Page 6 of Meet Me at the Christmas Cottage
She actually didn’t knowthatAsher Quinn but promised herself she’d google him later. “That’s so…interesting.”
“It really is. If you just give me one minute, I can drive you over on a golf cart.” Mia started gathering her papers, tapping the stacks on the tabletop before slipping them in her briefcase and donning a coat, scarf, and hat.
“Oh, I couldn’t—” Bronte started.
Mia shot a pointed look at the missing wheel on Bronte’s suitcase. “Of course you can. You do not need to be dragging that thing through the streets of Jonathon Island. Besides, I’m done here anyway, and the Whites’ place is basically on my way home.”
Bronte took a step back to let Mia finish gathering her stuff, letting her gaze shift up to the white-tiled ceiling and pendant lighting. Martha’s was a cute little restaurant, and from how many tables were full, the food must be good too. Most everyone had gone back to whatever they were doing before Bronte stepped in.Thank goodness.
Mia straightened, pulling the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. “Ready?”
“Don’t forget this.” Martha thrust a plastic bag filled with takeout containers in Bronte’s direction.
Bronte stared at the bag dangling from two of Martha’s fingers. “I didn’t order anything.”
Martha jiggled the bag. “I’m sure you’re tired from traveling all day. I know Mia went up earlier and made sure there were some groceries and the like, but figured a little more couldn’t hurt. And I live in the big white house only a few houses down from Holland’s, so if you need anything, just come by and ask.”
Bronte’s face warmed, not sure why Martha would care about whether or not she had enough food. “Oh, thank you.” She took the bag, scents of something savory curling up with the steam. A pang shot through her stomach. Maybe she was a little hungrier than she realized.
Grabbing her suitcase by the top strap, Bronte stuck out her hip to help heave it up so she could hobble-follow Mia back out into the cold December air.
“Sorry it’s so cold.” Mia led them over to a blue golf cart. “And the ride over is going to be a little chilly, but luckily the Whites’ house isn’t too far away.”
They stored the suitcase in the back, securing it with a bungee cord. Bronte sat in the front next to Mia. Holding on to the handle, Bronte shifted as far over as she could on the golf cart’s seat. There wasn’t much room on the bench seat, but she didn’t need to be sitting in Mia’s lap.
Sighing, Bronte let her head fall back on the seat rest, head lolling to the side so she could at least see where they were going. Or maybe she didn’t want to know. If she didn’t know, she would be less likely to want to get out and explore instead of staying put and getting the writing done. Not that that wasn’t the plan to begin with.
They passed the cutest houses painted in white and dark blues. Bronte spotted a few houses’ landscaping showing off, even in the winter months. After only two minutes of driving, Mia whipped the golf cart into a driveway.
The Whites’ cottage looked exactly as it did in the photos Holland shared online—white rock skirting the bottom third, giving way to dark, moody siding and black windows. Bronte couldn’t wait to get inside. This place, this house, something about it put Bronte at ease, and she knew for the first time that she would get a huge chunk, if not all, of the next Pike Family Saga written here.
“Thanks for the ride.” Bronte slipped out of the golf cart and unhooked her suitcase from the back.
“Anytime.” Mia followed Bronte out of the golf cart and up the sidewalk to the front of the house. “There are goodies in the cabinets, but if there’s anything that you need, please don’t hesitate to reach out. I know you have Holland’s number, but I don’t think she’ll be available since they’re on a cruise ship.”
“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.” Bronte clutched the bag of takeout containers while also keeping a grip on the top strap of the suitcase. The zipper could still decide to fail her.
Mia fell into silence next to Bronte, and they stood on the sidewalk. Bronte wanted nothing more than to escape inside, get settled, and start writing.Ninety thousand words.Ninety thousand words.The reminder beat a rhythm in her head.
“Well.” Mia clapped her hands together with a slap. “I’m going to get home and make sure my mom’s not going crazy. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all!” Waving, Mia got back inside the golf cart and, after backing out of the driveway, continued down the street.
Sitting back under trees and foliage, the house seemed to sayWelcome. You are going to get so much work done.
“I hope so,” Bronte mumbled to herself as she jammed the key into the lock.
The inside was just as inviting, if not more, than the outside. Even though there weren’t any Christmas decorations (thank goodness), it still smelled of cinnamon and citrus.
Leaving her suitcase next to the front door, Bronte went farther into the house. The small entryway led down a short hallway to the open kitchen and living room.
The kitchen was the perfect kind of homey, with its speckled granite countertops and mossy green cabinets with gold hardware. A wall of windows in the breakfast nook showed a big backyard. A large island separated the kitchen area from the living room, and on that island, a pile of chocolate chip cookies sat on a Santa plate with a folded card sitting next to it that said, “Welcome to the White house, Bronte.”
Smiling, Bronte exchanged the bag of food from Martha for a cookie and continued her exploring.
The living room was the stuff of dreams, so different from her two-bedroom apartment that she’d never quite found the time—or energy—to decorate. The mustard velvet sectional made Bronte’s heart pitter-patter. She couldn’t wait to sink into it with her laptop and get to work. A large, white fireplace took up most of the wall, flanked only by a dark wood piano. She plunked at two keys while leaning over and studying the various pictures of whom she could only assume was the White family that covered the top of the piano.
She could almost watch the family grow up through the frozen images. A man with sandy brown hair, the only indication he was older being the deep grooves in his face, sat next to a beautiful older woman with salt-and-pepper hair. They were surrounded by—one, two, three…Mercy, five kids, four of which were girls. That poor brother. A handful of the siblings had dark hair, with one lone blonde sister. The solitary son stood behind his parents, his smile making Bronte feel as warm as the picture looked. Another photo showed the son in military garb. The intensity of his face in the photo made Bronte do a double-take to make sure it was the same person. Serious or not, it did nothing to detract from his handsomeness. A face like that—strong jaw, defined chin, thick eyebrows sitting on top of blue eyes that sparkled with kindness—would give any Hollywood heartthrob a run for their money.
Taking her cookie, Bronte wandered up the stairs to the second floor. There were four rooms, way more than Bronte could ever need, but this house would be perfect for pulling inspiration for the last Pike family book. The room at the end of the hallway had an evergreen wreath bearing a placard with her name expertly calligraphed in gold. After retrieving her suitcase from downstairs, Bronte unpacked, setting her folded clothes into the antique dresser. She warred between tucking herself into the window seat alcove that overlooked Jonathon Island or heading back downstairs. But with the quickly setting sun, the picturesque image would soon be painted in black.
