Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
ISAIAH
“That bruise will fade in a few days. Otherwise, you are the picture of health,” the doctor wraps his stethoscope into a figure eight and tucks it inside his medical bag. “I can write a prescription for the pain.”
“It’s not bothering me too much,” I reply, tugging my tee back on.
Refusing the doc’s offer is easy. Plenty of industry friends have checked into rehab after getting hooked on prescription pain relievers. My shrink is weaning me off anti-depressants and anxiety meds. He warned me about mixing my pills with alcohol when I started taking them.
The drinks I’ve shared with Cassidy are about as much as I’ve imbibed since the summer. Monty, being Monty, replaced my favorite craft beers and mollified me with six-packs of Mountain Dew and Monster Energy during our late night gaming sessions. A slippery slope by themselves, the only other thing that makes my heart race faster is the woman downstairs.
I’d like to enjoy a glass of wine or a bourbon with the meal today, and Cassidy doesn’t need me drunk and disorderly.
Between her reasons for bolting from the Sanchezes and me falling through the ceiling, I’ve done enough to embarrass her. Public appearances matter, and I control what I can of that. However, a year ago, I didn’t really care what anyone thought of me on a personal level. I relied on my PR team to be in charge of my image. Wanting to fit in and make a good impression for her sake is strange.
Although it could also be for my sake, seeing as I’m pulling out all the stops for Cassidy now, knowing I’ll need her forgiveness later.
I escort the doctor out to the landing and thank him for coming. He descends the staircase as a familiar female face dashes up the steps. It takes me a moment to place where I know her from.
“Hey, um , aren’t you Cadence the Knock-out! girl, uh , lady?” I ask the woman.
“I think the word you’re searching for is host. I heard you were kicking around here somewhere.” Cadence winks, looking beyond me to Cassidy’s bedroom with a coy smile.
Pins realign in my brain like a locking mechanism on a bank vault. Cadence Walsh . Like Walsh Security, the company that handles surveillance both at Kingsbrier and at my house in Nashville.
Cris and Jake. Bellamy and Gatlin. Gatlin’s father is a former pro-football player. Gatlin once mentioned Cadence was also his cousin. So, don’t I feel stupid? Cadence’s mother is Colette Strand, the supermodel, who eloped with a security company CTO.
Given the company the Cavanaughs keep, it’s no fucking wonder I can be just Isaiah here. But I regret not falling further down the rabbit hole, clicking on the “people also search for” link under Gatlin’s internet profile.
“Gracyn called you to patch the hole I made in the ceiling. I don’t know if I’m impressed they hired a celebrity expert or mortified.” I slap my forehead.
Cadence chuckles. “Refurbs are my forté and I’m consulting, which is a fancy way of saying, ‘ya gotta get a load of this’.”
I lock my jaw and cringe.
“Don’t worry. It could’ve happened to anybody. We’re glad you weren’t hurt worse, and it seems like Cass is taking good care of you. Anyway, the Tudor is special, and it’s old. Uncle Eric and Uncle Colton’s crews did most of the B&B’s remodeling. They are far more experienced than I am, but I’ll probably stop in to see the progress once the plastering work begins.”
“Then I guess I’ll see you around.”
Cadence exits to inspect the mess I made and I hear my name called from the bottom of the stairs.
“Good morning, Isaiah.” Gracyn is in the foyer, picking apart twisted ornament strings. Meanwhile, she tells her fathers where to place a tall, full Douglas Fir they’re squeezing through the front door.
A third man with salt and pepper hair—who I presume is her husband, Joe, given their interactions—is busy setting up several round tables. I’m certain beyond being the innkeeper, Gracyn taking charge is normal for everyone.
I prefer staying on her good side, so I stop to talk when she asks how I’m doing today. Having to wait for Gracyn’s approval, the three other men surround us, joining our conversation.
I shake Joe, Adam, and Cassidy’s dad’s hands.
Colton Cavanaugh is less weirded out that his younger daughter isn’t present for the introduction than I am. When I mention needing to find her, with the slightest hitch in his gate, Colton offers to help me search. I only take notice because Cassidy’s dad lost his leg before she was born.
“The doctor gave you a clean bill of health?”
I step lightly. “Yes… The confusion my assistant caused… I don’t mind paying for the repairs—”
Colton cuts me off with a shake of his head. “Two thirds board majority. Daveigh, Adam, and I already settled the matter. That’s what insurance is for. Just don’t let the rockstar mentality go to your head and start spray painting the walls of your suite, jumping on the mattress and breaking the bed, or causing any more damage. After everything you’ve been through, we’re glad you’re comfortable staying here, but this is our house. The home we grew up in. The place we’re trying to create lasting memories that carry to the next generation when we’re gone. If you treat our hospitality at Christmastime like Kingsbrier is a truck stop on the way to the next destination, you’re welcome to stay at the seedy motel between here and the highway. Get my drift?”
Damn, if that isn’t the best “don’t fuck with my daughter’s heart” speech without indicating he’s aware Cassidy and I are involved, I’m not sure what is.
Colton grips my shoulders from behind, pushing me into the kitchen. “I found this guy looking for ya, Jelly Bean.”
I’m not sure what I expected to see. But the kitchen bustling with activity proves Colton’s point about the importance of family and traditions around here.
Every burner on the gas stove is lit. The scent of cinnamon from a boiling pot of cider mixes with rosemary and thyme. Cassidy’s mom, Keely, finishes basting a bird, the size of which I’ve never seen, and slides the pan back into the lower oven. She steps aside for Dr. Cavanaugh to put a ham in the top oven. Mrs. Sanchez and Mrs. Ballentine are prepping more food at the kitchen table.
“Hi, Bellamy,” I wave at Gatlin’s wife, who is exiting the side room where the dryer I used is — the summer kitchen Cass calls it—with an armful of red-capped bottles of colorful sprinkles. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“We came over to help with cookie prep,” she tells me, placing the bottles on a sideboard. “Be prepared to go into sugar shock this afternoon.”
The door to the morning porch opens, setting off the chime of the grandmother clock on the wall and distracting her. A shorter woman with white-blonde hair is holding her phone up, chatting in a constant stream.
Bellamy hears a voice she recognizes. She ducks to hug the new woman and says hello to a third woman on the screen, who is holding a toddler with a pink ski cap.
“We miss you and Dash so much, Kat!” Bellamy says.
“Us too.” Kat holds her hand up, promising. “I swear we will be there next year. Christmas isn’t the same without you.”
My attention returns to the door as it opens and closes again. A boy about ten years old toes off his muddy shoes. He gives Colton a high-five, shouting, “Hi, Grandad!” and scampers down the hall. A moment later, I hear him yell “Hi, Grandpa!”. The kid must be Gracyn and Joe’s son.
Kids—some no taller than the countertop—are everywhere. Some with messy faces are in line waiting to have their syrup-sticky fingers wiped. One small boy, rummaging through a plastic tote bin, jumps up and down on a stool.
“Gramma, look. I fown the ginnerbed man cookie cudder!”
Three heads swirl. The way each older woman reacts with pride and pleasure, it’s hard to tell which one of them is his grandmother.
Rhiannon’s camera shutter snaps every-so-often, capturing each moment.
When I’m pretty sure the kitchen can’t get any fuller, more people come from the summer kitchen, holding large stacks of cookie trays.
Christmas at Kingsbrier is a Hallmark movie come to life.
Cassidy is at the center of the activity with a toddler balanced on her hip. Gnawing on a spatula, the happy little girl dances to the sounds all around them.
Cassidy’s big brown eyes are alight as she hovers behind a little girl with thick, dark curls. Instead of taking charge and doing it for her, Cassidy’s showing the child how to stir the food coloring into scratch-made icing. She must not have a ponytail holder nearby because Cass brushes her hair behind her ear. The action leaves a trace of powdered sugar on her cheek.
Bellamy holds her palms out to the toddler, cooing, “Mommy’s all set, Chesnut.” Chesney lurches toward her mother.
I don’t know what it was about Cassidy holding Gatlin and Bellamy’s daughter, but no sooner does Chesney Newhouse leap from Cassidy’s arms than the room stills.
Lucky for me, Cassidy is single. That also means she hasn’t started a family of her own. Strange, since she’s always surrounded by hers. Or maybe not, and perhaps I’m reading into why the woman who has captured my attention doesn’t have ki—
“Did the doctor say something was wrong?” Cassidy looks at me, concerned.
“What? No. Why?” I try to ignore my sinking stomach.
Cassidy wipes her hands on a towel and beckons Keely to take over for her.
“You were frowning.” She runs her thumb between my brows to erase the crease.
Swallowing, I do the same to the sugary smudge on her face. I hadn’t realized my face betrayed my emotions, and I pretend I don’t know what she means.
“I’m fine. Nothing’s broken.”
What a crock.
She snags a Belgian waffle stick from a tray and we move into the hall to talk privately.
Cassidy holds the warm waffle to my lips. I tear off a bite and moan. It tastes amazing. I can’t hold back, and I open my mouth for the rest.
“ Mmm… I thought you didn’t cook on your days off?”
“I didn’t make these, and I’ll ignore my rules when Emeran is excited to bake Christmas cookies.”
We squeeze to the side as another toddler runs past on short legs. Two new adults are in hot pursuit. “Gotcha!” I hear accompanied by a pint-sized squeal of delight.
I laugh lightheartedly because Cassidy beams with pure joy. She glows when she’s happy.
“Where did all these people come from?” I ask.
“It’s not even dinnertime. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Cassidy is close with her niece and nephew. Wilder and Emeran latch onto me when Gracyn introduces me as their aunt’s special company.
Wilder drags me into the living room where the Douglas Fir stands. His dad and grandfathers have strung the lights on the tree. He hands me the garland, thinking because I’m an adult I have a clue what I’m doing.
The room fills with more school-aged kids and the ornaments come out next. All of them seem to know who I am, but don’t treat me like a big shot—something I unfortunately came to expect whenever I was with Kylie. She needed to be the center of attention. The young patients at children’s hospitals aware of her celebrity mesmerized her and received most of her attention.
Wilder directs my placement of the higher ornaments so that I get it right. He refuses to concede the star to Emeran even for her to look at. When we’re finishing, I wind up holding Cassidy’s nephew on my shoulders so Wilder can place it on top.
Afterwards, I try to ignore the protests of tearful babies who disappear at nap time to the suites surrounding mine. The adults toss the older kids out onto the lawn outside the morning porch. The kids choose teams and their parents cheer them on—and sometimes jump in to play—during a game of flag football. All the quints’ grandkids are thrilled to be here. They treat one another more like brothers and sisters. Minus the ones who torment each other like Emeran and Wilder, making it obvious they are actual siblings.
I’m about to pop into the kitchen to grab a drink when Emeran decides she’s done with the game and asks me to help her frost cookies with the flood icing she made with Cassidy earlier. Everyone’s jaws drop. They swear she won’t bake with anyone but her aunt.
Baked and cooled cookies wait for us on the big working table in the summer kitchen along with prefilled tubes of icing. Emeran assures me it’s easy. All I have to do is outline the bottom of the gingerbread men for the pants and use candy buttons for the shirt and eyes.
“But don’t fill in the pants,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask.
Emeran regards me in a because-I-said-so way and replies, “because there’s a different type of icing for that, and too much icing on a gingerbread man is gross.”
“I’m not sure I can do it then. I like gingerbread men with extra frosting.”
“Maybe it’s better if you do the snowflake sugar cookies.” She cringes like I’ve said I dip broccoli in ketchup and she should try it since it’s yum.
The snowflakes get flooded with the runnier icing. My nose close to the table top, I squeeze the tube too hard or not enough. I accidentally ruin the outline with my fat fingers, and when I add the light blue, silver, and sparkly sprinkles, I don’t get it done fast enough. The icing has dried and I have to tap the sprinkles in to get them to stick, leaving fingerprints.
“You’re not very good at grown up stuff.” Emeran says with a giggle.
“I’m not,” I concede, looking at Cassidy when she snorts. She’s leaning against the kitchen wall, watching us. “I’d like to get better.”
A secret smile graces Cassidy’s kissable lips. Her interactions with Chesney earlier made my heart rate accelerate the same way. Is this that elusive feeling? Because I’ve never felt a connection to someone so deeply before.
“Practice makes perfect.” Emeran dabs the icing in three spots and presses on candy buttons. “Keep trying.”
“You’re right.” I refocus on the girl.
“But are you good at anything ?”
“Some say I’m a fair musician.” I shrug.
Emeran glances up from the bowl of candy buttons she’s pulling from. “Uncle Cris can give you music lessons. Gatlin says Uncle Cris is better than anybody at singing and guitars and all that stuff.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“You know what?” she sighs.
“ Hmm... What’s that?” I’m concentrating on making a perfect outline and my tongue is between my lips.
“Unless Auntie teaches you to bake, you’re doomed.”
“I am not.” I scoff. “Do you know why? My favorite dessert is a brownie in a mug.”
“A what?”
“Brownie mix. In a mug. Add water. Press the start button on the microwave. Boom!”
“Is he for real?” Emeran asks Cassidy.
“Him, not sure. The brownie thing can be done.”
“Will you show me?”
“Yes. Maybe you can even come over before Isaiah’s vacation ends and he’ll show you since he’s the expert at microwave brownies. But not today. We have all these amazing cookies to eat.”
Emeran looks at my disfigured stars. “Maybe after dinner. I’m going outside.”
“ Ooof! ” I blow out a breath, standing up from the stool and straightening my spine.
“Back sore?” Cassidy rubs my lower back as she hugs me.
“More like bruised ego.”
“Believe me, you’d know if Emeran was being hard on you. She likes you.”
Cassidy moves away. She outlines a cookie, floods it and pinches some sprinkles between her fingers, making an effortlessly perfect decorated snowflake.
Cadence enters, placing a mug of cider on the table.
“ Oooh! Is that for me?” She nicks the flawless cookie off the rack, and takes a huge bite. “Delish! Are you coming to Newgate for caroling tonight? My mama’s looking for a headcount.”
“Not sure we can.” Cassidy sasses, cheekily. “Emeran told Isaiah he needs voice lessons.”
“Yeah, ya might wanna get on that. I mean, your latest number one is now what, your latest number two?” Cadence wipes crumbs from the countertop.
I shake my head.
“Ooh, sorry, ego.” She winces.
“ Nah, it’s not like that.”
The fall on the charts isn’t new information. My team told me it could only rank for so long without the video and more PR.
What it is, is the playfulness of these women—one of whom can’t be ten-years old—who are showing me there is more to life than taking myself so seriously.
This would not be how my day went had I stayed in Nashville. I’ve done a dozen things I haven’t experienced in God knows how long, if ever.
Seriously, I’ve had a tree, gifts to give, and friends to give them to. But I haven’t had a Christmas Eve this jam-packed or mind-blowing since before I knew the jolly old elf was a gimmick my parents used to get me to go to bed early.
Perhaps the uniqueness is the appeal of celebrating it with Cassidy. Except, I don’t think anything that happens next year can possibly follow it and make a holiday better.
Hours later, I’m still relaxed, having a ton of fun just being Isaiah, and looking forward to caroling after dinner.
The dining room table is set for the quintuplets’ generation and a half dozen round tables with red linens and white china transform the mansion’s foyer into a high-class restaurant… If some place fancy had seating interspersed with a crap ton of booster seats and high chairs.
I search for the embossed gold rose calligraphy place card with my name on it. I’m seated between Rhiannon and Cassidy. Chesney’s high chair separates Cassidy and Bellamy.
“Welcome to the kids’ table!” Gatlin interrupts my train of thought, reaching over the spread to shake my hand. With so many people here, I hardly spoken to him.
“Have you figured out who everyone is?” Bellamy asks. “It took me a while.”
“I, uh, heard there was a test.” I nudge Cassidy’s leg under the table.
Placing my hand on her knee, I squeeze. She turns an adorable shade of pink. Although I think it has more to do with my affection toward her than true embarrassment.
“Need a pencil to write it all down?” Gatlin heckles me.
“I think I got it. Okay, y’all ready for this?” I twist in my chair, pointing from one table to the next and rattling off the four extended family surnames, some of them multiple times, depending on where their cousins are in the room.
They clap for me and Chesney joins in. Up close, the baby’s blue eyes and curls remind me of someone else.
The well of confidence I pull from singing on stage has concealed what I haven’t felt in days.
Regret.