Page 18 of Holiday at Home
“Do I think the woman you once said you’d marry is going to be upset that you’re turning the idea you createdtogetherinto something with the potential to be a national chain without her…?” Dad stares at the ceiling, stroking his beard and pretending to think.
“I mean, when you put it that way, it sounds spectacularly shitty,” I say, then lean against the car next to him.
“I’m not going that far, but it’s not the sweetest thing you’ve ever done.”
Despite the fact that I actually agree with him, I find myself arguing.
“Which is why everything’s paused until I’ve had a chance to talk to her. Violet has her bakery now, so she’s getting to live out her side of the dream. And if she’s upset that I’m using the idea—that’s based offmyname by the way—I’m open to offering her a settlement to get her to sign the contract.”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hear how epically terrible they sound. I grimace, and Dad cocks his head in that awful way that saysI’m not angry, son. Just disappointed.
“You have a good heart Simon, and you know the difference between right and wrong. Sometimes”—he lifts a hand—“and this is a generalization, so forgive me, but that’s all I have to work with. But sometimes, when you focus on business alone, it’s easy to lose sight of what really matters. Kindness. Forgiveness. Goodness. Do the right thing, Simon. You know what that is.”
“I’ll go see her today,” I say with certainty. “You’re right. Violet deserves that. She deserves to know the real reason I’m here.”
Dad nods, a flicker of paternal pride softening his features.
The garage door bursts open with a cacophony of sound launching into the quiet, and Mom stands in the doorway, hand on her hip, shaking her head. “I have been looking all over this place for you two. Are you really going to leave all this to me? These people love you. They want to see you. Get your butts in here.”
Before either of us can reply, she spins on her heel and bustles back inside. Dad claps a hand around my shoulder.
“Come on then, son. Duty calls.”
7
Violet
My second day at the bakery is just as busy, if not busier, than the first. Without Nora and Nash jumping in to help, things start out bumpy, but Elizabeth and I eventually find our flow. We’re completely sold out by noon, even earlier than yesterday, so I’ll need to see if there’s wiggle room in prep time to add more product. There’s a sense of satisfaction that maybe I actually know what I’m doing here. That I have something in my life under control. As I lock up the bakery, I send a silent thank you to Mom and Dad for preparing me so well.
The walk home is a chilly one. The sky is gray stacked upon gray, and the wind coming off the water bites through my coat. Christmas lights twist up the palms that line the sidewalk, their bulbs blinking cheerfully against the gloom. Somewhere, faintly, a radio plays “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” the notes drifting like memories on the salt-tanged breeze. I burrow deeper into my jacket and laugh softly at the memory of Simon at the tree-lighting ceremony—bare arms, T-shirt, andshorts—while the rest of us huddled in sweaters and scarves. It’s December, for goodness’ sake. Who wears shorts in December?
By the time I reach my street, the lights seem even brighter, each house dressed in its own version of holiday cheer—icicle lights glimmering from eaves, inflatable snowmen dancing in the wind, reindeer grazing in front yards. All except mine. My house stands dark and undecorated, an island of shadow amid the glow. The sight tightens something in my chest. Once upon a time, this place smelled like cinnamon and sugar cookies, felt warm with laughter and music and my parents humming carols as they prepped for the Christmas rush. Now, it’s just… quiet.
I slip my key into the lock, step inside, hang my keys on the hook, and kick off my shoes. Then I just stand in the foyer, struck by the stillness. Our family was never loud, especially not compared to Simon’s, who could fill a room with laughter and conversation, but there was always warmth in the Sterling household. Always people. Always light. Always someone to ask how you’re doing and actually care about the answer.
Maybe I should get a dog. A big one, with droopy ears and jowls I could squish and love. I would name him Alfred, and he would welcome me home with snuggles and affection. The thought makes me chuckle as I wander into the living room and drop onto the couch, kicking my feet up on the coffee table while I schedule social media posts—one showing the pastry cases full this morning, and another showing them empty by this afternoon. We were so busy, those are the only shots I managed to grab, though I hope to get more tomorrow. Maybe even some of a happy customer or two. I could tag them, make them feel part of the Sterling’s family?—
The doorbell rings, and I jump out of my skin.
No one comes to the door anymore.
I mean, right?
Who just shows up, out of the blue?
It’s probably someone trying to sell me something, I tell myself, but my mind waves the anxiety flag, releasing a stream of horrible possibilities.
What’s waiting for me on the other side of the door?
Maybe the bakery flooded.
Maybe I forgot to lock the door and someone broke in.
Or, oh my gosh, did I actually manage to set it on fire? I turned off the ovens, right?
The doorbell rings again and I take a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away as Nora’s concern about my anxiety comes back to me.
It’s not that bad, I tell myself.Everyone worries about something.
