Page 40 of Merry Mended Hearts

Sure, I was making progress, but that didn’t mean the manuscript was ready. And it certainly didn’t mean I was ready to leave.

“I understand if you want to stay,” Mom said. “But Stephanie will be so disappointed to come all this way and not see you. If that wasn’t the case, of course, I’d want you to stay so you could work on your book.”

I exhaled.

“The choice is up to you, sweetie,” Mom finally said, employing that cutting line she applied for instances such as this.

Guilt answered the call and began to build up inside of me. I hated this. How could I stay here now? If it was just Mom alone, I wasn’t sure I’d give in. But Stephanie and her sweet baby would be home—home!—and I wasn’t there?

There was still so much to do here. So much to explore. I hadn’t tried the Chef’s Tasting Menu. I also craved the restorative massage I’d read about.

Not to mention the sleigh rides and the surrounding forest that I’d meant to include as part of my fantasy world.

Blockades settled in my brain, ramming against the inspiration and creativity that had flowed so freely minutes before. I grasped for them, wanting to reawaken the muse, but it burrowed as if nestling in for some serious hibernation.

That alone was enough to make me want to cry.

How could I call it back now? Conscience had settled in, taking the muse’s place.

I wanted to stick to my resolve, to continue with the plans I already had concocted before even coming here.

But my determination to stay through Christmas and a few days beyond to get in all my words melted, shriveling like a snowman too close to the fire.

I rolled my eyes. Every one of my arguments skittered.

I wanted to hang up. To tell Mom I was a grown woman and could make my own decisions. But the words wouldn’t come.

And really, what did writing a book matter when seeing my sister was so much more important?

“Okay,” I heard myself say.

“Really?” Mom’s reply was nearly a shriek.

Dad muttered something again, and Mom answered him. “She said she’s coming home, Robert. No—this was her idea, not mine!”

I could picture my parents in their usual argument. Any other time, it would have made me smile, but the gloom that sometimes came with doing the right thing instead of sticking with what you personally wanted was settling in fast.

I forced a smile. This was the right thing to do.

There would still be time to finish my book, but I’d be devastated if I had the chance to see my sister and niece and hadn’t taken it.

“Excellent, sweetie,” Mom said. “You won’t regret this, and I promise, Dad and I will make it up to you. We’ll take a drive up to Jackson Hole or to the Redwoods this summer or something. This will be so great! Both my girls home for Christmas! I’ll see you soon, right? No later than Christmas Eve!”

“Sure,” I said heartlessly, staring around at the inn.

What was the point of coming here? It seemed like I met one obstacle after another ever since I’d arrived.

With forlorn steps, I trudged up the stairs to my room. I didn’t want to go back home. Breathing so much open air, having the freedom to rove without roasting in the blazing heat, interacting with people in person instead of angry and frustrated customers on the other end of the line who seemed to think that because I worked for the company I was responsible for their dissatisfaction.

I hadn’t even realized it until now, but the longer I was here, the less I wanted to leave. I wanted a different life. One where I could slow down, where I could write and breathe.

But my life was in Arizona. My apartment, my job, my family—they were all in Arizona.

Mom was right. Stephanie was coming. I needed to get home.

Why didn’t the thought make me feel any better about it?

After a long shower—and a good long cry in the hot water where no one else would hear—I decided on my next steps.

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