Page 38 of The Clause in Christmas
Cassie scanned the crowded restaurant. Wherewastheir server? She needed water. If not to drink, then to splash on her face. Never in a million years—no matter how long she’d prayed for a miracle—did she think her mother would get help for her drinking. Cassie could even overlook the impending bottle of wine if it served as her mother’s last hurrah. “Are you serious?”
Donna pursed her lips. “A congratulations would be nice.”
Cassie wrung her hands in her lap, trying to make sense of what was happening. Her mother—who called a Bloody Mary a balanced meal—wanted to go to rehab. Was it court ordered? And at this point, did it even matter? For years, Cassie had longed for this moment—for her mother to finally seek help. Not only for Donna’s sake but for her own. Cassie would do almost anything for a chance at a real mother-daughter relationship, without the caustic influence of Donna’s addiction.
Cassie smiled, feeling tears prick the back of her eyes. “I can’t believe it. But congratulations, Mom. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thank you. I even have a specific place in mind. My friend Genie told me about it. Said she got clean in thirty days.”
“That’s wonderful!” Cassie’s heart swelled with hope. “What’s it called?”
“The Snyder Sobriety Center.” Donna rearranged the silverware, not meeting Cassie’s eyes. “There’s just one tiny problem.”
Cassie’s pulse undulated as though she were about to drop off the edge of a rollercoaster. “What?”
Still avoiding Cassie’s gaze, Donna pressed her lips together before parting them slowly. “The program costs fifteen thousand dollars.”
Cassie’s heart, along with her hopes, plummeted to the floor.
“I know it’s a lot of money,” Donna rushed on. “But I promise I’ll pay you back. I need this, Cassie. And…” She drew in a breath before adding, “I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
Cassie swallowed past the dry lump in her throat. Seriously, where was the waiter?
Her mother finally met her gaze, and Cassie stared into almond-shaped eyes, not unlike her own. For an instant, she could see a flicker of grief in the deep pools of green.
With a shaky breath, Cassie murmured, “I’ll figure something out.”
Althoughwhatexactly, Cassie didn’t have the faintest idea.
* * *
Arriving back in Poppy Creek at eight o’clock in the evening after an exhausting day of driving, the last thing Cassie wanted to do was check the Christmas Calendar. But although she’d love to get her mother into rehab as soon as possible, selling the cottage may be their only hope of getting the money they needed.
Flipping open the Calendar, she scanned the entry for December 8.
Make Mulled Wine.
Cassie blinked, the edges of the page beginning to blur.
This couldn’t be happening. Not today, of all days.
Her breath coming in short, strangled bursts, Cassie paced the hardwood floor, racking her brain for a solution.
But none came. If she didn’t make the wine, she’d never complete the Calendar. Which meant…
Cassie squeezed her eyes shut, feeling hopelessly trapped by her circumstances.
Hands trembling, she assembled the ingredients. The spices, honey, brandy, and wine were all stocked in the pantry. As with most things pertaining to the Calendar, her grandmother seemed one step ahead of her.
Cassie simmered the medley over the stove in a copper saucepan, pretending it was anythingbutalcohol. Fortunately, once the tartness of the wine dissipated, the sweet and spicy aroma smelled almost pleasant. But as she stirred the fragrant concoction, her heartbeat thrummed erratically. Hoping to settle her nerves, Cassie scrolled through the playlists on her phone, settling on a soothing mix of jazz.
Closing her eyes once more, Cassie let the soulful notes of Etta James’s “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” wash over her. Leaning forward over the stove, she drew in a calming breath, inhaling the tingling scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.It will be fine, Cassie. One sip. That’s all. Then you can move on. But even as she tried to convince herself, her shoulders began to shake. Tears trickled down her cheeks and into the saucepan, like raindrops sprinkling across a still lake.
* * *
So far, Plan: Convince Cassie to Stay wasn’t going well. All of Luke’s calls went straight to voicemail. And the two times he’d been by the cottage, Cassie’s car wasn’t there. No one in town knew where she was, either.
In one final attempt, Luke knocked on the front door, caramel corn and a DVD ofWhite Christmasin hand. At least her car was in the driveway this time.
