Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142214 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 711(@200wpm)___ 569(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
She followed his gaze to the wrapped pine. “Maybe it’s time to bring the magic of Christmas back.”
His sharp eyes dissected her as he drew a long pull of oxygen. “How long have you been dating my son?”
Heat crept up her neck. They hadn’t bothered to hide their affection, so she’d expected him to notice, but his directness made her feel as if she were doing something…inappropriate. She suddenly felt like she was being called into the principal’s office. “It’s fairly new. But we’ve had feelings for each other for years.”
“I assume you know about the will.”
“Mr. Hawthorne, this isn’t about…”
“Money?” His laughter crackled like dead leaves. “Everything’s about money, Haven.”
She stiffened. “I’m Wren. Haven was my mother.”
“Right.” Confusion clouded his features. “You look like her.”
Despite his open dislike for her mom, Wren smiled. “Thanks.”
Greyson reappeared, carrying their holiday haul of boxes and bags from the local shops. Logan followed with a tattered attic box that looked one sneeze away from disintegration.
“Where should we put them?”
“Over there.” She gestured to the floor. “Did you find a stand?”
“We found something. I don’t know how good it’ll work, but I’m sure I can rig it.”
Jocelyn wandered over, cocktail in hand. “Oooh, someone went shopping. What’d you get?”
Wren sorted through the various boxes, revealing the new dinner plates they bought. “This one goes to the kitchen. Soren?”
He retrieved the box of dishes and carried it off.
“That’s a good pup,” Jocelyn praised, and Wren rolled her eyes.
“You love to pick on him.”
“Meh, low hanging fruit. He makes it so easy.”
“You know, he took care of you a couple weeks ago when you were drunk. He could have left you there.”
“I’m aware of what he did. I have cameras.”
It wasn’t like Jocelyn to cut her off so concisely, but the look on her face told Wren she didn’t want to talk about her embarrassing episode at The Chowder House. It must have ended pretty rough for her not to make light of what happened.
Letting the topic drop, she revealed their treasures from town. “Look how cute these are.” Wren unwrapped the collection of ceramic Santas, handblown stars, and tiny porcelain boats with meticulously stitched Hideaway Harbor flags. “Aren’t they adorable?”
“There are more decorations in the attic,” Greyson said, delivering the last of the boxes from the truck.
Logan was digging through the ratty box he’d found upstairs and Soren was speaking to his dad. She didn’t want to disturb them, so she stood and brushed the glitter off her jeans. “I’ll help you bring them down.”
The attic smelled of cedar and forgotten decades. Wren shivered in the dry cold as dust motes danced in the pale light streaming through a single window.
“Watch your step.” Grey shifted trunks aside, disturbing years of stillness.
Several chests bore labels with Sable’s name in faded marker. Greyson avoided those and dragged the Christmas boxes into the center where there was the most light and room. The cardboard was too fragile to stack, and Wren worried moving them might do more damage than good. Maybe they should find a sturdier container and keep the boxes up here, only taking what they absolutely wanted down stairs.
Her fingers traced the tattered lid. “Can I look?”
“Go ahead.”
The flimsy flap lifted to reveal treasures wrapped in fifteen-year-old newspaper. Wren touched the yellowed date reverently, imagining Sable’s hands doing the same after her final Christmas.
Glass bulbs painted with winter scenes emerged from the paper cocoons, followed by ivory angels with tarnished gilt wings and picture frame ornaments. “Grey, look at this.”
The floorboards groaned under his approach. She held up a tiny frame containing a faded photograph, Sable in a floor-length velvet gown, cradling baby Soren while leaning over Logan’s bassinet.
“Wow,” Greyson’s voice caught.
“There has to be another one with you.” She searched through the paper, unearthing frames with Sable and Magnus, more of Soren, faces she didn’t recognize. Her hand froze when she revealed a faded photo of their mothers standing side by side, frozen in time and beauty.
“Look at them,” she rasped, voice tight from dust and emotion.
The two friends laughed hysterically in ridiculous New Year’s Eve hats. One with yellow feathers that contrasted her dark black hair, the other with silver sparkles that complemented her long blonde waves. They looked…timeless.
“They could make each other laugh harder than anything else ever could.”
Wren’s smile pinched as tight as her heart. “I try to remember her laugh...”
His hand warmed her shoulder. “I know.”
She rewrapped the photo with reverent care. “You need to move these into plastic totes after the holidays. We have to protect the few memories we have left of them.”
They found a bin and gathered what they could, selecting the items they thought the others would appreciate most. Downstairs, the tree rested in an outdated stand, leaning dangerously to the left.
“I’ll get my drill and some rope,” Greyson said, setting down the box from the attic and heading for his truck.