The Meaning in Mistletoe - Rachael Bloome
Chapter 1
Blinking against unwanted tears, Kat Bennet let the soft cotton cloth fall away, revealing a porcelain nativity set. At the sight of the familiar scene, the emotions she’d fought all evening escaped in a strangled sob.
Fern Flores set a plush snowman on the coffee table before reaching over to pat Kat’s hand. “What’s wrong, mija?” The older woman’s motherly endearment only added to Kat’s melancholy. Oh, how she would miss her.
“It’s nothing.” Kat roughly wiped her damp cheeks with her knuckles, annoyed she’d succumbed to her sadness even after promising herself she’d keep it together.
“Nothing?” Fern’s dark eyes narrowed into skeptical slits, accentuating the deep grooves around the edges—her “laugh lines,” as she affectionately called them.
As a self-proclaimed realist, Kat marveled at Fern’s ability to look on the bright side. The kindhearted caretaker could put a positive spin on almost anything—including wrinkles. But Kat knew the telltale creases could come from other avenues besides laughter. In fact, most of the lines that had been etched into her late mother’s hardened features could be traced to the bottom of a bottle—either alcohol or prescription, sometimes worse.
Shoving the bitter memories to the back of her mind where they belonged, Kat focused her gaze on the amber flames flickering in the fireplace, willing the tears away. The rich, velvety timbre of Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” filled the silence as she collected her thoughts. “I can’t believe this might be our last Christmas in this house.”
“Don’t lose hope. There’s still time for a miracle.”
“I suppose so.” Despite her overwhelming doubts, Kat attempted a small smile as she resumed unpacking the Christmas decorations.
She’d try to be strong for Fern’s sake, but it would take more than a miracle to save Hope Hideaway. After losing two of their top donors, the women’s shelter had been bleeding money for months. They’d reached out for help—the small town of Starcross Cove took care of its own—but the entire community was struggling after a coastal storm left several businesses and homes damaged. Mayor Thompson promised to do what she could for the shelter, but her aid would sadly be too little too late. At this rate, Hope Hideaway would have to close by the end of the year.
And yet, Fern still refused to turn anyone away. The large historic beach house with a detached bungalow had maintained full occupancy in all six of its bedrooms, somehow managing to operate on a meager budget. Not that any of the women noticed the financial strain since Fern whipped up the most scrumptious, flavorful meals despite her scant ingredients.
The tantalizing aroma of cinnamon and sugar wafted from the kitchen, causing Kat’s mouth to water. Every December 1, without fail, Fern baked several batches of her famous Christmas cookies—a top secret family recipe she affectionately called Pequeños Milagros or Tiny Miracles, Milagros for short. They were a huge hit among Hope Hideaway residents as well as the community center down the street.
Kat glanced at the clock above the ornate mantel. The women would be back home any minute from their computer science class. That was the other “nonnegotiable” draining their funds. One of the conditions for staying at Hope Hideaway included mandatory classes at the community center, paid for by the shelter. While Kat loved the idea on principle, and even taught a weekly self-defense class, she couldn’t deny the effect on their dwindling bank account.
“Remember this?” Fern unwrapped a small gingerbread house made from polymer clay.
“Of course. How could I forget?” Kat traced the smooth rooftop with her fingertips. Colleen Hannigan’s daughter, Daisy, had made it during their first Christmas at Hope Hideaway. For several weeks, the seven-year-old girl wouldn’t speak or make eye contact with anyone. But when Fern brought out the molding clay one cozy, winter evening, the little girl came alive. The mother-daughter duo stayed for a total of three months, and by the time they’d left, Daisy had transformed into a vibrant, talkative butterfly.
From the first day Hope Hideaway opened its doors, Fern had maintained the same policy—the women could stay as long as they needed, but eventually, they’d have to move on, armed with the necessary skills for a fresh start. No one should hide forever, she always said.
When Fern started the shelter, she had one goal in mind—give the women hope, then help them settle into a home of their own. She even gave each resident a hope chest to begin the process of building a new and better life. And for nearly thirty