Unbreakable (Cloverleigh Farms, #4)(6)

I told myself to be grateful for what I did have—a nice house, a great job, some good friends. Sure, my sex life was depressing as fuck and my first Christmas alone was going to be hard, but I’d get through it. Maybe I’d buy myself a present—a new truck, a nicer watch, a fishing boat.

At the very least, a subscription to a better porn site.

I was going to need it.





Three





Sylvia





One week after the Breakfast with Santa debacle, the kids and I caught a 5:50 A.M. flight to Salt Lake City, then a 9:35 A.M. flight to Detroit before finally hopping on a small plane that took us to Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City. By the time my dad picked us up, we’d been traveling for almost ten hours. We were exhausted, grouchy, and starving.

“Should we stop for dinner on the way home?” I asked him as we waited for our mountain of luggage. Each of us had two huge suitcases, and what winter clothing we hadn’t been able to fit in those, I’d boxed up and shipped here. Once the house sold, I’d have to go back and ship our summer things. I planned on leaving almost everything else in the house for Brett to deal with—I wanted no reminder of my old life here.

“Nope, your mom was ordering pizza when I left the house. Should be there by the time we get back. And she’s all excited about baking cookies with the kids tonight.” He put an arm around Whitney and squeezed her tight. “We’re so glad you guys are here. Did I tell you I bought a new sleigh?”

Whitney beamed up at him with her bright red lips. “The kind the horses pull?”

“Yep. This one is even bigger—it’s got three rows of seats, so you can take a ride together with your cousins. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Yes, it does.” I smiled, even as my throat tightened, overwhelmed with gratitude and relief at coming home. “Thanks, Daddy.”

My parents had said we could stay at Cloverleigh Farms as long as we needed to, and they certainly had the room. Back when I was growing up, it had been just a small family farm, but in the last thirty years, my parents had expanded the farmhouse into a thirty-room inn with a bar and restaurant. In addition, there was now a winery, tasting room, a brand new distillery, and it was consistently named one of the top wedding venues in the state. My sister April was the event planner, and I’d never seen anyone bring a bride’s vision to life the way she could. My sister Chloe was the new CEO, slowly easing into the position as my dad “retired” at a snail’s pace.

“Is anyone else coming to dinner?” I asked as we started on the thirty-minute drive from the airport to the farm.

“I think April might come by.”

“No wedding tonight?” I was surprised, since Saturday nights were always booked.

“It was an afternoon wedding, so she thought she’d be done around seven. But the whole family is coming for Sunday dinner tomorrow, and then we’ll have the big party at the inn on Tuesday.”

I nodded. My parents always threw a big Christmas Eve party at the inn for staff, extended family, and close friends. It had been a few years since I’d attended one, since Brett had preferred Aspen to Cloverleigh Farms for the holidays, but I remembered them from my youth as warm, noisy, fun gatherings full of people in high spirits. Part of me was looking forward to it and part of me dreaded having to explain over and over again where Brett was.

But that would be my reality, at least for a while.

When we pulled up to the house, I got a little teary-eyed at seeing it blanketed with snow and covered in lights. It was beautiful and familiar, reminding me of Christmases from my childhood—I’d missed it.

My mom misted up as well when she greeted us, and she gave me an extra long hug. “It’s going to be okay, darling,” she whispered, squeezing me tight. “You’re home now. You belong here.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I hoped with all my heart she was right.





Later, April and I snuck over to the bar at the inn for a glass of wine, and I told her about Breakfast with Santa.

“Wait—you did what?” Seated across the high-top table from me, April paused with her glass halfway to her mouth.

“I got drunk at Breakfast with Santa, dumped a pitcher of ice water in Brett’s lap, took the mic right out of jolly old St. Nick’s hand, made a kid cry, and told the entire country club not to be an asshole.” I cringed. “Then I said ‘peace out’ and dropped the mic.”

She burst out laughing. “You did not!”

“I did,” I admitted, wrinkling my nose. “It was pretty bad.”

“What possessed you?”

I told her the news about Kimmy’s pregnancy, how she’d said terrible things about me in public, how my former friends had failed to have my back. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” I said. “I’ve kept my cool this whole time, but I finally had to let it out.”

“I don’t blame you. How did the kids react?”

“I’m sure they were embarrassed, but neither of them wanted to talk about it when they got home.”

She shrugged. “Well, parents have been embarrassing their children since the beginning of time. They’ll live. They might need therapy,” she added, “but they’ll live.”