Page 115 of Ardently Yours

To her left, Gabriel uses frosting to “glue” mini marshmallows onto a cookie shaped like Santa’s hat. He sings along to the Christmas music playing through the sound system.

On the far right, Clay and Phyllis’s son, Dante, squirts frosting onto his cookie then licks it off for the fifth time.

Seated between Dante and Bronnie, Henry carefully places a sheet of baked sugar “glass” in the second-story window of his gingerbread house.

“This is Gothic Revival. Right, Mom?” Henry pushes his glasses up his nose, curls his lips between his teeth, and waits.

I freeze.

Bronnie called Arden Daddy from the moment we moved in. I was “Mom” to Gabriel early too.

But Henry simply said, “I’m used to Charlotte.”

And I’d replied, “That makes sense to me.”

Gabriel’s brows come together in concern, then he looks at his siblings. “Why is Mom crying?”

“Sometimes people feel so happy, their bodies need a way to let it out,” I say.

Gabriel lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, then goes back to his cookie. Henry’s lips form a pleased, little smile.

“Yes, Henry. Your gingerbread house is Gothic Revival, as long as you remember to add the details we talked about.” I slide the package of Necco Wafers across the quartz countertop. “If you break these in half, you can layer them to simulate a slate roof.”

“Thanks,” Henry says.

Men’s voices sound from the front of the house, and I lift my head.

“Daddy’s home with our tree!” Bronnie scrambles from her stool to race to find Arden.

I follow into the foyer. Arden lifts Bronnie into his arms and smacks a kiss on her cheek. “Are you sure you’re not a cookie? You’re pretty sweet.”

“You’re silly, Daddy,” she says.

He sets her back on her feet, and she runs to follow the small crew of staff carrying the gargantuan tree into our multi-story library.

Arden catches my eye. “One down. Five more to go.”

I kiss his chin. “I may have gone overboard.”

He scoffs. “No such thing.”

“It is a big house.”

He pulls a newspaper from beneath his arm and passes it to me. Yet another headline about the teenage girl who killed her serial rapist is plastered on the front page. It’s a high-profile case. Both the girl and the man who tortured her for years came from wealthy families.

“Poor kid,” I say.

“This is my next case,” Arden says.

Nausea settles in my gut. “You said you were done. You retired from law.”

“Apparently, I don’t have it in me to stop,” he says.

I squeeze his forearm. “You can’t take this case. How would you sleep at night?”

He brushes his thumb across my bottom lip. “Next to my wife. I’m her defense.”

I slap the paper against his arm. “You couldn’t have led with that? You freaked me out.”

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