Page 39 of The Promise in Poppies
Her heart hammering, she hastened up the porch steps, eager to speak with Cassie, then put distance between herself and the place she’d once called home. She raised her fist and rapped twice, ignoring the strangeness of knocking on her own front door. Or, rather, whatusedto be her front door.
“It’s open!” Eliza shouted from somewhere inside.
Donna’s fingers wound around the cold brass knob then curled back as if she’d been burned. Her pulse pounded, filling her eardrums with the deafening sound. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have come.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply through her nose then exhaled in a slow, deliberate breath as she pictured her daughter’s face. The hurt etched into every feature left a sharp ache in her chest, and with a quick twist of the handle, she thrust open the door.
She expected to be greeted by the familiar scent of lavender and lemon polish, but it had long since faded, replaced by the sweet, homey aroma of vanilla bean and warm butter, no doubt from Eliza’s endless baking. As she stepped inside, she noted that much of the furniture remained the same—the well-worn loveseat with soft, lumpy cushions, the vintage hall stand housing Ben’s sneakers and baseball caps, the matching wingback chairs by the fireplace.
The fireplace. A memory slammed against her so forcefully, she stumbled backward. Tears instantly filled her eyes, blurring her vision. And yet, every detail of that evening came back to her with such oppressive clarity, she felt as if she were standing in the room two and a half years ago, watching the agonizing events unfold.
It was the year of her mother’s passing, when all hope of reconciliation had been ripped from her hands. Why had she clung to her bitterness so tightly? For decades, she’d dismissed any attempt her mother made to mend the past. And as each day passed, she added another brick to the wall she’d built around her heart, using her grief and resentment as mortar.
That December, as she faced another Christmas alone—the season of Santa, sleigh bells, and a sorrow she could never escape—she’d learned her mother had bequeathed her inheritance to the granddaughter she’d never even wanted. Was it a final peace offering or an act of spite? The letter her mother left her—the one she now kept close at all times—had explained everything. But in the thick of her pain, she’d assumed the latter.
Donna brushed a tear from her cheek, fighting a surge of shame as she relived her reprehensible choices. Once again, she’d tried to drink away her heartache, which had only led to even worse decisions. She never should’ve showed up on her daughter’s doorstep that night, wallowing in too much booze and bitterness.
Spotting the Christmas Calendar on the coffee table had tipped her over the edge. The list of festive tasks for each day in December had been her father’s idea—a way to celebrate his final holiday season to the fullest—and her parents had made it together. That fateful Christmas morning, she’d woken before the sunrise, her heart bursting with hope, believing in miracles with her entire being. But as she’d skipped down the staircase, she hadn’t found her parents gathered around the tree, happy and healthy as they waited to open stockings and gifts together. She’d found the pastor and his wife, her father’s doctor, and her mother, sobbing uncontrollably.
How could her mother use the Christmas Calendar as a clause in her will, making Cassie’s inheritance contingent on its completion? At the time, it had felt like a cruel slap to the face. In her drunken anguish, she’d thrown the calendar into the fireplace and watched it incinerate in the flames. As the scorched remnants fluttered up the chimney, she hadn’t known they’d become part of the catalyst for her recovery.
“Cass, we’re in the kitchen!” Eliza’s boisterous voice broke through her reverie, yanking her into the present with an abrasive jolt.
Donna quickly dried her eyes and composed herself before putting the fireplace—and the memories it evoked—behind her. Tracing an imprinted path through the house, muscle memory led her to the modest kitchen.
Eliza stood at the butcher block island, wrapping floral ceramic dishes in newspaper before gently setting them inside a cardboard box.
Beside her, Grant presented two nearly identical cookbooks. “Are you sure we need both? I’ve already filled four boxes with cookbooks, and one of them is dedicated entirely to Betty Crocker. How many more do you need?”
Eliza planted a hand on her hip. “They’re two completely different editions. That’s like me asking you to choose between crimson and vermillion. How many tubes of red paint do you need?”
Grant sighed, but Donna spotted a small grin tugging the corner of his mouth. “Fair enough.” He set them in a large box on top of the kitchen table before closing the flaps.
She cleared her throat, catching their attention.
“Hi!” Eliza greeted her in surprise. “I thought you were Cassie. She volunteered to help us pack today.”
“But we’ll take any pair of willing hands we can get,” Grant teased, hefting the heavy box laden with cookbooks. “I’m going to run this load over to the new house. A couple of the guys said they’d be over soon to help. I may or may not have bribed them with the promise of brownies.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Eliza laughed.
As Grant lugged the box out to his car, Eliza tapped a large Tupperware container resting on the counter. “My motto is alwaysBprepared. And thebstands for brownies.” She grinned, peeling back the lid.
The enticing aroma of rich chocolate escaped the cracked seal, but Donna couldn’t concentrate on food, despite Eliza’s tempting offer. “You’re moving?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“Sadly?” Donna couldn’t think of a reason why Eliza and her family would need to move. Cassie owned the house, and she knew her daughter was happy for them to stay as long as they liked.
Eliza concentrated on wrapping a set of nesting mixing bowls, the crinkling newspaper filling the conspicuous silence.
Was it her imagination, or did she detect a slight tremble in Eliza’s lower lip? “Are you okay?” She stepped closer, and Eliza set down the smallest bowl to swipe a fingertip beneath her lash line, catching a wayward tear.
“Ugh. I’m so embarrassed.” Eliza attempted a wry smile, but Donna recognized the glint of sadness in her dark eyes. “I promised myself I’d keep it together today.”
“Thanks to years of group therapy and AA meetings, I’m a pretty good listener.” Donna hoped a little self-deprecation would break the ice, and it appeared to work.
“It’s silly, really. I should be happy,” Eliza admitted, using a scrap of paper as a makeshift tissue to blot her damp cheek. “We’re moving into our dream home. A gorgeous four-bedroom farmhouse on Willow Lake.”
