Page 55 of Christmas Treasures

Her vision blurred. Smoke stung her throat.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or disappear. But all she could do was stand there, breath shaking, staring through the smoke. She’d had good intentions. She’d been happy making those rolls for Bianca and Max, thinking of how they would enjoy them. But like everything in her life, she’d ruined them. Destroyed something sweet and good. The cinnamon rolls. Max. Bianca. Her mother.

She could still see the scarf trailing from beneath the sheet. Still feel the cold sidewalk beneath her knees.

She’d shattered it all again. Why had she had the audacity to think she could love someone and not break them?

Charlie fell to the floor, her back against the island.

Fig crept from beneath the table and meowed, crossing over to her. He rubbed against her leg once, then sat beside her with his chin on her knee.

Charlie placed her good hand on him for a second, appalled by how he still shook with fear. She cradled her other hand, the ache sharp and real, and stared through the smoke to the windows of the French doors. Snow had begun to fall, soft, fat flakes with no worries at all.

Mama. She called to her silently.Mama, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I didn’t think about anyone but myself. I just—I was thirteen. I was lonely. I thought they wanted to be my friends. I was so desperate for someone to like me. I didn’t know you’d die from my mistake. My selfishness. I didn’t think it would be the last time I’d hear your voice. Or feel your arms around me.

She swallowed hard.

I miss you. I miss you so much. And I’ve spent years punishing myself, like if I didn’t celebrate Christmas or have friends or care about anything maybe it wouldn’t hurt as badly. But it still hurts. Every day. I’m so tired, Mama.

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater.

I broke Max. He closed up. Protecting himself from my cruelty. And Bianca. She’s just a little girl. Who has suffered so much loss, and what did I do but send her away?

And then, the air seemed to shift. Smoke lifted, heading toward the ceiling or out the open windows. Not all, but enough that she felt she could breathe again. Despite the chill, a warmth enveloped her, like arms wrapping around her. A scent replaced the acrid taste and smell of smoke. A scent both familiar and impossible—fuchsia and vanilla andsomething powdery-soft. Her mother’s perfume. The one her father had bought her every Christmas.

Charlie froze, breath catching. “Mama? Are you there?” She closed her eyes, and she heard her mother’s voice as if she were sitting right beside her.

You were a little girl. You made a mistake. But you have to forgive yourself and start living. You weren’t driving the car that hit me. That was an accident. I forgive you for all of it. For being young and lonely and wanting friends. But I cannot allow you to continue this way. It’s time to let go. Allow him to love you, baby. And love that little girl like I loved you. Don’t waste your life. Not for one more moment.

A fresh sob burst from Charlie’s chest. She folded forward, hands covering her face as the tears came freely now. She was forgiven. Her mother wanted her to be happy. To stop pushing love away.

Fig moved from his position by her knee to climb into her lap. He nudged her with his head, as if to say he forgave her too. He’d been her best friend. Always there for her. But he was a cat, not a man or a darling little girl who had brought her a Christmas tree to show her how much they cared. She’d sent them away.

She had to get them back.

“Figgy, we have to bring them home.”

He raised his head, blinking his eyes in agreement.

15

MAX

By the time they got back to the apartment, snow was falling again—light and steady, dusting the edges of the windshield, gathering on the branches of the tree still tied down in the truck bed.Max parked and killed the engine but didn’t move right away. He felt sad and tired and worn down. And he had no idea what to do for the little girl with the wan, pale face in the back seat.

Bianca unbuckled herself and climbed out of the SUV, walking toward the door that led up to their apartment.

He followed behind her. She climbed each step as if her shoes were filled with wet sand, shoulders hunched. At the top, she waited for him to unlock the door and then went in without a word.

She didn’t take off her coat. Didn’t ask for water or anything to eat. She simply walked to her room and shut the door. Not loud. Not angry. Just utterly sad and defeated. He knew the feeling.

Max stood in the kitchen a moment, still wearing his coat, keys in one hand, unsure of what to do. Should he go to her? What would help her the most? It was one thing to feelthis rejection himself, but knowing how much it hurt her was the worst thing of all. It was his fault. Trusting a woman who clearly wasn’t equipped for what he and Bianca had to offer.

He heard a soft, stifled sob. And another. This would not do. He had to comfort her somehow. He crossed the apartment in three strides and stood outside her door, freezing from uncertainty. The sobs grew louder—quiet, hiccuping gasps that didn’t belong in the chest of someone so small. They weren’t angry or tantrum-fueled. They were grief.

Max knocked once, softly. “Bianca?”

No answer. Just a muffled cry.

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