Chapter 14 Christina
CHRISTINA
The cake was three tiers of buttercream with fresh blueberries and strawberries, and it was the most beautiful thing Christina had ever wanted to cry over.
She pressed her fingernails into her palm beneath the table, forcing a smile as Tara set the cake in the center of the display.
The cottage living room was so pretty—streamers in soft lavender and mint, mason jars stuffed with wildflowers on every surface, a banner that read “Welcome Baby Violet” strung across the windows.
Through those windows, dark clouds gathered over the mountains, the air thick and electric with the promise of an afternoon storm.
“You okay, honey?” Tara touched her shoulder, voice low beneath the chatter of the dozen women filling the room.
“I’m fine.” Christina widened her smile until it hurt. “It’s perfect. All of it.”
And it was perfect. That was the problem. Every ribbon, every hand-stitched gift, every woman who’d shown up to celebrate Violet’s arrival—it was more than Christina had any right to expect. More than she deserved, given the secret sitting heavy in her chest.
Ally appeared at her elbow with a glass of lemonade, ice cubes clinking. “Drink. You look pale.”
“I’m eight and a half months pregnant. I’m just tired all the time. But I’m not pale.” She mock-scowled at her sister. “I have a great tan, thank you very much.”
“You do, you’re glowing, but you still look exhausted.” Ally pressed the glass into her hand. “And your ankles are swelling. Put your feet up when you can.”
Christina took a sip, the tartness cutting through the sweetness lingering on her tongue from the appetizers she’d been sampling.
Across the room, Emily was settling into the armchair by the fireplace, baby Grace nestled in the crook of her arm.
The baby was almost five months old now, all round cheeks and tiny fists, and every time Christina looked at her, her stomach clenched.
That would be her soon. With a baby in her arms, a whole new life depending on her for everything. A life without a father.
“Present time!” Mary called out, clapping her hands. She’d come straight from Spilled Milk, still wearing her green apron with the goat logo, her red hair up in a bun, and had immediately taken charge of organizing the gift table. “Christina, get over here before the storm hits and we lose power.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The scent of rain had been building all morning, mixing with the sugar-and-butter smell of the cake and the coffee brewing in the kitchen.
Christina lowered herself onto the loveseat that had been designated as her throne for the afternoon, arranging a pillow behind her aching back. The baby shifted inside her, pressing against her bladder with what felt like deliberate timing.
“Hold on, Violet,” she murmured, rubbing the spot where a tiny foot bulged against her side. “Let Mama open some presents first.”
The first gift was from Louise, who owned the yarn shop in town—a hand-knitted blanket in soft lavender, the stitches perfectly even. “My grandmother taught me the pattern,” she explained, her hands folded in her lap. “Every baby in my family has had one just like it.”
Christina ran her fingers over the yarn, soft as clouds, and had to blink hard to keep her composure. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
More gifts followed. A mobile made of painted wooden birds from Francesca.
A set of organic cotton onesies from one of the other shop owners downtown.
Diapers—so many diapers and bottles—from practical neighbors who knew what new mothers actually needed.
Each present came with a story, a piece of advice, a warm hand squeezing hers.
“My mother always said the first six weeks are survival mode,” said Linda from the hardware store. “Don’t try to be perfect. Just keep the baby fed and yourself sane.”
“Sleep when the baby sleeps,” added someone else. “I know everyone says it, but they say it because it’s true.”
“And accept help,” Dora chimed in from her spot by the window, where she’d been watching the approaching storm.
Sam’s grandmother had dressed up for the occasion in a flowing purple caftan, silver jewelry catching the dim light.
“Mountain women have always raised babies together. It’s how we survived. No mother should have to do it alone.”
Christina’s throat closed up. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Emily caught her eye from across the room and smiled—a knowing, sympathetic smile that said I remember feeling overwhelmed too. Grace fussed, and Emily shifted her to the other arm with practiced ease.
“Here.” Emily crossed to Christina’s loveseat, settling beside her. Up close, Christina could smell baby powder and that faint, sweet scent that seemed to cling to all newborns. “Can I show you something? About holding her when she’s fussy?”
“Please.”
Emily adjusted Grace against her shoulder, demonstrating a gentle bouncing rhythm. “This saved my life at two in the morning. She had colic for the first six weeks—I thought I was going to lose my mind. But this motion right here—it was the only thing that worked.”
Christina watched Emily’s hands, the way she supported Grace’s neck, the ease in her movements. “Does it get easier?”
“Yes, and no.” Emily laughed softly. “You get better at it. The panic fades. But there are always new challenges.” She glanced at Christina’s belly. “Have you thought about what you’ll do when she’s born? For help, I mean. Evan and I could come by whenever you need—”
“I’ll manage.” The words came out sharper than Christina intended. She softened her voice. “I mean, thank you. I know everyone will help. I just...”
Emily nodded, not pushing. “The offer stands. Any time, day or night. I mean it.”
Ally returned with a large basket wrapped in cellophane and tied with a mint green ribbon. “Okay, this one’s from me.” She set it in Christina’s lap, the weight of it substantial. “Open it.”
Christina untied the ribbon and peeled back the cellophane, revealing an array of jars and bottles nestled in tissue paper.
Honey in different varieties—wildflower, clover, something amber and dark labeled “autumn harvest.” Beeswax candles.
A tin of honey lip balm. Lotion that smelled faintly of lavender when Christina unscrewed the cap.
“The honey’s good for energy when you’re exhausted,” Ally explained. “And the lotion—it’s my own recipe. Honey and shea butter. Good for stretch marks, dry skin, cracked...” She waved vaguely at her own chest. “Everything that postpartum does to your body.”
“Ally.” Christina looked up at her sister, at the pride and nervousness mingling on her face. “You made all of this?”
“The labels were Sam’s design. But yeah, the products are mine.” Ally shrugged, but she was smiling. “I’ve been testing recipes for months. You’re my first official gift basket.”
Christina leaned over and pulled her sister into a hug. Ally’s arms came around her, mindful of the belly between them, and for a moment she let herself lean into the comfort of it.
“Thank you,” she whispered against Ally’s shoulder.
“You’re going to be a great mom,” Ally whispered back. “Violet is lucky to have you.”
Christina pulled away, blinking rapidly. “I need the bathroom. Sorry.”
She didn’t wait for a response, just waddled toward the hallway as fast as her body would allow. Behind her, she heard Tara saying something about pregnancy bladders, the other women laughing in easy understanding.
The bathroom door closed behind her with a soft click. Christina locked it, pressed her back against the wood, and let the tears come.
Outside, rain began to patter against the window, light at first, then harder. The storm had arrived. Thunder cracked, closer now, and the lights flickered once before steadying.
She sank onto the closed toilet lid, hands cradling her belly. Violet stirred, responding to the change in position or maybe to the emotion flooding Christina’s body. The baby had been more active lately, her movements stronger and more deliberate, as if she was getting ready to meet the world.
A world without a father. All she’d ever wanted was to get married, have babies, and be a mom. Guess she was starting at the end.
“I’m sorry,” Christina whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, baby girl. You deserve better than this. You deserve—”
What? A father who didn’t know she existed? A man whose family would probably try to take her away, wrap her in lawyers and money until Christina had no rights left at all?
She thought about Marco’s face in the tabloids—those green eyes that would probably show up in her daughter someday, that smile she still saw in her dreams. He’d been so different that night in Miami.
Real. Human. He’d made her laugh until her stomach hurt, had listened to her like her words actually mattered, had touched her like she was something precious.
They’d clicked in a way she’d never connected with anyone else.
But that wasn’t the real Marco Castellano. That was one night, a fantasy, a beautiful lie they’d both agreed to tell.
The real Marco dated models and actresses. He was a model, came from a family worth billions. The real Marco would never choose a girl like her—and even if he did, even if some miracle occurred and he wanted to be part of Violet’s life, his family would destroy her.
“I’ll be enough,” she told Violet, pressing her palm flat against the spot where the baby was kicking. “I’ll love you enough for two parents. I promise.”
A soft knock on the door made her jump.
“Christina?” Sam’s voice, quiet and hesitant. “Are you okay? Mrs. Bedford sent me to check.”
Christina grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m fine. Just—give me a minute.”
“I left my present on the chair by the window. You don’t have to open it with everyone watching if you don’t want to. But I wanted you to know it’s there.”