to come back at her, to deride her choices, but instead Gayle swallowed hard.
“I think it’s best if I go back indoors. I feel a little tired. It’s the cold air.” She turned and stumbled along the forest trail that led back to the house, leaving Ella feeling hot with frustration and misery, but also strong. She’d said what needed to be said. Yes, it was hard doing that, but that didn’t mean it was wrong.
For the first time in her life, she’d insisted that her mother respect her choices. She felt furious, but also empowered.
But none of those feelings changed the fact that the chances of having a happy Christmas were looking less likely by the minute.
Gayle
She’d been trying so hard to change, and it mattered so much that she did. There was a delightful simplicity to being with her granddaughter. Maybe it was because they had no history. It really was a fresh start, and that freshness—that feeling that this truly was a second chance—had infected Gayle with optimism. But she’d made a mistake. In that one fatal moment she’d been her old self, not the self she’d promised herself she’d be in order to glue together those fractured family bonds. It turned out that change was nowhere near as easy as she made it sound in her books. Right now it felt as painful as having a sharp object stuck in her side. Her old self had shoved her new self out of the way when confronted by something as contentious as Santa. Now she wished she’d said nothing, or at least murmured something vague.
Christmas had always been a breaking point in their family.
She’d found it difficult—impossible in fact—to pretend. And Ella didn’t understand. Why would she? Gayle had never told the truth. And Ella had always been impulsive and dreamy. Oblivious to the dark that lurked at the edges of the happiest life.
Santa? Flying reindeer? Not in the life she’d lived.
Gayle stumbled through the front door of the lodge, desperate to reach her room. Her throat ached. Her eyes stung. She hadn’t cried for decades. And yet here she was, ready to bawl like a baby. It was because she was tired and despondent. Her carefully constructed, familiar life no longer fitted, and this new life didn’t seem to fit, either. It was as if she’d tried to squeeze herself into someone else’s clothes.
She put a foot on the stairs and heard her name.
“Gayle!” Mary’s voice came from behind her, low and lilting, full of warmth. “I’ve just made tea and baked cookies. Would you come and sample it?”
The sanctuary of her bedroom lay round two turns of the wide staircase. There was a lock on the door. A view of the mountains. She could use the space to recalibrate and figure out how to handle this latest setback.
Was this it? Had she ruined everything before it had properly begun?
“Gayle? Is everything all right?” The kindness in Mary’s voice was more appealing than the judgmental silence of her room.
Right now, she didn’t like herself very much. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone.
She blinked several times and then turned. “Did you say cookies?”
Mary McIntyre wore an apron tied around her broad waist, and there was a dusting of flour on the sleeve of her sweater.
This was the mother she should have been, Gayle thought. This was the mother her girls had deserved. Soft and rounded, radiating warmth like a blazing log fire. Instead they’d had Gayle, whose softness had been worn away by life.
Feeling weak and tired, she walked with Mary, following the delicious smells of baking. The kitchen was at the back of the house. It was a large room with windows overlooking the mountains. A room filled with sunlight, heat and family history. There were coats hanging on pegs, and boots lined up by the door. The large stove kicked out warmth. Everything about the place was comforting, from the herbs on the windowsill to the stack of neatly folded tea towels on the freshly scrubbed countertop.
One glance told Gayle that this place was a haven, the very heart of the home.
Every available surface was covered. Pies lay cooling on wire racks, the pastry thick and golden. Muffins, their domed tops studded with berries, were lined up alongside slabs of sugar-dusted shortbread. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and chocolate, of warmth and love.
“You’ve been busy. Are you expecting extra guests?”
“No. I may have overdone it, but baking helps me.” Mary opened a cupboard