Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
“The Dickens Festival is this afternoon. Anyone planning to go?” I ask over a quiet breakfast.
Ivy doesn’t look up, scowling from her corner of the table, her spoon clinking aggressively against her coffee cup. She’s sullen, not the picture of bridal bliss from the day before. Her friends left early for a day of skiing. James sits beside her, but there’s a stiffness in how he leans away.
We have kept a careful distance; the epitome of courteous and friendly. Nothing more than a hello as everyone sat down.
Still, from time to time, when my eyes skirt to that end of the table, I see him staring right back. He watches me as he sips his coffee, finds me when Anna and I laugh. Every time he looks, my stomach reacts, and I squirm at the memory of my fingers in his mouth.
“Sydney.” Margaret brushes my arm.
I blink back to the table. My mother-in-law. Her warm eyes hold a hint of concern. “Sorry. What did you think about going to the festival?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, with the wedding and everything,” Margaret replies.
“If anyone wants to tag along, I’m planning to go.”
I glance around the room, keeping my expression easy, pretending I don’t care who says they’ll come. But I know who I want to join. He won’t, though, not until I tell him I’m in. All in. No more fucking around in. Jules catches me looking and smirks. She knows. Of course she does.
“Aunt Sydney, can we come with you?” Beck looks up from his phone.
I blink, momentarily caught off guard. It’s hard to reconcile Beck and Leo as tweens, so far from the sticky-fingered, babbling toddlers they once were, now with the long, skinny legs of a colt, ready to burst and take off.
Their worlds have expanded beyond their parents, filled now with screens and friends.
Their conversations are quick, their attention split.
Their needs are different. Jules says this stage is more about being present when they invite you in.
Anna, even in her small orbit, is beginning to show her independence.
She has opinions, clear likes, and dislikes.
She chooses who she trusts. One day, she’ll step into her own life.
And loving her will mean giving her space to grow, to fail, to rise.
She won’t need someone to hold her tight.
She’ll need someone who knows when to let her fly.
A mother who shows her how to take risks.
“You bet. Want to leave around eleven?” I smile at Beck and Leo.
They nod, already back to their digital worlds.
Anna slides a bite of pancake to Bell, who rewards her with a slobbery kiss, sending her squealing.
“Anna, don’t feed the dog,” Mason scolds. “It’s not nice table manners.”
“Hush, Mason. Anna can do what she wants,” Gary scolds. “James, what project are you working on out West? Must have been pretty late when you got in last night if you missed all the bachelorette festivities.”
Mason’s eyes shift from me to James. I see the wheels turning, wondering if we saw each other. I do my best to keep heat from rising in my cheeks. Across the table, James clears his throat, his expression unreadable, though I’d bet his thoughts jump to the same place.
“I’ve got a few homes in the design phase outside of L.A.,” he answers, gaze fixed on his coffee, not bothering to acknowledge the rest.
“Mom, do you think we could have chicken parmesan tonight for dinner? Since we all learned it is James’s favorite.” Ivy’s voice slices through the room, sweet and sharp all at once:
The words land hard, and the silence that follows is palpable. The tone. The glance. Her eyes widen, as if she hears what she let slip. Her frustration has broken through the carefully painted veneer. She recovers fast, smile sliding back into place.
“I think it would be nice since your mom and Darrell arrive today. What time do they get in?”
James, unsure of the minefield, tentatively says, “I’m leaving soon to pick them up. Their flight lands at ten.”
“Should I come with you? It’d be nice to meet your mom before everyone swarms her.”
Jules lets out a short, dry laugh. The kind that stings.
“Something you want to say?” Ivy stiffens.
“I think you already know, Ives.” Jules unapologetically doubles down.
And with that, she stands, gathering empty plates, her words ricocheting around the table.
“Jules, I need to speak with you. On the back deck. Now.” Margaret’s tone is firm.
It startles the table into silence, and we watch them walk off, bickering in whispers. The only thing I hear before the back deck door slams is Margaret saying, “Stay out of it. It’s her choice.” On the back deck, Jules’s hands fly, continuing their argument.
With her head held high, Ivy pushes back from the table, giving no ounce of emotion other than her abrupt withdrawal.
Everyone’s eyes stay on their plates.
“Uh oh!” Anna’s cry breaks through as her juice tips over, spilling across the table.
“It’s okay, baby,” I say quickly, grabbing a towel and wiping the mess.
“You’re right, it’s not Anna’s fault. Why can’t you just give her a cup with a lid on it?” Mason presses, his tone as sharp as the glacial tint in his eyes.
“Mama.” Anna lifts her arms, her eyes flashing to Mason, then back to me, almost like she hears the tone in his voice. “Mama, up.”
James pushes back from the table, eyes hard and unyielding. “I’ve gotta go. Airport and such.”
“Guys, remember, we’re leaving at eleven.” I take the escape.
***
It ends up being Anna, the twins, and me heading to the festival.
The boys mumble a goodbye before they dash to the hot chocolate stand and vintage game arcade. Jules has given them the green light to roam the quaint village together.
Anna walks beside me, mittened hand in mine, her little boots crunching over the snow as we make our way to the bookshop.
The village is a winter fantasy land. Light poles are wrapped in evergreen garland, glass ornaments swaying gently in the crisp breeze, the air rich with the scent of chocolate and chestnuts.
Last-minute holiday shoppers slip in and out of shops.
Kids run, occasionally pelting each other with snowballs. Families wander, sipping hot chocolate.
The alluring combination of cinnamon, orange, cloves, and paper hits first as we walk into the bookshop.
Today, the train table is its own snowy miniature wonderland. Animal figurines gather in family clusters. Bear cubs with two moms, kittens with two dads, puppies with a single mom—some with full extended families, others with only adults and no little ones.
It’s this simple display, built for little hands and make-believe, that brings everything into focus.
Families aren’t made from blueprints and legal documents. They’re built in the quiet, ordinary moments: who shows up, who loves without conditions. Family is who keeps choosing you, over and over, without ever needing to be asked.
I’m still standing there when I hear Anna’s unmistakable cry of delight.
“Unca J!”
My head snaps up.
And there he is.
James stands inside the doorway, Vera beside him, Darrell next to her.
Vera’s eyes soften the moment she sees me, wrapping me in a tight hug. Her sweater is soft against my cheek, carrying the faint scent of her smoky perfume. She holds me for a long moment, clinging to more than a greeting.
Her eyes shine with tears when she finally pulls back.
“When James mentioned this little festival, I had to see it for myself.” Vera dabs at the tear slipping down her cheek.
She turns to Anna, half-hidden behind my legs in her boots, leggings, and the ballet tutu she insists on wearing everywhere, a shy smile at the corners of her lips. They always play this game.
“I see a beautiful ballerina, but where is Anna?” Vera looks around theatrically.
“I’m here, Miss Vera.” Anna jumps forward, her little hands reaching high into the air.
Vera gasps, feigning surprise. “Oh my. You’ve grown so much since I last saw you!”
Anna twirls and runs straight to James. He crouches as if drawn by instinct, arms open, smile wide. She goes straight to him. No hesitation. A trust so implicit, so unwavering it stings—because to her, there’s no question of right or wrong. She knows James will be there.
“You got her? I’m going to go find a book.”
Weaving through the shelves, I don’t see the books; I just need space.
The twinkling lights guide me deeper into the shop, the soft hum of laughter and the rhythmic chug of the train following behind.
My fingers trail along the spines, feeling the grooves and worn edges, the scuff of leather and cloth, the shiny hardcovers and soft paperbacks.
My hand falls still. Nestled between two glossy hardbacks is a familiar cover: Little Women.
The same book Madame Rousseau once wrapped, tucking a piece of hope into my empty hands.
The book I clutched that Christmas morning when no one else noticed I was there—my escape into the March family’s messy, imperfect, fiercely loving world.
When I met the Wallises, I thought maybe I’d found my own version. A family to belong to, a place to feel wanted. But it wasn’t real. Mason was never the warmth or freedom I dreamed of.
He’s the safety of a cage.
I clutch the book to my chest, blinking back tears as my gaze wanders to the front of the shop.
James sits with Anna curled against his chest, both of them lost in a book.
His smile is wide and easy. Anna throws her arms in the air as they laugh together over the story.
Nearby, Vera and Darrell lean in, their smiles warm with affection.
James glances up, as if he can feel me watching. “Hot chocolate next?”
I nod, because I can’t speak. Because that image is the opposite of a cage. It’s… everything.
“I actually want to check out the boutique next door,” Vera says. “I’ll be a minute. Darrell, want to come? You guys go ahead and we’ll catch up.”
James lifts Anna, settling her against his hip.
His other hand finds the small of my back.
Our eyes meet, and I see the same quiet decision in his gaze, mirroring my own.
He wants to stretch this into eternity, too.
We meander toward the hot chocolate stand where Scrooge, resplendent in full Dickensian garb, hands out steaming cups.
The hot chocolate is legendary: rich, velvety, crowned with clouds of freshly whipped cream and delicate curls of chocolate that melt on your tongue.
“Bah! Humbug!” Scrooge bellows as we approach, his face contorting into a theatrical scowl that doesn’t hide the mirth beneath. He hands us each a cup with a grand flourish, then pauses, studying us with eyes that twinkle.
“Now, don’t forget what old Scrooge learned,” he says. “There’s nothing richer than time spent with the ones who make you feel at home. Merry Christmas to you all.”
I nod my thanks. James’s lips lift, pleased by the illusion Scrooge handed us. This small window into the family he promised we could be. I should ignore the flutter in my chest. I should.
But I’m so damned tired of the lie.