Page 25 of Christmas Is All Around
Much as she despised discussing her cinematic history, there seemed like an obvious solution to this problem. “Being used as a set forChristmas, Truly—that must have paid well?”
“I’ve not looked at the books that far back, but I believe so, yes.” There was something almost expectant in his tone. He clearly knew where she was going with this. “But my father hated that film, and swore he’d never let the house be used as a filming location ever again.”
Charlotte blinked. “I mean, I hate that movie, too, but that seems extreme.”
He shrugged, tension radiating off his body, subtle but completely noticeable to Charlotte. “He thought it was embarrassing—that we were betraying his great-grandfather’s legacy by allowing the house to be used for a Christmas film. I think money was particularly tight when he agreed to it, but he regretted it, later.” He hesitated, then added, “Forever.”
Charlotte glanced at him—at the careful way he looked directly ahead, not meeting her eyes; at the tightness of his jaw, the stiffness of his posture—and, despite the warning signs that were present, advising her otherwise, she said, reckless, “But your father isn’t here anymore.”
“No,” he said sharply, not breaking his stride. “He’s not. And the least I can do is ensure that we don’t turn Eden Priory into something he would have hated, all in the name of saving it.”
He increased his pace then, subtly but enough that Charlotte noticed, hurrying to keep up, and within a few moments they had rejoined Leo and Eloise, who seemed to be flirting cheerfully—merely to annoy Graham, Charlotte suspected, since Jess was walking nearby and looked entirely unconcerned. Graham made an effort to join the conversation, punching Leo in the shoulder when he made a particularly suggestive remark, and if anyone else noticed that his laughter had a slightly forced quality to it, they didn’t mention it.
Neither did Charlotte. But she walked next to him, quiet, listening.
And thinking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On Sunday, Charlotte called her mom.
This was a task she generally avoided; the conversations often ended with her resisting the urge to tear her hair out, and she tended to put calls on her calendar monthly, treating them like dentist appointments—unavoidable obligations. At least, thanks to Ava’s recent intel, she knew that the parental unit was currently on cordial terms, so she could get away with a single phone call and trust that her life updates would be shared, rather than having to call her father too.
“Charlotte,darling,” her mother said dramatically as soon as she answered the phone. “I’ve beensoworried.”
Charlotte—sitting at the desk in the guest room at Ava and Kit’s, scrutinizing the painting she’d just finished—frowned. “Why?”
“Thepress,” her mother replied. “Have they been hounding you terribly? I told your father I wanted him to find whoever that ‘anonymous source’ is and ensure they never work again—”
“Mom, I don’t want anyone to lose their job!” Charlotte interrupted, alarmed. Whoever the “anonymous source” was wouldn’t be on her Christmas card list anytime soon (were she the type of person to send Christmas cards), but she didn’t take it as far as destroyingsomeone’s career for, basically, sharing gossip. She also found her mom’s histrionics a bit hard to swallow, given that her mom’s concern at the time had extended only as far as a cursory text telling her not to leave her apartment looking schlubby, as there might be paparazzi around. “I’m fine—I’m at Ava’s; it’s been a nice excuse to have a longer-than-usual vacation for the holidays.”
“Hmm,” her mom said, sounding suspicious. “I thought you could never take time off for Christmas because your little shop is so busy.” This was reliably how she referred to Charlotte’s career—in a slightly dismissive way—and Charlotte inhaled slowly, trying to keep her temper.
“I can work from anywhere, you know,” she said, forcing some semblance of cheerful patience into her voice. “Especially since I have an assistant now.”
Her mother was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Sounds like business is booming.” Charlotte didn’t think she was imagining the begrudging tone of this, and she sighed, rubbing her temple and eyeing her glass of water, wishing it was whiskey instead, for all that it was—she glanced down at her phone—3:24 on a Sunday afternoon.
“It’s always so great to catch up, Mom,” she said, feeling very grateful that this was not a video call, because she had an inconveniently honest face. “We’re having a great time here—Kit’s parents are visiting, and we’re taking Alice on all sorts of holiday outings.”
“I don’t think Alice needs holiday outings,” her mother replied, sounding very skeptical about this program of events. “I think that baby needs a sedative.”
Charlotte privately thought her mom had a point, but instead said, “No, she loves it! Ava’s taking her to meet Santa next weekend.”
“I hope she likes him better than Ava did at that age,” her mother said dubiously. “We took her to some awful ‘breakfast with Santa’ event, and she screamed so loudly that we were asked to leave by one of the elves.”
Charlotte suddenly had an alarming premonition of what Alice’s visit to Santa would be like, and decided to start feigning a cough now, so that by the time the day rolled around, no one would question her need to sit this one out.
“Well, it’s always good to chat, Mom,” Charlotte said breezily, already wondering why on earth she’d initiated this call. “Is Dad there?”
“No, he’s in LA at the moment,” her mother said idly, sounding as though her husband’s presence or absence was not of particular import to her. Typical.
Charlotte frowned. “Aren’tyouin LA?” Her parents now lived there most of the year, despite her mother’s insistence that California was for heathens and that the onlyrealculture was in New York.
“No, of course not, darling,” her mother said, as if Charlotte should keep tabs on her whereabouts at all times. “I’m in Vermont.”
Charlotte blinked. “Why are you inVermont?” Did her mom even know anyone in Vermont?
“I’m on a writing retreat,” her mom said impatiently, as though this should have been obvious. “Unlike some, my art cannot flourish with all the…noisearound me, constantly, this time of year. I’m living in a converted barn on a local family’s property, and one of the sons of the family has been bringing me meals in a little basket. It’s very charming—you should see the flannels he wears!”
