remember to bring that up with their therapist next time. She didn’t want Maya to become a mini her.
The front door opened again, the sound automatically putting steel into her spine. She always braced herself when Jeff walked into a room—not out of fear, but out of a need to prove to him she was fine, that he hadn’t broken her with his betrayal.
“Hey there.” Her ex-husband walked into the kitchen from the hall, a sheepish grin etched into his handsome features. As had become her custom, Dahlia greeted him with a bright, capable smile.
“Hey.” She quickly busied herself with unpacking the kids’ lunch boxes from their backpacks. Being busy took the edge off just about anything, she’d learned. That was how she’d ended up on the PTA and the healthy school lunch committee and the school accountability team. That was how she’d been named Volunteer of the Year at the kids’ school. As long as she kept busy, she could keep moving forward and eventually she wouldn’t feel so much like she was spinning her emotional wheels.
“Soooo, I was hoping these two rug rats could stay with you this weekend.” Jeff leaned into the counter across from her, his smile as boyish as their son’s. That smile had done wonders for her once, but now it brought a cold hollowness that reached into the deepest part of her stomach.
“We have to bring three dozen cookies to the bake sale on Monday,” Maya explained, always the informant. “And I told Dad we were absolutely not going to buy them at the store. They have to be homemade or I’ll be the laughingstock of the entire third grade.”
Even with each painful pound of her heart, she kept her smile intact. Doesn’t Jade bake? She fought the temptation to voice the question. It would only be to make a point. Jade didn’t bake. Jade was a personal trainer. She’d been Jeff’s personal trainer when they’d met. The woman had helped him lose over forty pounds, and then had also made sure he lost his 130-pound wife.
And yet…Jade wasn’t nearly as useful as Dahlia, which was why Jeff always showed up or called when he needed something. In some ways, Dahlia felt like she was still his wife—managing the kids’ schedules, taking care of them when they were sick. He’d even asked for her help in organizing the three-week European vacation he and Jade had plann
ed with the kids over Christmas, since this was his year to have them. You know the kids the best, he’d told her. I need you to help me figure out where to stay with them, what they’d like to see.
So, she’d helped him. She’d made hotel reservations for him. She’d put together a list of the best restaurants that could accommodate Ollie’s dairy allergy. Because she wanted her kids to be okay. Because it was something for her to do—a way to keep busy, a way to be useful. It was a way for her to be part of a once-in-a-lifetime trip they were taking without her…
“I wanna make those frosting cookies!” Ollie was still slurping his way through the clementine. “The ones with lotsa sprinkles.”
Grasping for the joy, Dahlia went to the sink and wet a paper towel before handing it to him. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Do we still have the snowflake sprinkles?” Her daughter had wound the music box again and was humming along.
“I believe we do.” Dahlia went to the pantry and pulled out the Tupperware container of sprinkles she’d stocked up on for an occasion exactly like this one. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you two go change out of your uniforms and we’ll get this cookie-baking party started.”
“Yes!” Ollie pumped his fist in the air, sending the rest of his orange flying. Giggling, he scurried over, snatched it off the floor, and popped it into his mouth before Dahlia could stop him. “Ten-second rule!”
Dahlia decided not to remind him that it only took one second for germs to cling to a juicy orange.
Maya followed him out of the kitchen telling him how gross it was to eat off the floor.
“You’ll get Ebola,” her daughter said in her know-it-all tone.
Jeff chuckled as the two of them argued their way up the steps, but Dahlia finally let her smile slide. How long could she keep this up? Playing the role of Jeff’s personal assistant while he loved another woman?
“Thanks, Dal. I really appreciate this.” He started to turn, but she slammed her palms into the counter. “Wait.”