My Kind of Christmas (Virgin River #20)(55)

“How are you, Mom?” she said.

“Excellent, out shopping. But how about you?”

She explained the exciting success of her first week on the trail of money. “I can’t tell you how the look on Megan’s face made my heart beat. She looked so hopeful, so thrilled. I made so much progress, I’m going to schedule the surgery. There’s no doubt I can make this happen.”

“Oh, Angie, you must be so proud! What a wonderful way to spend a vacation!”

“Complete accident, but I agree. Nothing makes a person feel more worthwhile than being able to lend a hand.”

“And so you are! This plays right into your future plans to make a full-time commitment to lending a hand.”

Angie was silent. “Right,” she said, thoroughly baffled by her mother’s support. “Though I’m not quite sure how yet. That’s going to take research and application.”

“But there is no doubt in my mind you’ll find the best possible route.”

“All right,” Angie said. “You’re being completely supportive of an idea you hate. What’s wrong?”

Donna laughed. “Listen, we had a tough go for a while, you and I. I attribute my less-than-ideal behavior to stress and fear—something you’ll understand one day when you’re a mother. And I know you won’t believe this, but I realize I’m a strong personality....”

“Oh, really?” she asked with a laugh.

“We’ll have a frank discussion about that after you try managing a home, three daughters, three hundred students, a husband and a dean.”

Angie laughed.

“Three brilliant daughters who are so easily bored they mix chemicals…”

“Right, I get it, Mom.”

“And of the three, I have to get one who’s gifted in science, one in music, one in athletics. I teach journalism—did I get a writer among you?”

“You’re completely right—you’ve been screwed.”

“Ange, I miss you. Not just because you’re there in Virgin River, but because even when we were under the same roof, we were estranged. At odds. I want us to get beyond that. I take responsibility—I’ve been overbearing. You’re an adult, so I’m officially backing off.”

“Okay, you’re really scaring me now. How’s your health? Do you have a fever?”

Donna laughed. “Never better. My blood pressure is even down a little.”

“No more talk about the psychiatrist?”

“Listen, if you ever sense you’re having trouble with focus or memory or cognition, please let me know so we can get help with that before…” Donna took a breath. “No more. I’m leaving that to you. Unless there’s an emergency, of course.”

“Wow. Did my leaving town make this happen?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “That and having you hang up on me. A lot.”

“Mom,” Angie dared. “I’m going to do things you don’t always want me to do. I’m going to make decisions you sometimes don’t agree with. You may even be right in your advice, but that doesn’t matter to me. It’s time I learned a few things on my own. Can you understand?”

“I can,” she said. “But, Angie, please be patient with me. I’m doing my best. And I swear to God, you will have a child one day and you’ll want that child to excel and have joy and never be hurt. It will sometimes put you on opposite sides. It’s not easy. It’s not.”

Angie was silent for a long stretch before she said, “It matters an awful lot to me that you’re trying. I appreciate that.”

* * *

There was hardly a person alive who didn’t find a visit to Jilly Farms purely magical. The big old Victorian on ten acres of farmland had roads leading around and through the various plots, sheds, greenhouses and fields, which were separated by snow-covered trees. The house was decorated for Christmas outside and in; Colin’s artwork gracing the walls in every room except one—the lone painting in the dining room was a modern rendition of a Native American woman and child done by a friend of his, a famous artist.

Patrick drove Angie around the grounds in what Colin called the gardenmobile. They went inside greenhouses and marveled at indoor winter gardens. There were inactive steppe gardens on the hill, presently snow covered, but from March and April planting until September harvest they were covered with plants and vines. Fruit trees bordered the property; berry bushes separated gardens.

But even more fun than the house and land were the people. The kitchen was full of women—Jilly, Kelly, Kelly’s step-daughter Courtney, Becca Cutler, whose young husband was Jilly’s assistant and partner, and Shelby Riordan. Kelly, she learned, was a chef and she was the one directing the activity.

“I can help,” Angie offered.

“Do you bake?” Kelly asked.

“Sure. Miserably.”

They all laughed. “Then partner up with Courtney—she’s getting scary good at this stuff at fifteen. She’s working on sweet bread rolls—the biggest, softest, most delicious rolls in California—my great-grandmother’s recipe.”

“Right over here,” Courtney invited, calling Angie down to the end of the work island. “Roll the dough balls about this size and we load them in the pan like so. Last fall Kelly, Jilly and I made tons and tons of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread and cranberry bread. Most of it we’ll thaw for the Christmas baskets.”