Page 135 of The Holiday Clause
The Hawthornes had built the wing before Sable died. But she never had the chance to use it. The irony wasn’t lost on her—Sable had helped plan this beautiful space meant to heal the wealthy and powerful, but died before she could benefit from her own generosity. Instead, her bitter husband would likely be its most prominent patient.
Wren hated hospitals, so she tried to pretend she simply walked through an ordinary hall in an ordinary building, and all those beeps and bells sounded like creaks and birds chirping.
She adjusted the woven basket on her arm and covered the collection of self-care items she brought. They weren’t anything special, just a few things she had around the spa, but she had chosen each item to bring Magnus a little peace. Handmade peppermint balm, beeswax salve for the rough spots of his heels, elbows, and hands, a lavender eye pillow, some infused oils to help with inflammation, an old hardcover biography ofReagan, and a knit throw Bodhi insisted she bring.
At the end of the hall, a polished brass plate read,Private Suite: M. Hawthorne.
She hesitated, drawing in a deep breath. Magnus had earned a reputation for cutting his sons off mid-sentence and he took no issue verbally eviscerating them in Wren’s presence—most likely because he never took much notice when she entered a room.
She steadied her hand and knocked lightly—then entered before she could lose her nerve. “Knock, knock.”
The room looked more like a hotel than a hospital. A sitting area occupied the corner, complete with tufted chairs, heavy navy drapes framing a wall of windows, and a side table with a crystal water pitcher and cut-glass tumblers no nurse had ever touched.
Magnus lay sunken into a reclined hospital bed positioned toward the windows. If he spoke, she couldn’t hear him over the murmur of the television. As she rounded the bed, she met his ice-blue eyes over the oxygen mask and smiled nervously.
The sight of him shocked her more than she’d expected. This was Magnus Hawthorne—the man who’d intimidated her since childhood, who commanded rooms with his presence and could silence his grown sons with a look. Now he appeared diminished, almost fragile, his powerful frame reduced to sharp angles beneath the hospital blankets.
“Hi, Mr. Hawthorne.” While Sable had always just been Sable, Wren had never received an invitation to call Magnus by his first name. She only referred to him as such in the presence of the boys, who also called him Magnus. She set down the basket with a shaky hand. “I brought you some presents.”
His brow furrowed with confusion as she lowered the basket gently, not wanting to rattle the glass of water.
“Is it okay that I’m here?”
He didn’t respond with a yes or a no.
“If you’re too tired for visitors, I can come back.”
His rheumatoid finger pointed to the chair, slow and unsteady, then lowered with a commanding gesture. She obediently dropped into the seat.
Months had passed since she last saw him, and the changes in his build startled her. The bare arms peeking from the gown revealed crepe skin that sagged where muscles had once shaped his limbs. Pale skin collapsed beneath his cheekbones where the fabric strap of the oxygen mask pressed. Most startling was the unexpected sight of him unshaven with his hair tousled from sleep. Seeing a man who had always been so put together in a state of coming apart felt wrong.
A blanket covered his chest, but his weight loss was obvious. Beneath the translucent creases of his eyes, his glare was sharp and observant. He looked at the basket then back to her.
“I brought you a few things to make your stay more…” Her words faded, and she cleared her throat, trying again. “Just some creature comforts and things that help me when I’m not feeling well.”
She struggled with long silences—they made her nervous.
She pulled the folded throw off the basket and said, “Whenever I’m sick, I always like to have a cozy blanket.” She draped the soft material over his legs.
Still no response.
Maybe this visit had been a mistake. “Anyway… I won’t stay long. Just wanted to check in.”
Magnus lifted a trembling hand to the mask and pulled it aside, wheezing as if that slight exertion had cost him.
She jumped up. “Do you need something?”
“Sit.”
She dropped back into the chair. “Yes, sir.”
He studied her for a long, hard minute. “I thought you were one of Logan’s…pursuits.”
She blushed and shook her head. “No, sir.”
“Hmm.” He took a long breath from the mask then moved it aside. “So you brought me—what—herbs and knitted things?”
His tone dripped with condescension, each word designed to make her feel foolish. Wren’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but she forced herself to remain calm.
