Page 60 of Christmas Treasures

“It sure was last year.” Nolan kissed his wife’s cheek. “Can’t believe it’s been a year of wedded bliss already.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “You’re all kind of gross.”

“Love is all we have, in the end,” Mom said, philosophically, ignoring Logan. “And it’s worth fighting for. Write the note.”

Max looked around the room at the people who stood by him through every mistake and misstep. “I’ll write the note.”

Mom squeezed his shoulder. “Good. It’s never a bad decision to leave the porch light on. Just in case.”

16

CHARLIE

Charlie woke slowly, eyes heavy, head aching slightly from too little sleep. The events from two days before still felt like a stone had landed on her chest. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about Max.

Her burned hand throbbed slightly, wrapped now in a clean bandage as she pushed herself upright, blinking at the pale winter sunlight filtering through the window curtains. A glance toward the kitchen made her stomach twist. The smoky smell lingered, faint and bitter.

She forced herself to her feet, grabbing her robe and slipping it over her sweatshirt and pajama pants. Her body ached from her breakdown in the greenhouse, the memory still raw enough to sting.

Padding toward the front room, she stopped abruptly as something bright caught her eye through the front window. On her porch, just outside the door, sat something colorful.

She opened the door slowly, the cold air rushing inward to greet her.

On the porch sat a simple, lovely bouquet of winterflowers—deep reds, soft greens, a few small white blooms nestled gently among them. Next to it, a small envelope rested, her name written in Max’s familiar handwriting.

Her heart did an odd flip-flop.

She knelt, picking up the flowers first. Their sweet scent curled around her, subtle but warm. She held the bouquet close, breathing it in as if she could borrow a little of their strength.

With trembling fingers, she opened the envelope and pulled out the simple card. Max’s handwriting, steady but gentle, filled the page.

Charlie,

I’m so sorry.

I wanted to give you joy. But I understand now. I think, anyway. I didn’t ask you what you needed.

You have every right to celebrate, or not celebrate, Christmas however you choose. I just wanted you to know you’re welcome and wanted, always.

My Ugly Sweater Party is in a few days. No pressure—just an open door and a porch light that stays on for you.

With all my heart,

Max

Tears blurred the words. Charlie wiped her face gently, trying to catch her breath.

This was Max: gentle, thoughtful, generous. He’d stepped into her grief without judgment. Even after her harsh reaction, he’d quietly left the door open, letting her choose for herself.

Exactly what she’d needed.

She stood there, the cold biting at her ankles, flowers clutched to her chest. A new determination rose up through the fog of grief and shame.

She would make it up to him.

Charlie stepped back inside, shutting the door carefullybehind her. She placed the flowers on the entry table, the note propped gently beside them. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and reached for her phone.

Nina answered on the second ring, cheerful and oblivious. “Hey! What’s up?”

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