Page 65 of The Clause in Christmas
“No, she didn’t.” Cassie’s lips trembled slightly as conflicting emotions—pain, disappointment, hope—washed over her.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing Idoknow,” Maggie said, rising to her feet.
Cassie glanced up expectantly.
“The first batch of cookies should be done. And nothing brightens a mood better than a warm-from-the-oven snickerdoodle.”
Cassie smiled as Maggie slipped on a pair of plaid oven mitts and yanked open the oven door. The mouthwatering aroma of sugar and spice spilled into the kitchen.
While Maggie busied herself with sliding the cookies onto a cooling rack, Cassie turned her attention to the stack of Christmas cards. The one resting on top depicted a charming cottage covered in shimmering snow with the wordsHome for the Holidaysscrawled across the top in red swirly letters.
Fanning the card open, Cassie pressed the crease into the table.
Before her conversation with Maggie, Cassie had planned to send a simple holiday greeting.
But now the words she penned carried an extra level of meaning.
Dear Mom,
Merry Christmas.
Wishing you a heart full
of hope this holiday season.
Love always,
Your daughter
Chapter 23
When Cassie stepped into the cottage that evening after leaving Maggie’s, she didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Standing in the darkness, she watched the multicolored glow from the Christmas tree dance across the vintage wallpaper.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled the same comforting scents of lavender and lemon wood polish she’d noticed the first day she arrived. The aroma she’d come to associate with a woman she’d never met, but whom she’d come to love dearly nonetheless. The same woman she’d recently learned may never have wanted her—a thought Cassie couldn’t quite reconcile in her heart.
As she flicked on the switch, light flooded the living room, illuminating familiar sights she’d grown to cherish. The comfy couch where she and Luke had sat side by side watching Christmas movies. The cozy armchair where she’d readA Christmas Carol. So many memories had turned this cottage into a home. But there was still one room in the house where she’d yet to venture.
The brass doorknob to her grandmother’s room turned easily, and the creaking hinges gave way as if they were expecting her. Cassie’s heartbeat thrummed in her ears as she crept across the threshold.
Shut off from the rest of the house, the frigid chill in the room sent a shiver down Cassie’s spine. A small potbelly stove sat dormant in the corner, unused since her grandmother’s passing.
Two brocade armchairs faced the stove and a four-poster bed rested against the opposite wall. But what caught Cassie’s attention was an antique dresser adorned with a collection of silver picture frames.
Inching closer, Cassie lifted the first frame, rubbing her thumb along the tarnished edges as she studied the black-and-white photograph of a young couple on their wedding day. Their blissful, smiling faces shone even beneath the dust-laden glass. Cassie noticed, with interest, that her grandmother’s vibrant, youthful features didn’t appear much older than in the photograph she’d discovered in Frank’s office.
The next handful of frames displayed the same couple as they aged over the span of several decades. But as Cassie’s fingertips grazed the final frame, she pulled back in surprise. A young Donna Hayward gazed into the distance, her large green eyes hollow, the rims smudged with inky black eyeliner. In her thin arms, she cradled an infant with a telltale patch of chestnut curls visible above the folds of a pink crochet blanket.
To Cassie’s knowledge, she was looking at the only photograph of herself as a child.
A burning sensation filled the back of Cassie’s throat as she blinked at the image. Hot tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, and she quickly flipped the photograph facedown on the dresser, overcome with emotion. First the revelation in Maggie’s kitchen and now this…
Cassie didn’t know what to do with herself. So, she did the only logical thing that came to mind—she tore through the rest of her grandmother’s belongings in search of more answers.
Combing through the dresser drawers yielded nothing useful. Neither did the antique steamer trunk of extra quilts at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t until Cassie dislodged something wedged in the bottom drawer of her grandmother’s nightstand that her skin prickled with hope.
A plain manila envelope, crinkled and smelling faintly of potpourri and menthol.
Hands trembling, Cassie carried the envelope to the edge of the bed, the springs groaning in protest as she perched on the worn, floral quilt. In one quick motion, Cassie spilled the contents of the envelope onto the bed.
