Chapter 14 Christina #2
The sound of her footsteps retreated down the hall.
Sam was blooming since she’d found out she had a grandmother.
She’d been going to counseling to deal with the anger over her parents’ abandonment, their drug addiction, overdoses, and their deaths, but the kid was doing great.
She hoped Violet would be a strong young woman, resilient and kind as she grew up.
Christina finished cleaning up her face as best she could, splashing cold water on her cheeks and taking several deep breaths.
When she finally opened the door, the party had continued without her—women chatting and laughing, eating cake and drinking lemonade and tea, the storm raging outside but everyone cozy and warm inside.
She spotted Sam’s present immediately. A flat, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper, leaning against the chair by the window. Christina crossed to it, ignoring the curious looks, and carefully peeled back the paper.
The painting was small—maybe twelve inches square—but the colors stopped her cold. The lake at sunset, with the water reflecting golds and pinks and purples, the mountains rising soft and blue in the background. A single rowboat floated near the shore, empty but waiting.
“It’s how I see Blueberry Hill and especially the lake,” Sam said, appearing at her elbow. The teenager twisted her hands together nervously. “That feeling of... I don’t know. Like home is waiting for you. Like no matter what happens, this place will always be here.”
Christina stared at the painting, at the soft, hopeful colors, at the peace Sam had somehow captured in oil and canvas.
“It’s for Violet’s nursery,” Sam added. “So she’ll always know where she belongs.”
The tears were back, but this time Christina didn’t try to hide them. She pulled Sam into a one-armed hug, the painting held carefully in her other hand.
“It’s absolutely perfect,” she managed. “Thank you.”
Over Sam’s shoulder, she caught Tara watching them, her mother’s eyes bright with unshed tears. The storm was still pounding against the windows, rain streaking down the glass in silver sheets.
Tara appeared with a slice of cake, pressing it into Christina’s free hand. “Eat. You’re growing a human.”
Christina took a bite. Buttercream and fruit, sweet and tart at once. The baby kicked again, hard enough to make Christina wince.
“She likes blueberries and strawberries,” Ally observed, grinning.
“She likes everything.” Christina rubbed the spot where Violet’s foot had connected with her ribs. “I think she’s going to be trouble.”
“All the best ones are.” Dora had joined their little cluster by the window, purple caftan swishing as she moved.
“Now, let me tell you about the blessing my grandmother used to give to expectant mothers. It’s an old mountain tradition—we’ll need some honey and a candle, and ideally we’d do it at sunset, but I suppose the storm makes that complicated. ..”
Dora was already reaching for one of Ally’s beeswax candles, her silver bracelets jingling as she moved. “Now, the honey Everyone gather close—this works best when the mother feels surrounded by her people.”
The other women exchanged glances—some curious, some knowing—but they drifted toward the window where Christina sat, forming a loose circle. The storm still raged outside, rain streaming down the glass in silver ribbons.
“Is this some kind of spell?” Linda from the hardware store asked, though she didn’t sound opposed to the idea.
Dora laughed, the sound warm and throaty. “Nothing so dramatic. Just an old way of welcoming a baby into the community. My grandmother did it for my mother, and my mother did it for me. We mountain women have always known that it takes more than one person to raise a child.”
She lit the beeswax candle, and the flame caught, sending the sweet scent of honey into the air. It mingled with the smell of rain and the lingering sugar from the cake, creating something that felt almost sacred.
“Christina, honey, give me your hands.”
Christina set down her plate and offered her palms. Dora’s fingers were dry and papery, surprisingly strong as they wrapped around hers.
“Now close your eyes.”
She obeyed suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. The only sounds were the rain against the windows and the distant rumble of thunder moving away over the mountains.
“We’re going to pass the light around,” Dora said, her voice taking on a rhythmic quality. “Each woman will hold the candle for a moment and think of one thing she wishes for this baby. You don’t have to say it out loud—the light carries the intention.”
Christina heard the soft shuffle of movement, felt the subtle shift in the air as the candle made its way around the circle. The warmth of it passed close to her face once, twice, as different women held it near.
“Now,” Dora said, “we seal the blessing with sweetness.”
Something cool and smooth touched Christina’s lips—a spoon, she realized, with honey. The taste spread across her tongue, rich and floral, Ally’s wildflower harvest from early summer.
“Repeat after me,” Dora said. “I receive this blessing for my daughter.”
“I receive this blessing for my daughter.” Christina’s voice came out rough, thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.
“I accept the love of this community.”
“I accept the love of this community.”
“I will not carry my burdens alone.”
Christina’s throat closed. The words stuck there, sharp-edged and impossible.
Because she was carrying her burden alone—had chosen to, was still choosing to every single day.
These women thought they knew her, thought they were blessing a baby whose only complication was an absent father.
They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know about Marco, about the secret that grew heavier with every kind word and handmade gift.
“Christina?” Dora’s voice was gentle. “You can open your eyes.”
She did, blinking against the sudden brightness of the candle flame. The circle of women watched her with such tenderness, such genuine care, that it made her chest ache.
“I will not carry my burdens alone,” she finally managed.
Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was hope. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Dora released her hands and cupped Christina’s face, her palms warm from holding the candle. “There now. That baby knows she’s wanted. That’s the most important thing any child can know.”
The candle went out—a gust from somewhere, or maybe just the end of its purpose—and the spell broke.
Women began talking again, reaching for more cake, commenting on how the rain was finally letting up.
Through the window, Christina could see patches of blue breaking through the clouds, late afternoon sun turning the wet grass to gold.
“That was beautiful,” Emily said quietly, settling Grace against her shoulder.
Christina nodded, not trusting her voice. The taste of honey lingered on her tongue.
Sam appeared at her elbow again. “Are you okay? You looked like you were going to cry during the blessing.”
“Happy tears,” Christina said. Another lie, but a small one. “Thank you again for the painting. It’s going right above Violet’s crib.”
“I can help you hang it, if you want. I’m pretty good with a hammer.”
“I’d like that.”
Tara began gathering wrapping paper and ribbon, stuffing it into a garbage bag while Ally stacked empty plates.
The party was winding down, guests trickling toward the door with hugs and last-minute advice.
Christina pushed herself up from the loveseat, her back protesting, and began the slow process of saying goodbye to each woman who’d come to celebrate her daughter.
By the time the last car pulled away, the cottage was quiet except for the drip of water from the eaves and the distant call of birds emerging after the storm. Christina stood at the window, one hand on her belly, watching the clouds break apart over the mountains.
“You should rest,” Tara said, coming up behind her. “That was a lot of excitement.”
“In a minute.” Christina traced a droplet’s path down the glass. “Mom? Do you think... do you think Violet will be okay? Without a father, I mean. Do you think she’ll have enough?”
Tara was quiet for a long moment. “I think she’ll have more love than she knows what to do with. And I think—” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I think whatever you’re carrying, whatever you’re not telling us, you don’t have to carry it forever. When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”
Christina’s hand stilled on the glass. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know.” Tara kissed the top of her head. “Get some rest. You’ve got two weeks until that baby comes, and you’re going to need your strength.”
Two weeks. Christina watched her mother carry the last of the gifts to the nursery, listened to her footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the old cottage settling around them. Outside, a rainbow was forming over the lake, pale and perfect against the clearing sky.
Violet kicked hard enough to make Christina gasp.
“I know,” she murmured, rubbing the spot. “I know, baby girl. Soon.”
She should probably eat something else, drink more water, and put her feet up like everyone kept telling her. Instead, she stood at the window and watched the colors fade as the sun dropped lower, thinking about blessings and secrets and the weight of all the things she couldn’t say.
Her back had been aching all day—she’d blamed it on the loveseat, on sitting too long—but now the pain sharpened, a band of pressure that wrapped around her middle and squeezed.
Probably nothing. Braxton Hicks, maybe. She was still two weeks out.
Christina pressed her hand flat against her belly and felt Violet shift, settling lower.
“Not yet,” she whispered. “Please, not yet. I’m not ready.”
But ready or not, her body seemed to have other plans.