After a minute she said:
“But not all the time.”
“No.”
“That would make Mom mad.”
Daniel laughed softly.
“Yes.”
“She hated sulking.”
“She really did.”
They sat quietly.
Across the county, Claire Whitmore drove through the gates of her estate at nine twenty-seven.
The house manager, Margaret Ellis, waited inside.
“Ms. Whitmore, we were worried.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The roads—”
“Car problem.”
“Do you need me to call service?”
“Tomorrow.”
Margaret took Claire’s coat.
Then noticed the paper bag.
“That’s charming.”
Claire looked down.
Hand-drawn Christmas trees.
Green ribbon.
One corner damp from snow.
“A little girl gave it to me.”
Margaret smiled.
“Then I suspect it’s valuable.”
Claire looked at her.
Margaret had worked for the family for eight years and had learned exactly how far she could go.
Claire carried the bag into the kitchen.
The mansion had been decorated professionally.
Two Christmas trees.
Garlands.
White lights.
Fresh flowers.
A dining room table set for twelve even though nobody would sit there.
Claire’s mother had died four years earlier.
Her father, seven.
She had no siblings.
She had been married once.
Briefly.
Andrew had liked the idea of marrying Claire Whitmore more than the life itself.
The divorce was quiet, expensive, and unsurprising.
Since then, Claire had filled holidays with work.
There was always work.
A company her father had built from a regional manufacturing firm into a national home-goods corporation.
Thirty-two thousand employees.
Facilities in eleven states.
Retail partnerships across North America.
Whitmore Home & Living.
Claire became chief executive six years earlier.
Under her leadership, revenue grew.
Debt fell.
New distribution centers opened.
Business magazines described her as disciplined.
Demanding.
Strategic.
Nobody described her Christmas Eves.
Claire placed Emily’s cookies on a china plate.
She took one.
A crooked angel.
The icing face appeared worried.
Daniel had been right.
She bit into it.
Cinnamon.
Ginger.
Brown sugar.
Something inside her tightened.
Her mother had baked gingerbread every December.
Not beautiful gingerbread.
Too dark around the edges.
Uneven icing.
Claire used to complain that one cookie always tasted stronger because her mother never measured cloves accurately.
She had not thought about those cookies in years.
She ate the entire angel standing alone in a kitchen large enough for a restaurant staff.
Then another.
Margaret appeared at the doorway wearing her coat.
“I’m heading home.”
Claire looked toward her.
“Margaret.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you still here?”
“I wanted to make sure you arrived safely.”
Claire felt unexpectedly ashamed.
Margaret had grandchildren waiting.
“You should’ve left.”
“I’m leaving now.”
Claire nodded.
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Ms. Whitmore.”
Margaret started away.
“Margaret.”
She turned.
“Take tomorrow off.”
A smile.
“I already have tomorrow off.”
Claire laughed quietly.
“Then take Monday.”
“Thank you.”
After Margaret left, the mansion became completely silent.
Claire carried the cookie plate into the living room.
The largest tree stood nearly fourteen feet tall.
A designer had selected the ornaments.
Everything matched.